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“Yes, you. You said you saw your husband’s murder, didn’t you?”
“I was hoping I was wrong. That it was all a bad dream or something.” Her own words rang in her ears. She had been hoping exactly that. That her memories were a mistake. That Win was merely away on an unexpected business trip. That she could leave Wingate Estate and not look back.
But deep down she knew she’d been fooling herself. “Did you find something in the house?”
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Yes. We did.”
The shiver spread over her skin and settled in her bones. “What did you find?”
Instead of answering, he strode across the room, his long legs eating the distance in three strides. “You said you remembered your husband lying on a Persian rug after he was shot. What room was the rug in?”
She searched her memory. She could see the rug clearly. See Win’s face contorting in pain. See the blood puddle underneath him like liquid tar soaking into silk. But she couldn’t see anything else. “I’m not sure. We have a Persian rug in the dining room, the library and Win’s study.”
“Did you have any of those rugs replaced or cleaned since your husband disappeared?”
“No. They were just cleaned last spring. Why are you asking these things?”
“Because a neighbor of yours told me a man removed a Persian rug from your home and loaded it into a van only a week ago.”
“That must have been him. That must have been the killer.”
“Maybe. But my witness said one more thing.”
“What?”
“That the man wasn’t alone. That you were with him.”
“Me?” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been.”
He stared at her, his eyes boring past her defenses as if laying bare her jumbled thoughts.
She shuddered. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I wouldn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
John looked away, but it was too late. She could see the doubt play across his face, as plain as if he’d called her a liar.
He didn’t believe her. The realization slammed into her like a kick to the stomach. She splayed her hands in front of her. “If I’d killed my husband, why would I call the police? Why would I come to you for help? Why would I tell you about the rug in the first place?”
“Questions I’ve been asking myself as well. And believe me, if not for the fact that the evidence fits your story—as far-fetched as that story seems—you’d be in custody right now.”
“Custody?” The word chilled her blood like the biting November wind outside. “I’m telling the truth. Someone tried to kill me last night because of what I saw. What I remembered.”
“Ah, yes. There’s that. We have divers in the quarry looking for your car. Can we expect to find it?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Her voice sounded too shrill, too panicked.
A tired look descended into John Cohen’s eyes.
Andrea cringed. This was the reaction he expected from her. Angry. Defensive. As if she was trying to hide something—trying to hide her husband’s murder. She felt sick to her stomach. “Should I hire a lawyer?”
“Do you feel you need one?” His voice was a monotone. So different from the concerned note she’d convinced herself she’d heard yesterday. So different from what she wanted to hear. Needed to hear.
She shook her head. She hadn’t killed Wingate. That was all there was to it. John Cohen’s opinion shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. “No. I don’t need one. I’m not guilty of anything. But I’m not sticking around for these accusations either.” There was only one thing for her to do. What she’d planned to do all along—before Wingate’s death, before she’d lost her memory, before she’d become the target of a killer in a black truck. She had to leave everything behind and start a new life.
A life where she would rely on no one but herself.
“Goodbye, Mr. Cohen. I should have known I wouldn’t get any help from your office.” Spinning on a heel, she strode from the room.
JOHN WATCHED Andrea retreat down the hotel’s long hallway. Damn. Barely 8:00 a.m. and it had already been one hell of a day.
When he’d decided to come to her hotel, to confront her with what he’d learned, he’d been angry. Angry she’d lied to him. Angry she’d used him. And most of all, angry with himself for wanting to believe her when he knew damn well he’d be disappointed in the end.
But he’d come anyway. For some reason, he’d had to see her face when he confronted her with the story Ruthie Banks had told him. He had to look into her eyes and know she was hiding something. He had to know she was guilty.
But all he’d done was chase her out of the hotel before she’d told him anything.
Closing the hotel room door behind him, he started down the hall in the direction she’d gone. An elevator door chimed. He lengthened his stride, reaching Andrea’s elevator just as the door closed.
He spotted the red exit sign and yanked open the stairwell door. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating the stark stairs. He raced down the steps, his footfalls and breathing echoing against concrete. Reaching the bottom, he exploded into the lobby. Scanning the modest space, he spotted Andrea through the glass entry door.
