Michelle Celmer - Running on Empty

She looked up into Detective Thompson’s concerned face. Only then did she realize she’d stopped right in the middle of the lot, blocking traffic.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I—I think I remembered something. But it was more like a feeling than an actual memory.”

“What did it feel like.”

“I felt…alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Not yet.”

If she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes, it was gone almost instantly. “Let’s go inside.”

They stepped through the automatic door, and she once again felt that sudden and brief surge of adrenaline.

“I think I remember being here,” she said, excitement and hope erupting inside her like a geyser. Maybe it would all start to come back now. Maybe this nightmare was almost over.

Or maybe it was only beginning.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mom, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm real hard, you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her Web site at www.michellecelmer.com, or write her at P.O. Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017.

For Steve

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

It would be so easy to kill her.

So easy to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until the life drained from her body. To plant the barrel of his gun to her temple and pull the trigger.

Only that wasn’t part of the game.

He liked to see them suffer. To know that for the rest of their lives they would live in fear. Fear of him. And this one, she would suffer. She would learn her place. She stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong, took what was rightfully his.

But when he got what he was looking for, when he no longer needed her and the game was over, she would pay.

With her life.

Running across a body in a cordoned-off crime scene was rare enough in a community the size of Twin Oaks, but the odds of running over one in the toy department of the local Save Mart had to be about a million to one.

Making this his lucky day.

Cursing a blue streak, Detective Mitch Thompson swerved his cart and narrowly missed rolling over a denim-clad leg. The woman lay sprawled on her back, looking, as far as he could tell, unharmed. And breathing. She was definitely pulling in a sufficient amount of air. He crouched down beside her and pressed two fingers to her throat, finding a strong pulse.

Okay, so what was the deal?

He tapped her cheek lightly, finding her skin warm and soft beneath his fingers. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

She didn’t respond. Then he noticed the blood. It soaked through the back of her hair, transforming it from honey-colored to crimson.

Well, that would explain it. Damn, he really didn’t need this tonight. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. He gave the operator his badge number and the location of the store. “I have a woman down, twenty-five to thirty years old, with a head injury.”

After the operator assured him help was on the way, he disconnected and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Thinking she might have passed out and hit her head on the way down, he unzipped her jacket to look for a medic-alert necklace, searched her wrists, shoving up one sleeve, then the other. No bracelets, no rings. Nothing to indicate a chronic medical condition.

He noticed bruises forming on her forearms and elbows. Odd, considering she was flat on her back. When a person fell backward, they didn’t typically land on their arms. Could she have fallen forward and rolled over?

The pool of blood under her head began to spread, and though he didn’t want to move her, he had to stop the bleeding. He searched his pockets for something to press against the wound but came up empty. Out of desperation, he grabbed a beanbag animal from the bin above him and eased it under her head, doing his best not to move her neck. He doubted it was sterile, but it would have to suffice.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” he tried again. “Open your eyes.”

She mumbled something incoherent.

He scanned the area for a purse or wallet, something to identify her. He checked the pockets of her jacket, finding a few wadded tissues in one, a folded receipt with no store name on it in the other. He was about to check the pockets of her jeans when he heard a gasp behind him.

“What did you do to her?” A young girl with a nametag identifying her as Becky stood several feet away, gaping at the scene on the floor. Her eyes locked on the blood and all the color leeched from her face. The plastic basket of items she was holding clattered to the floor.

“Twin Oaks Police,” he said, producing his badge.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, asking through her fingers, “Is she d-dead?”

“No, Becky, but I need to get her to a hospital.” And he needed to get the clerk moving before he had two unconscious, bleeding women on his hands. “Go to the front entrance and flag down the emergency personnel when they pull up and lead them back to me. Can you do that?”

“S-sure.” She backed up a few steps, eyes riveted on the woman, then turned and scurried away.

He stuck his badge back in his jacket and yawned so deeply his eyes teared. Christ, he was tired. He should be home in bed right now. It was after midnight, which meant it was Saturday and officially his day off. If he hadn’t let his sister Lisa talk him into stopping at the store for her, in bed is where he would probably be.

It had been a long, hellish week that resulted in the arrest of a man allegedly responsible for the brutal rape of five women. Mitch’s arrest, thanks to an anonymous tip. Now all he wanted—what he desperately needed—was a few days off. God knows he’d earned it. Between work and helping care for their mother while she recovered from back surgery, he was running himself ragged. After he dropped the groceries off he had planned to go home, unplug the phone, crawl into bed and sleep straight through until Sunday. Now he’d have to go into the station and file a report.

The woman on the floor moaned, wincing when she tried to move her head.

“Ma’am, can you hear me? You need to lie still. Help is on the way.” He braced one hand under her head and cupped the other over her cheek to hold her immobile. Her delicately boned face felt fragile and looked small cradled in his palm.

She reached up in a vain attempt to pry his hand away. “Hurts.”

“I know it hurts, but you could make it worse by moving.”

Her lids fluttered open and she looked up at him, eyes unfocused and bleary—eyes a spectrum of speckled gray, like the stones he used to collect on the beach at Lake Superior when he was a kid. For several seconds, he found himself suspended in their depths.

“Please,” she murmured. “Please, don’t let him—” She grimaced, as if the effort to speak was too painful. Her eyes rolled up, and he could tell she was sinking back into unconsciousness.