The Paediatrician's Personal Protector

She caught him checking out the scrape. “It’s nothing more than an abrasion.” She tentatively pressed it with a finger. “I’ll probably have a mild contusion,” she said, then added, “a bruise.” She frowned. “And a larger one on my forehead.”

“Your wrist—” Reilly started.

“I told you, it’s not displaced. It won’t need setting. I’ll wrap it and get a wrist guard. There’s no need for medical treatment.”

“That’s not your call,” Reilly informed her as he dialed one-handed. “What happened?”

She shook her head as if trying to clear it and touched the bruise on her forehead. “I was hit from behind. Knocked to the floor. I thought—” She stopped.

Reilly ordered an ambulance then hung up. “You thought what?”

She shook her head again. “Nothing. The man said, ‘Go back where you came from or you’re as dead as your sister.’“

The words shocked Reilly. “He said that? Those exact words? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Although she looked like a frightened, hurt young woman, her reply was confident and smooth.

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing. He got off me and left.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

She shook her head. “I tried to turn over and get up but my wrist—” Her voice gave out.

“You’re positive it was a man?” Reilly asked.

She looked at him frowning. “Of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

But before she could answer, the crunch of heavy boots on seashells and gravel announced the arrival of the police. Two uniformed officers appeared at the door to the cottage, their weapons drawn.

Reilly indicated the badge at his belt. “Deputy Reilly Delancey, SWAT. Dr. Moser here was attacked.” He didn’t know the officers, but both of them glanced his way when he told them his name. He’d long since stopped being surprised by that.

In and around Chef Voleur the name Delancey always drew a reaction. Depending on the situation and the people, the reactions were vastly different. Reilly figured the two officers knew or had heard of Ryker.

One of the officers stepped over to Christy and the other faced him.

“Delancey? Deputy Buford Watts. How’d you get here?”

“Dr. Moser is involved with a case of my brother’s, Detective Ryker Delancey. I had given her my phone number in case she couldn’t reach him.”

The officer’s gaze sharpened. “Moser. Not—the October Killer?”

“There’s no reason to get into that,” Reilly responded, knowing as soon as the words left his mouth that he was wrong. Given what her attacker had said, there was definitely a reason to get into that.

“No? Do you know who attacked her?”

“Not yet.”

“Her father killed half-a-dozen women,” Watts said, his gaze studying her.

Four, Reilly corrected silently, sending an apologetic look toward Christy. The deputy was being deliberately insensitive.

“What if it was a victim’s family member?” Watts continued. “Have you gotten specifics?”

“Just got here myself,” Reilly answered. “I’d like to be in on your interview though.”

The officer didn’t have any objection. Within a few minutes, Christy, who was still refusing medical treatment, Reilly and the two officers were seated at the dining room table in the main house of Oak Grove Inn.

“Now, Ms. Moser,” the first officer started.

“It’s Doctor Moser,” Reilly inserted, just as Bardin’s wife bustled in, wrapped in a voluminous fleece robe.

“For goodness sakes! What are you doing to this poor girl?”

Reilly tensed at Ella Bardin’s use of the word girl. He glanced at Christy sidelong, trying to send her a signal not to insult Ella, but she wasn’t paying any attention to Ella’s choice of words or to him. She was staring into space and frowning.

“Get out of the way, all of you,” Ella continued.

“Ella—” said the older officer.

“Buford Watts, you just hold your horses.” Ella turned to Christy. “I’ve put some water on to boil, and I’ll get you a cup of tea in just a minute, unless you’d rather have coffee?”

Christy realized that Ella was talking to her. She looked up and her stiff demeanor softened just a little, barely enough to notice. “Oh, thank you. Tea is fine.”

“And here.” Ella Bardin stepped over to a recliner and pulled an afghan off the back of it. “Cover up with this. The very idea—” this aimed at the three men “—of leaving her sitting there in that torn skirt. What kind of gentlemen are you?”

Watts answered, “The kind who’re trying to find out who attacked her, Miss Ella.” His words were measured.

The younger officer grinned at Ella. “I sure could use something warm to drink, Miss Ella.”

Ella looked at him. “I’m sure you could,” she retorted as she started back toward the kitchen.

Watts turned his attention back to Christy. “Dr. Moser, could you tell me your full name please?”

She straightened. “Christmas Leigh Moser. That’s L-E-I-G-H.”

Watts’s eyebrows raised, then lowered.

Reilly’s did too. Christmas. He thought about what Christy had said about her sister, and remembered Ryker mentioning Moser’s other daughter. Her name was odd too. Summer? No, Autumn.

He assessed Dr. Christmas Leigh Moser. Somehow, the name, which could easily have seemed silly, fit her. He wasn’t sure why he thought that.

Buford Watts wrote something on his pad, then addressed Christy again. “Good. Now if you would, tell me exactly what happened.”

“Certainly,” she said coolly. “As you obviously already know, my father is Albert Moser.” She waited for confirmation from the officers. They nodded.