An engine rumbled from the street. Derek bolted back up the steps. He didn’t stop until he was locked in his bathroom. The situation had just gone from a yellow caution to red alert.
There was only one reason Joe would have a scale and a hot plate in the basement. He was cooking meth.
Derek leaned over the toilet and heaved up his spaghetti and meatballs. With the food’s exit from his body, every ounce of contentedness from the evening was replaced with terror.
Derek flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. As he brushed his teeth, possible outcomes ripped through his mind, each one a nightmare scenario. Was his mom using yet? Given her weaknesses, it was only a matter of time.
What should he do?
The card Ethan had given him poked his thigh through the thin fabric of his front pocket. Derek memorized the number, ripped up the card, and flushed it down the toilet. No point in giving Joe a good reason to kill him.
But there was no way Derek could maintain his current air of invisibility.
He had to stop Joe before he blew up the house and Derek and his mom both ended up dead. But how?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Late-morning sunlight slanted over the dormant grass of the backyard. Looking out the kitchen window of his one-story house, Roy Abrams chugged his third cup of coffee. His rise-at-dawn habit had gradually faded over the past year, but this was fucking ridiculous. Even though he’d slept until ten o’clock, he was still achy and stupid from another restless night. It wasn’t his conscience that kept him awake. He had to get up and take a weak-ass leak every two hours. Some days he felt like he was ninety instead of fifty-seven. Maybe being a cop had aged him prematurely.
Getting old sucked.
In the summer, he spent his days on the water. The sea air and physical exertion wore him out until his body passed out at the end of the day. But in the winter, he had nothing to do but scratch his own ass.
If the housing market in Jersey hadn’t tanked, he’d have moved to Florida when he retired. He should have squeezed just a little more cash out of that last deal. When the payee coughed up that much dough without any attempt at negotiation, Roy knew he’d set his price too low.
But on the other hand, dead men couldn’t spend a nickel.
Rays of sunlight splashed over his pride and joy, an eighteen-foot Grady-White fishing boat with a center console and a 150-horsepower four-stroke outboard engine. The trailer took up a quarter of his small rear yard, but what the hell else was he going to do with the space? His next-door neighbor had a swing set for his grandkids, three loud and whiny toddlers the older couple babysat regularly. Roy didn’t have grandchildren. Both his marriages had failed before kids had even been considered. Thank God.
A sudden wind gust sliced across the yard. The cover on his boat flapped. One of the cords must have loosened. This winter had been brutally cold and windy. Roy went to the closet and pulled out a coat. Shrugging into it, he fished in the pockets for a hat and a pair of gloves, then went out the back door in the laundry room.
God damn, it was cold. He hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin behind the neck of his jacket. Bits of crusted snow crunched under his sneakers. The cold blasted through his jeans before he’d crossed the twenty feet of brown grass that comprised his backyard.
A cursory inspection revealed a snapped bungee cord. Roy ducked into the shed for a new one. A few deft movements later, the cover was secure and his boat was protected. He ran a hand across the gleaming white fiberglass hull.
Yes, he’d splurged. But he deserved the best. He’d gone through hell for the money to buy this boat. His moment of genius had bought him a shitload of grief.
But that was all in the past. He had years left to enjoy the fruits of his nasty labor. He sure as hell couldn’t have afforded the Grady-White on his pension alone. Damn it. He’d put his life on the line for decades. He deserved something nice for his retirement.
He gave the hull a final caress and headed back to the house and a hot cup of coffee. Maybe he’d drive down to the bakery for fresh doughnuts. Back in the laundry room, the heat stung his cold-raw face. He stripped off his outdoor gear. Rubbing his hands together and blowing into his fists, he went into the kitchen.
He picked up the glass carafe, side-stepped to the sink, and dumped the half inch of lukewarm coffee. He rinsed the pot and refilled the machine.
