Hiding His Witness

Carey went into the apartment first, taking a wide step over the flour. “Watch your step.”

No further explanation about the flour? He avoided the powdery mess and followed her inside.

Her apartment was a tiny closet of a space with no personal items and nothing unpacked or settled. A ten-inch television sat on a packing crate and a cot in the corner of the room served as her bed. The floor was matted with grime, the vinyl likely original from when this building was constructed in the ’70s. The place smelled of citrus, as though she’d used a gallon of lemon-scented cleaner in a futile attempt to make the place livable.

She shrugged off his coat and handed it to him. “I need a few minutes to pack and I’d like some privacy. Do you mind waiting in the car?”

Private person, or was she hiding something?

“Not a problem. I’ll wait in the lobby. I can see the stairs from there.”

She gave him a thin smile and practically pushed him out the door. He returned to his car and circled the block, pulling into the alley behind the building. No way was she planning to meet him in the lobby of the building. She planned to run, and he would be hot on her trail.

Sure as the sun, ten minutes later, he saw her fling her slim jeans-clad leg over the window ledge and her body drop onto the fire escape. With a large duffel bag slung across her shoulder, she climbed down the rusty ladder to each landing. Her fierce persistence to get away gave him insight into the passion and resolve simmering beneath those plain clothes. What was she hiding or who was she protecting?

He got out of his car and jogged to meet her at the foot of the fire escape. “Going on a trip?”

She whirled, fear in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving behind bits of paint and rust that had stuck to her palms. “I need to go for a walk to clear my head.”

He called her bluff. “Great, I’ll walk with you.”

“I prefer to be alone,” she said through clenched teeth. She walked around him and started down the alley toward the main road.

He followed her. “It doesn’t matter what you prefer. The lieutenant assigned me to protect you and that’s what I’m going to do.”

She paused for a moment, stopping in her tracks. She looked over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t make this harder on me than it has to be. I gave you what you needed. You have your sketch of the Vagabond Killer. Do your job and find him.”

He chose his words carefully, not wanting to provoke her further. “We need your testimony.”

She hefted the bag higher on her shoulder, wincing slightly. “The ADA’s smart. She’ll figure something out.” She kept walking, stopping at the corner to wait for the light to change. “Stop following me, Detective. I’m not a suspect and I’m not required to stay in the city.”

He’d known she’d agreed to his protection too easily. “Tell me where you’re going.”

“It’s safer for both of us if no one knows.”

Reilly grabbed her elbow, stopping her in her tracks. “Let me help you.”

He held her gaze for a long, intense moment. Heat pulsed between them and arousal moved swiftly through his body. What was it about her, a simple touch, one smoldering look that made him ache for more? He wished the fabric of the sweatshirt wasn’t between them and he could feel the electric press of skin-to-skin contact.

He didn’t let go and she didn’t pull away. “He’ll kill you if you try to hide me. Don’t make me live with that on my conscience.”

The Vagabond Killer would have to find her first. And Reilly was good at hiding in plain sight. He was even better at it when he had options, places to disappear in the country. And if she was referring to whoever made her put flour by the door coming for him, it was laughable. He welcomed the attack of a woman abuser. It would give him the opportunity to pound some scum and give him what he deserved. “No one is going to kill me, and if I’m with you, no one is going to hurt you, either.” He let go of her arm.

She looked around, her expressive eyes wild. “Look, I’ll level with you because I’m in a hurry. Those reporters who took my picture are going to run it in the news, if they haven’t already. That means the man I’m running from will see it and come for me. I have to get out of town before he arrives.”

Not the Vagabond Killer. She was worried about her abuser. “Tell me his name.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

Loyalty to the man who hurt her? Nah, she didn’t seem like the type. Fear. She actually thought the man chasing her was that powerful. “I’m taking you out of town to someplace safe.”

“Thank you, but no.” The light changed and she crossed the street.

