Keeper of the Bride

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“Detective, I really think I’d know if I was…”

She was talking to his back. The man had actually turned his back to her. He was already walking away, toward his car. “Detective!” she called.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“I don’t—This isn’t—” She sighed. “Oh, never mind,” she muttered, and followed him to his car. There was no point arguing with the man. He’d just turn his back on her again. As she slid into the passenger seat, she felt a sharp stab of pain in her chest. Maybe he was right after all. She knew it could take hours, or even days, for injuries to manifest themselves. She hated to admit it, but Mr. Personality was probably right about this trip to the ER.

She was too uncomfortable to say much as they drove to the hospital. It was Sam who finally broke the silence.

“So, can you tell me what happened?” he asked.

“I already gave a statement. It’s all in the police report. Someone ran me off the road.”

“Yes, a black Ford, male driver. Maine license plate.”

“Then you’ve been told the details.”

“The other witness said he thought it was a drunk driver trying to pass you on the hill. He didn’t think it was deliberate.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“When did you first see the Ford?”

“Somewhere around Smugglers Cove, I guess. I noticed that it seemed to be following me.”

“Was it weaving? Show any signs of driver impairment?”

“No. It was just…following me.”

“Could it have been behind you earlier?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Is it possible it was there when you left your mother’s house?”

She frowned at him. He wasn’t looking at her, but was staring straight ahead. The tenor of his questions had taken a subtle change of course. He had started out sounding noncommittal. Maybe even skeptical. But this last question told her he was considering a possibility other than a drunk driver. A possibility that left her suddenly chilled.

“Are you suggesting he was waiting for me?”

“I’m just exploring the possibilities.”

“The other policeman thought it was a drunk driver.”

“He has his opinion.”

“What’s your opinion?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept driving in that maddeningly calm way of his. Did the man ever show any emotion? Once, just once, she’d like to see something get under that thick skin of his.

“Detective Navarro,” she said. “I pay taxes. I pay your salary. I think I deserve more than just a brush-off.”

“Oh. The old civil servant line.”

“I’ll use whatever line it takes to get an answer out of you!”

“I’m not sure you want to hear my answer.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I made a brief inspection of your car. What I found there backs up quite a bit of what you just told me. There were black paint chips on the driver’s side, indicating that the vehicle that rammed yours was, indeed, black.”

“So I’m not color blind.”

“I also noticed that the driver’s window was shattered. And that the breakage was in a starburst pattern. Not what I’d expect for a rollover accident.”

“That’s because the window was already broken when I went off the road.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember I felt flying glass. That’s how I cut my face. When the glass hit me. That was before I rolled over.”

“Are you sure?” He glanced at her. “Absolutely sure?”

“Yes. Does it make a difference?”

He let out a breath. “It makes a lot of difference,” he said softly. “It also goes along with what I found in your car.”

“In my car?” Perplexed, she shook her head. “What, exactly, did you find?”

“It was in the right passenger door—the door that was jammed against the tree. The metal was pretty crumpled; that’s why the other cops didn’t notice it. But I knew it was there somewhere. And I found it.”

“Found what?”

“A bullet hole.”

Nina felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t speak; she could only sit in shocked silence, her world rocked by the impact of his words.

He continued talking, his tone matter-of-fact. Chillingly so. He’s not human, she thought. He’s a machine. A robot.

“The bullet must have hit your window,” he said, “just to the rear of your head. That’s why the glass shattered. Then the bullet passed at a slightly forward angle, missed you completely, and made a hole in the plastic molding of the opposite door, where it’s probably still lodged. It’ll be retrieved. By tonight, we’ll know the caliber. And possibly the make of the gun. What I still don’t know—what you’ll have to tell me—is why someone’s trying to kill you.”

She shook her head. “It’s a mistake.”

“This guy’s going to a lot of trouble. He’s bombed a church. Tailed you. Shot at you. There’s no mistake.”

“There has to be!”