Fabric whispered. Roy froze. His shoulder blades itched, and his bowels cramped. His long career as a cop gave him extra senses, and right now they were telling him he wasn’t alone.
His gaze shifted to the blur of a figure in the shiny chrome of the toaster. He eyed the knife block, but it was out of reach. The glass coffeepot was the only weapon at hand. Roy’s fingers tightened on the handle. The figure moved. Roy started to whirl around, but a body slammed into his back. The coffeepot was knocked from his hand. Glass shattered on tile. A cord whipped around his neck. Thin and flexible, it cut off his next breath like a blade.
He grabbed for his throat and tried to work his fingers under the cord. But even as he struggled, he knew it was pointless. His attacker was bigger and stronger and had the element of surprise on his side.
Plus, the confidence in the grip suggested this wasn’t his first time. Pain bloomed like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July, overwhelming Roy’s senses.
His sight dimmed. The cord sliced deeper into his flesh. He gave his life one more last-ditch effort. He reached up and tried to claw for his assailant’s eyes. The guy shifted backward to avoid Roy’s hands. A knee slammed into his back, but he barely felt the kidney slam as he was hauled into a backbend. Agony exploded in his neck as the cord tightened more, cutting into his windpipe.
His lungs screamed, and his sight dimmed. His last vision was the sunlight glimmering on the ill-gotten boat in his yard.
What awaited him, heaven or hell?
Abby tiptoed into the kitchen in her socks. One hand held Zeus’s collar. Her boots dangled from the other. Sweetums was not in sight. Abby checked the top of the fridge and under the kitchen table before releasing the dog. Zeus headed for the large bowl of water Lorraine had placed on the floor. Abby poured some of the dog food she’d brought into a bowl. While the dog ate, she crossed to the window.
Behind the house, sunrise gleamed on the frozen yard and white-patched barn roof.
Where was Ethan?
They’d had dinner together. He’d driven her home to pack a bag and drop off Derek. Then she’d gone to bed in the guest room, and he’d returned to the barn to check on the horse.
“Good morning.” Lorraine buzzed into the kitchen in a floor-length robe. “I’ll have coffee on in a minute.”
“No rush,” Abby said.
“Sure there is. No sense in wasting daylight.” Lorraine started the fire under a huge griddle. She grabbed a dozen eggs from the refrigerator. A full pound of bacon went into the two-burner pan. She went to the bottom of the staircase in the hall. “Boys! Breakfast in ten.”
Footsteps thudded on the steps. Cam and Bryce walked in.
“Cam, please start coffee. Bryce, you’re on scrambled eggs.” Lorraine gave orders in a sweet voice that her sons jumped to obey. “Where’s Ethan?”
“Not in his room.” Cam filled the coffeemaker.
Abby pulled her boots on. “I’m going to take Zeus out.”
Lorraine moved bacon slices in the hot pan. “I imagine Ethan is out in the barn. Would you tell him to come in for breakfast?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Abby donned her coat and Ethan’s hat and gloves in the mudroom. Zeus cowered against her legs. Abby spied Sweetums glaring down at the dog from the space between the laundry cabinets and the ceiling.
She opened the back door, and Zeus trotted out into the snowy yard, relief evident in the spring in his step. Typically, he was a slow mover.
Her breath fogged in front of her as she rolled the heavy door open just enough to squeeze through. The barn wasn’t much warmer. The pony greeted her with a happy snort. Abby patted his nose as she walked by. She looked over the half door.
The horse was curled on its side in the middle of the stall. In the corner beyond, Ethan slept sitting up, hat pulled low on his brow, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits.
Had he been there all night?
At the sight of Abby, the horse heaved to its feet. It turned its head and nosed Ethan. His eyes opened. He touched the animal’s forehead. “How’re you feeling?”
The horse snorted. Ethan brushed at the front of his jacket and laughed. “That good, huh?”
He stood and stretched. His black hair was mussed, his jaw was shadowed, and his blue eyes were heavy with compassion and lack of sleep. He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
Inside her boots, Abby’s toes curled. “Good morning.”