She stood on the sidewalk looking over the nearly deserted parking lot, as if waiting for a ride. Her hair gleamed, clean and shiny, and flowed over her shoulders in a heavy blond wave. A far cry from the straggly mess he’d seen last night. And although the bruises still shadowed her jaw and hairline, the sunlight brought out a peach glow in her skin he’d thought could only be achieved with a cinematographer’s artful lighting or the delicate touch of an airbrush.
Damn, she was an attractive woman. No wonder he’d wanted to believe her. If he had a brain left in his head, he’d turn this case over to Kit Ashner or some other rabid, female ADA in the office and stay as far away from Andrea Kirkland as possible.
Instead he crossed the lobby and pushed through the glass door. “Andrea.”
She didn’t turn around, as if she’d known he was watching her all along. “What do you want now?”
Good damn question. What did he want? For her to be innocent? For her to restore his faith in humanity? His faith in the value of his job? None of those things were going to happen.
Then why was he here? “I want to ask you a few more questions.”
“Why? So you can prove I murdered my husband? So you can throw me in jail?”
“Only if you’re guilty.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Then answer my questions.”
She plunked hands on hips in a show of strength. But despite her bravado, he could see her hands shake. “Maybe I should get myself a lawyer.”
He gestured to the parking lot. “Fine. Do you have one in mind? I’ll give you a ride to his office. It’ll save me a trip later.”
Her bravado faltered, and suddenly she was shaking all over. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. She blinked, the moisture spiking her lashes. “Please, leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.” Oh hell. If there was anything he hated, it was making a woman cry. Especially a woman like Andrea Kirkland. Unless it was all an act, of course. God knew some women could summon crocodile tears every time they needed to weasel out of a speeding ticket. But somehow he couldn’t deny the feeling that Andrea Kirkland wasn’t one of them. “Listen, your husband was a bastard. It sounds like he was asking for whatever he got. Maybe he tried to hit you. Maybe you killed him in self defense.”
“It didn’t happen that way. I was leaving him. I didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it yourself. Maybe someone else got out of hand. Maybe you never intended for your husband to die.”
She shook her head, her hair sweeping across one eye. “I didn’t kill Wingate. I didn’t help anyone kill Wingate.”
“But you don’t remember. Who’s to say—”
“I don’t need to remember. I never could have hurt Wingate. I never could have hurt anyone.” She closed her eyes. When she opened them, tears spiked her lashes with moisture. “I’m waiting for a cab. Please let me wait in peace.”
He shook his head, a last-ditch effort. “Cabs take forever to arrive in this city. I have a car. Why don’t you let me drive you?”
“I’ll take a bus.” She stepped past him and into the parking lot.
Rubber screeched on pavement. A pickup circled the corner of the hotel. A black Dodge with tinted windows. It accelerated, its engine roaring.
And shot straight for Andrea.
John raced across the sidewalk and onto the asphalt. Into the truck’s path. “Andrea!”
She turned to the sound of his voice and spotted the truck. Her eyes widened.
The truck closed the distance in a heartbeat.
John lunged for her, lowering his shoulders. He hit her full force, pushing her to the pavement between two cars just as the truck rifled past.
Chapter Four
The roar of the truck’s engine fading, John struggled to catch his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that the driver had been gunning for Andrea. Trying to kill her. He rolled his weight off her. Wiping thick blond hair back from her cheek, he tried to see her face, to make sure she was all right. She had to be all right. “Andrea?”
Her eyes opened. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed into a sitting position and scraped the remaining strands out of her eyes. Her injured hand left a trail of crimson on one cheek. “The truck— Did you see?” A strangled sound erupted from deep in her throat. The unmistakable sound of fear.
“It almost ran you down.”
“It was the same. The same truck that ran me off the road and into the quarry.”
John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to wrap her in his arms, to comfort her. There was no time. The truck could be back any moment. And this time he had the feeling the driver would make sure he didn’t miss. He pointed to a full-sized silver van towering above the cars. “My car is just on the other side of that van. Do you think you can make it?”
She swallowed hard, as if pushing down her panic. “I can make it.”
“Good. Lean on me if you need to.” He held out a hand.