Reilly heard the fierce determination in her voice. She wasn’t going to give in and he couldn’t legally force her to comply. He tried another route to convince her. “Once he knows you’re in Denver, he’ll know you took public transportation out of here. How long before he narrows down where you went? Someone is bound to remember you.”

She huffed out a breath. “Stop trying to scare me. I’ll change buses and trains fifty times if I have to.”

“That’s expensive and you can’t make that much working at a Laundromat. My family’s ranch is safe. My father’s a retired Navy SEAL, my mom is ex-CIA, one of my brothers is military and the other is FBI. The ranch is remote, it’s protected and we’ll see someone coming for you. You’ll be safe with us.”

He glanced at her face and instantly regretted pressing her.

Carey’s cheeks were red and her eyes brimmed with tears. “What if he comes and he hurts you for helping me?”

His protective instinct plowed through him and he kept his hands pinned to his sides, a massive undertaking considering he wanted to hold her and offer some measure of comfort. “He won’t. He’ll be dead if he comes within fifty feet of the house.”

She brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His sweatshirt. He’d gotten it years before, after he’d graduated from the academy. Funny, he had never allowed anyone—not his ex-girlfriends, not his former fiancеe—to wear it. Yet seeing Carey shivering in his office, he hadn’t thought twice about offering it to her.

“I won’t tell you anything about my past.”

He shrugged. He got the gist of the picture. Scum chasing his victim. His beautiful, and at the moment, fragile victim. He guessed under other circumstances, she was a force to be reckoned with. “I won’t ask.”

“How do you know I’m not running from the law?” she asked.

Her lips parted slightly and he was momentarily distracted by the lush fullness of them. He forced his attention to her eyes. He found them as mesmerizing as her lips. “Gut feeling. Trumans live by it. You’re no more a criminal than I am.”

“Come on inside with me,” Detective Truman said. He’d pulled his car into his garage and closed the door using the remote on his car visor. “I need to grab a few things. Clothes. Ammunition. I’ll make it fast before the media swarm starts.”

The media might be tracking her, but Detective Truman would have caught their interest, as well. That a camp of reporters weren’t waiting on his porch was a small favor.

He was taking precautions to make her feel safer, but traveling a long distance with a stranger and a gun made her nervous.

She had to be crazy to agree to his plan. Sure, he’d been kind to her thus far, but what did she really know about him? He was a police detective; that in and of itself didn’t mean he was trustworthy. If he wasn’t on Mark’s payroll, he could be added. Finding and exploiting a person’s weakness was a specialty of Mark’s. It was only a matter of time before Mark got to Detective Truman. Either Mark would buy him off or, if Detective Truman resisted, Mark would kill him. Carey couldn’t live with herself knowing she’d caused another person to be hurt. Tracy’s face flashed into her mind and Carey braced herself against the wave of grief and guilt that crashed down on her.

Detective Truman was doing this because he needed her to testify against the Vagabond Killer. But that wasn’t going to happen. If they both lived to see the Vagabond Killer brought to trial, testifying meant telling the truth about who she was—and that wasn’t possible.

“I can wait here if you want. I don’t want to intrude.” Was this her last chance to run? Could she get out of the car and force open the door to the garage? How far would she get on foot?

“Nah, you’re fine. I’ll feel better having you in sight.”

Carey had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to for help. If she ran, her limited resources meant Mark would find her. She didn’t want to get Detective Truman involved in her personal problems, but witnessing a crime had meshed their lives together, if only for a short time.

And while Carey didn’t trust easily or often, her instincts told her she would be safe with Detective Truman for now. Not that she relied too heavily on her instincts. She’d been wrong about Mark, wrong about her father and wrong about so many things before.

She’d keep her time with Detective Truman short—a few days at most. He’d get her out of the city and make it easier to run without Mark following her.

She trailed him inside the house. It was a bachelor pad, but a clean one. No knickknacks and no pictures. He didn’t have a kitchen table, likely eating his meals at the breakfast bar or in the living room on his black leather couch. She wrinkled her nose. Black leather. Blah.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, catching her expression.