He turned. His blue eyes brightened, and his mouth curled in a sexy smile. “Morning.”
“Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Great. I’m starving.”
“Did you stay out here all night?”
He rubbed the horse’s neck and let himself out of the stall. “Nah. Just from two to six. Cam and Bryce each took a shift.”
She nodded toward the horse. “He looks better this morning.”
“He does.” Ethan exhaled. “I’d kiss you, but I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
Abby popped up on her toes and planted a kiss on his mouth. “I don’t care.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to his chest. His stubble scraped her cheek. The hug was more about comfort and companionship than sex and felt more intimate. He released her. “How did you sleep?”
“Great.” Better than she had for years, which was strange. She’d left her light on, but the rest of the house had been dark. It hadn’t bothered her. Was that because she hadn’t been alone? Or because Faulkner was dead and that chapter of her life was finally closed? She wouldn’t ever have to worry about what would happen after he was paroled.
Ethan gave the horses a small amount of hay, and they left the barn.
Abby glanced back at the closed door. “Will he be all right alone today?”
Cam was driving Lorraine to the airport in Scranton for her Florida-bound flight. Later that afternoon, he and Bryce were driving back to school. Abby and Ethan were headed back to Jersey to talk to retired detective Roy Abrams.
“Yeah. I’ll give him his medicine before we leave, and Ronnie is sending one of her staff over to babysit while we’re gone.”
Breakfast was noisy and fast. The three men ate more food in one meal than Abby and her mother had consumed in a week.
Two hours later, Abby and Ethan were on the way to see Roy Abrams in Greenland, New Jersey, a shore town fifty miles north of Atlantic City.
“Does he know we’re coming?” Abby asked.
“No,” Ethan said. “After what you told me yesterday, I thought it might be best if we just dropped in on him. The cop who gave me his address said if it’s too cold to fish, Roy should be home.”
“What else did the Harris cop say?” Abby plucked an animal hair from her jeans.
“They don’t have much to say yet. There were a few defensive bruises on Faulkner, but his struggle couldn’t have lasted long. He died of suffocation. No sign that the room was broken into, but the lock was old and outdated. A toddler could’ve picked it. They’ll call me when they have the full autopsy report.”
“Faulkner wasn’t a genius, but he was cagey and physically strong.” Abby sipped coffee from a travel mug. “How did someone overpower him that easily?” Faulkner had tossed her over his shoulder as if she were a bag of mulch. She doubted he’d allowed his muscles to deteriorate in prison.
“I don’t know.” Ethan exited the Garden State Parkway. “Hopefully the medical examiner will figure that out.”
He followed the voice on his GPS and turned into a retirement community of nearly identical one-story homes. A boat and trailer dominated the rear yard of Roy Abrams’s house and distinguished it from his neighbors’ cookie-cutter units.
Ethan parked at the curb. “How were things between you and Detective Abrams? Do you want to wait in the car?”
“No. I’ll come in.” Abby unsnapped her seat belt. “I didn’t really talk to Abrams that much. He interviewed me after I was pulled out of the well, but I spent more time at the prosecutor’s office prepping for the trial. Abrams avoided me, probably because he’d messed up so badly. The missing address issue didn’t come out until later.”
“You never had a confrontation with him?”
“No.” She stared at the house that belonged to the man whose incompetence nearly killed her. Coffee and anxiety stirred up acid in her gut. No butterflies for her. Tension flapped in her stomach like the wings of a giant luna moth. “I won’t hide anymore, Ethan.”
“OK then. Let’s go.” Ethan gave her hand a quick squeeze before opening his door. “Maybe guilt will loosen his tongue.”
They headed up the walk. Abby squinted against sunbeams reflecting off the freshly waxed paint of a Cadillac. “His car looks new.”
“The boat does too.” Ethan put his hand on the small of her back. She didn’t need steering, and the possessive gesture sent those nerves in her belly flying in a whole different direction.