She grasped it. Her hand trembled. Her palm was sticky, blood oozing from raw flesh. She pressed her lips together in a determined line and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Rising to a crouch, John peered over the trunk of one of the cars. The distant roar of a truck engine cut through the still air. He looked in the direction of the sound, waiting for the black behemoth to appear from around the corner and crash headlong into the parked cars, pinning them between the twisted metal. But he couldn’t spot the sound’s source. The parking lot was still as death.
Time to make their move. He pulled her up. Still crouched, he dodged through the maze of cars, Andrea on his heels. Reaching his blue sedan, he unlocked the driver’s door and motioned her inside.
She scrambled over the stick shift and into the passenger seat. John ducked behind the wheel. He slipped the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine revved to life.
Suddenly the sound of the engine grew louder, deeper as it was joined by another engine’s growl.
Andrea gasped. “The truck.”
“Hold on.” Throwing the car in reverse, John hit the gas. The car shot backward. He yanked the wheel to one side. Tires screeching, it spun in place.
And faced the truck.
Black windows stared like malevolent eyes. The front bumper was dented. The perfect gleam of the truck’s right fender was marred by silver paint. No doubt the color of Andrea’s car.
She covered her mouth, stifling a scream.
John hit the gas. The car leaped forward. Another twist of the wheel and his car dodged to the side, just missing a black fender. He pressed his foot to the floor. He took the corner full throttle, tires screeching in protest. Fishtailing out of the parking lot, they raced onto the highway frontage road.
One eye on the rearview mirror, John tried to steady his pulse. The black truck was nowhere to be seen, as if it and its driver had disappeared.
“No one is following. It looks like we lost him.”
Andrea stared shell-shocked at the cars around them, as if she was convinced any one of them might morph into the black truck at any moment. “You believe me now?” Her voice rang hollow, monotoned.
He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. The black truck. The squeal of rubber as it shot straight for Andrea. “Do I believe someone is trying to kill you? Yes.”
“And Wingate? Do you still think I killed him?”
He blew a breath through tight lips. He’d gone to her hotel room this morning to catch her in a lie, to prove she’d killed her husband, and to banish her from his mind for good. But instead of getting answers, he was stuck with more questions and no convincing evidence. He didn’t even have a body. “I don’t know.”
“I suppose that’s an improvement. Maybe if the truck had run me down, you’d actually believe me.”
Maybe I believe you now.
He clamped down on the thought. A bitter laugh lodged in his throat. Hadn’t he seen enough in his years in the district attorney’s office to know how easily people lie? Didn’t he know the lengths people would go to protect their own guilty hides?
He damn well should. But somehow, when he saw the tears in Andrea’s eyes, when he heard the fear and sincerity in her voice, he forgot every hard lesson the past fifteen years had taught.
Whether she was guilty of killing her husband or not, he wanted to believe her. And that scared him more than a charging black truck ever could.
STILL TREMBLING, Andrea stood in front of the window in John Cohen’s cramped office. She felt like a sitting duck waiting for the bullet. She hadn’t wanted to come here. She hadn’t wanted to report the latest incident with the black truck to the police. She’d wanted to disappear, to get out of town. She’d be long gone if that truck hadn’t shown up.
And she’d be dead if John Cohen hadn’t pushed her out of the way.
She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. John Cohen had bullied her, accused her and refused to believe her. But he hadn’t hesitated to rush into on-coming traffic to save her life.
She turned away from the window and raked her gaze over his office. The battered desk. The ancient chairs. The stacks of files that towered like pine trees in the north woods. With most people, she could get a sense of them by examining their surroundings. Not so John Cohen. The room was so plain, so devoid of personality, the only feeling she could glean from it was the bone-deep ache of fatigue.
And a loneliness that spoke to something in her own soul.
She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. Ridiculous. She didn’t know John Cohen, and she didn’t want to know him. She wanted to get out of this office. She wanted to get as far away from the police and the district attorney as she could. She wanted to disappear.
Male voices filtered in from the hallway. John pushed the door wide and strode inside alone. He crossed to his desk and dropped a small stack of files on the already heaped desktop. “I struck out. Seems the department doesn’t have the man hours available to offer citizens protection from what they consider to be two unfortunate accidents.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I told you I didn’t want the cops involved.”
