Shirlee McCoy - Falsely Accused

She blinked back hot tears. Crying did no good. What she needed was razor-sharp focus because she planned to catch his killers, and she planned to throw them in jail and toss away the key.

An engine revved. A door slammed.

She expected a volley of shots to be fired.

Expected to have to duck for cover and worry that Titus was in the line of fire. He’d quit the Boston Police Department several years after she’d joined the FBI. She’d heard it through the law enforcement grapevine. She’d wanted to call and ask him why. He’d been a great cop and a fantastic homicide detective. He’d been on his way to a great and fulfilling career.

But by the time she’d heard he’d quit, the silence between them had seemed too deep, the distance too great to overcome.

She wondered what he’d been doing since he’d left the force. He still acted like a cop. Still moved like one. She could see him crouched behind brush halfway up the hill, gun in hand and at the ready.

She wanted to call out and tell him to be careful, but that would bring bullets flying in her direction.

Or maybe not.

The car sped away. Lights still off.

She stepped out of the Jeep.

“Stay where you are!” Titus shouted, and she realized she’d made another mistake. She’d assumed both perps had left the area. One might have stayed behind.

She froze, waiting for gunshots.

All she heard was the pulsing siren of the approaching emergency vehicle and the rapid beat of her heart.

“It’s clear, I think,” she finally responded, stepping out of the muddy creek bed.

“I’d rather we both know ,” he muttered, jogging toward her.

Strobe lights flashed on the street above them.

Help had finally arrived.

She wanted to feel relieved and victorious, but all she felt was grief. Ryan was gone. They hadn’t ever been close, but they’d always had each other’s backs. She’d bailed him out of jail when he was a young punk kid with more attitude than brains. She’d helped him with college expenses, encouraged him to keep his nose clean and lectured him when he’d needed it.

He’d always called her on her birthday and on holidays. Always sent funny cards reminding her not to take life too seriously. Always called her “sis.”

“You okay?” Titus asked as he reached her side.

“Do I look it?” she responded.

His gaze dropped from her face to her blood-splattered T-shirt.

“No.” He shrugged out of his flannel shirt and dropped it around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find the person who did this.”

“People,” she corrected. “Two men.”

“We’ll find the people who did this. But, first, I need to get you out of these cuffs.” He touched her uninjured wrist. “This one is fine, but the other one is so swollen, the cuff is digging in. Can you feel it?”

“It hurts,” she responded, her gaze on the road and the flashing lights. “I need to speak with the police.”

She headed uphill, her feet slipping, her arms useless for balance.

“How about I help?” Titus muttered, sliding his arm around her waist, careful not to jar her injured wrist.

If it had been any other day, if he’d been any other man, she’d have told him she could manage on her own, because she could manage. She hadn’t gotten where she was in her career by relying on other people to get her through the tough times. It might take more time and more effort, but if she’d had to, she’d have crawled to the road.

However, Titus was an old friend. They’d parted ways under unhappy circumstances, but she still cared about him. She’d like to believe he still cared about her. For right now, she would believe it, because as much as she hated to admit it, she felt too weak to climb the hill on her own.

They were nearly to the top when a uniformed officer stepped into sight, the beam of his light illuminating them. “Sheriff’s department! Freeze! Both of you! Hands where I can see them!”

“Her hands are cuffed,” Titus responded.

“Facedown! On your bellies. Now!”

Titus tried to help her, but the deputy shouted again. “I said get down! Now.”

Titus dropped to his stomach.

She did the same, her eyes tearing as the sudden movement jarred her injured wrist.

Seconds later, they were surrounded. She counted shoes as she was patted down. Five sets. That was a lot of manpower for a small-town sheriff’s department to send out.

“Wren Santino?” one of the men said, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet.

“That’s correct,” she said as she met Sheriff Camden Wilson’s eyes. They’d attended high school together. He knew exactly who she was.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Ryan Parker. You have the right to remain silent...”

His voice droned on, but she didn’t hear what he was saying.

All she could hear was the word murder and Ryan’s name.

Ryan was gone. Somehow, she’d been responsible for that.

She was dizzy with the truth of it, and she stumbled, dropping to her knees despite the sheriff’s grip on her arm.

“She needs medical attention,” Titus said, his voice gruff with concern. She wanted to tell him that she’d be fine, but the words seemed trapped in her head.

“She needs to be in jail for the rest of her life,” the sheriff said, but he put in a call for an ambulance. She heard that. Heard the soft murmur of voices as other law enforcement officers chatted.

The sheriff led her to his vehicle. When they reached it, he uncuffed her wrists with more gentleness than she’d expected.

“Thanks,” she managed to say.

“You’re a human being. You deserve to be treated like one. I wished you’d felt the same about my deputy. Sit.” He opened the door and motioned for her to sit in the back.

She didn’t argue, and she didn’t try to explain.

Her Miranda rights had been read.

She knew them.

“I’d like to make a phone call,” she said.

“Later,” he replied, and then he closed the door, locking her inside. She’d wait patiently. She’d do what she was told. Fighting the system could only lead to more trouble in the long run, but what she really wanted to do was shout for him to let her out, demand that she be treated like the law enforcement officer she was, give him all the details he had yet to ask for.

She had done nothing wrong.

She knew that.

The best thing she could do was the most difficult—be quiet and wait.

Six hours after he’d been cuffed and taken to the sheriff’s department, Titus finally returned home. His Jeep had been towed from the creek and was sitting in front of his house. The windows were shattered and the body damaged. He thought the front axle might be broken. It wasn’t drivable, but it wasn’t his only vehicle. Despite asking about Wren numerous times, he’d been given no information. Now that he was free, he planned to take matters into his own hands. He’d drive back into town and ask around. Someone knew something about where Wren had been taken and how she was doing.

More than likely, everyone knew everything.

That’s how it worked in Hidden Cove.

He’d moved there as a child, making the long trip from Fort Worth, Texas, because his mother had inherited property from her maternal grandfather. By all rights, the home should have been exactly what they’d been needing, but Sophia Parker had been more interested in her addictions than she had been in keeping up the pretty little house and beautiful acreage. He’d spent his tween and teen years ignoring the whispers about his home life, about his mother’s ways of making a few bucks, about his threadbare clothes and wild Afro. He hadn’t cared that he was the only dark-skinned kid in town. He’d cared that he’d had to carry his clothes to the Laundromat if he wanted them clean. He cared that he had to buy food if he wanted to eat. He cared that the entire town knew his business.