Ethan knocked on the door. The sound of footsteps sounded through the door, but the door didn’t open.
He pressed the doorbell but nothing happened. “Must be broken. It sounds like he’s in the back of the house. Maybe he can’t hear well.” He jogged off the cement stoop.
Abby followed him around to the rear yard. Ethan climbed three concrete steps to the back door. He raised his hand to knock. The door flew open. An arm jutted out, striking Ethan in the jaw and knocking him off the step. Abby skidded to a stop next to Ethan on the brown grass.
The man on the stoop was tall and slim, wearing a black hoodie pulled over his head and a black bandana over his face. His eyes were gray and cold as stainless steel. He took a step toward Ethan, stunned on the grass. Abby reached down and pulled Ethan’s gun from the holster. She pointed it at the man with both hands, snapping into correct shooting form as if her mother was still alive and shouting instructions in her ear.
The man changed course and headed for the back of the yard at a dead run.
Ethan leaped to his feet. His shocked gaze landed on Abby, then his gun in her hand. She handed him the weapon.
“Wait here.” He took off after the intruder.
“Like hell.” Abby stuck close to him as he sprinted after the fleeing man. There was no way she was waiting by herself. There could be more than one intruder, and Ethan had the gun. The intruder disappeared over the chain-link fence that led into the neighbor’s yard.
“Hey,” Ethan yelled and pulled ahead. He vaulted over the fence. Landing, he yelled something back at her.
But Abby couldn’t make out the words. She stopped to climb the fence. Her jacket caught on a metal loop. Why hadn’t she learned to hurdle on the track team? Ethan drew ahead.
Once on open land, though, Abby caught up. The guy they were chasing set a brutal pace, and they didn’t gain any ground. He disappeared down an alley lined on both sides with some type of evergreen shrubs. The greenery blocked visibility. They stopped. Breathing hard, Ethan shot her a what the hell glare and pushed her behind him as he peered around the corner. An engine started.
Ethan sprinted down the alley. Abby followed. They emerged just in time to see a dark sedan disappear around a corner two blocks away. Ethan took off after it, cutting through a service alley. Abby kept pace. The sedan halted at a stop sign.
“Stop!” Ethan darted out in front of the vehicle, took an official look
ing stance, and pointed his gun at the windshield. Confusion and then frustration played over his face. He lowered the gun.
A little old lady sat behind the wheel, complete with a puffy white hairdo and thick trifocals. Ethan tapped on her window and flashed his badge. When she lowered it, he glanced in the backseat. “We’re chasing a fugitive. Would you please open the trunk, ma’am.”
“Of course.” She complied. The trunk bounced up. Gun at the ready, Ethan peered inside.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” He tipped his head.
“It’s no problem, Officer.” She gave him a serious nod. “I hope you catch him.”
Ethan moved out of the street. She drove away, bumping over the curb and scraping the undercarriage of the sedan on the concrete.
“I thought out-of-state cops didn’t have jurisdiction.” Abby joined him on the sidewalk.
“We don’t, but her glasses were so thick, I doubt she could see my badge at all.”
“Tricky.”
“Desperate.” Ethan bent double and wheezed. “Did you get the make or model of the car?”
“No.” Abby shook her head. “Dark blue four-door. That’s all I saw. At least that’s what I thought I saw. Maybe that wasn’t even him. Maybe that was her.”
Ethan scrubbed his face with both hands. He coughed and squinted at her with suspicion. “You’re barely winded.”
“I shouldn’t be winded at all. I’ve missed my last few runs.” Abby leaned forward and stretched her hamstrings. He was still staring at her. “I can run a marathon in under three hours.”
“You run marathons?” Walking in a circle, Ethan holstered his gun. He pulled out his phone, called 911, and reported the incident. “The car was a four-door, dark blue. No, I don’t know the make or model.”
She Can Hide (She Can Series) Page 15
