Shirlee McCoy - Falsely Accused

Titus had once ticked all those boxes.

And, then, he hadn’t.

They were strangers now, and she had no business holding on to him as if they were more. But he looked unsteady, and she told herself she was offering him support he obviously needed. The truth was more complicated. It was about friendship and loyalty and years when they had been each other’s staunchest supporters. It was about time passing, about all the days and nights when she shouldn’t have been missing him but had.

It was about that same heart-jolting feeling she had always gotten when she’d stared into his eyes. It was about the kind of love that didn’t stop because of hurt feelings and broken trusts. Not romantic love. Real and deep and abiding friendship.

“Perps? As in more than one?” Radley asked, inhaling deeply. “I smell gasoline in here, too.”

“Because two men were trying to burn the place down,” Titus said. “I walked in on them before they could get the blaze going enough.”

“Did you see them?” Wren asked, pulling her hand from his because she needed to—she was a professional, and he was the possible victim of a crime.

“Yes. One looked like a kid. Maybe late teens, early twenties. Skinny. The other was older. Heavier. I didn’t get a good look at him. I was too busy dodging the baseball bat he was swinging at my head.” He touched the back of his skull, pulling his hand away and looking at it as if he expected to see blood on his fingers.

“I take it you weren’t successful?” Wren probed the area he’d just touched and found an egg-sized lump. No broken skin. No blood. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a serious injury.

He winced away. “How’d you guess?”

“That huge bump on your head clued me in,” she replied. “Can you call an ambulance, Radley?”

“Sure.”

“That’s not necessary,” Titus cut in.

“You could have a fractured skull. Or a concussion.”

“I’m not seeing two of everything. I don’t feel sick. I’m not disoriented. I have a headache to beat all headaches, but I think I’ll be just fine. What we need are the police.”

“Based on the number of sirens I hear, I’d say they’re on the way,” Radley said.

Wren could hear the sirens, too, their warning muted by walls and glass. Once the police arrived, she might not have a chance to retrieve the photo album. The sheriff’s department was small and had limited resources. It could be days before the house was processed and cleared.

She didn’t want to wait days.

Not when Abigail was so upset.

“I’m running upstairs for something. Meet me out front.” She tossed the word over her shoulder as she sprinted into the wide hallway that led to the front staircase. Functional rather than ornate, it had thick newel posts and dark wooden stair treads. None of it seemed to have been touched by the fire.

“Wren!” Radley called, rushing after her. “You know better. This is a crime scene.”

“And my prints are already all over it,” she replied, jogging up the stairs, her wrist throbbing dully with each movement.

“It’s not about your prints. It’s about contaminating evidence and disturbing the scene.”

“From what I can see, the perps didn’t go upstairs.” She hit the landing at a near run. She couldn’t bring Ryan back for Abigail, but she could at least do this.

“You may not be seeing everything.”

“She’s seeing enough. No gasoline trail up here. No burned carpet. No sign that they were trying to set it on fire.” Titus cut in, following right on Radley’s heels.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t here,” Radley reiterated.

“No, but I’m fairly certain the sheriff’s office isn’t going to have their investigation ruined by an FBI agent walking through the house she spent half her childhood in.” Titus reached the landing and bounded up the stairs after Wren.

She could have joined the conversation, reminded them that she could handle herself and the situation. Under normal circumstances, she would have. These were not normal circumstances. Ryan’s murder had pulled the rug out from under her, and she was still trying to regain her footing.

She walked into Abigail’s room, trying not to notice the layer of dust on the once-immaculate dresser. She’d known that Abigail was getting older. She’d seen small changes in her at every visit. Less energy and verve. Less concern for keeping the house as spotless as it had once been. Overgrown lawn and weed-choked flower beds. Wren had told herself Abigail was busy with her church friends, her clubs and her volunteer work.

She had worried that it wasn’t true.

But she hadn’t visited more. She hadn’t extended her stays. She hadn’t asked Abigail flat out if she was able to handle the farm on her own.

She should have.

Just like she should have kept her mouth shut about Titus’s wife. It was too late now. She couldn’t change the past, but she could make certain that Abigail’s future was secure, and that she had everything she wanted and needed.

She opened the closet, expecting to have to search the shelves for the album Abigail wanted. To her surprise, it was sitting on the floor near Abigail’s shoes, Ryan’s school pictures filling little oval slots on the cover. She tucked it under her arm and turned to leave the room, nearly bumping into Titus.

Surprised, she stumbled back.

“Careful,” he said, grabbing her arm to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She shrugged away, determined to keep distance between them. She didn’t want to fall back into the trap of caring. She didn’t want to be hurt like she’d been before.

“Is that the album?” Radley asked.

“Yes.”

“Album?” Titus eyed the thick book.

“Abigail heard about Ryan’s death. She wanted me to bring this to her.”

“Heard about it?”

“The sheriff broke the news to her.”

“He couldn’t have waited for you to do it?”

“Considering I’m his prime suspect, I’d say he probably wanted to ask questions about our relationship.”

“You and Ryan got along well most of the time.”

“We did, but he was encouraging Abigail to sell the farm. I wasn’t as excited about it.”

“That doesn’t make you a killer,” Radley intoned.

“No, but it could be motive.” It’s certainly a motive she’d be considering if she were the investigating officer.

The first responders had arrived, firefighters banging on the front door asking if anyone was inside. She ran to open it, bracing herself for the chaos she knew was coming.

Wren hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said that she was the prime suspect in Ryan’s murder. Once the sheriff had arrived, he’d questioned Titus, put out a BOLO for the perps and then begun questioning Wren. He didn’t come out and accuse her of setting fire to the house to cover up evidence, but he hinted that it might be a possibility. Titus listened silently, leaning against the mailbox at the end of the driveway as Sheriff Camden Wilson volleyed one question after another in Wren’s direction.

“Sheriff, my client has already answered these questions,” the FBI lawyer Wren had introduced Titus to cut in. She’d exited a black SUV as soon as the sheriff had arrived, her blond hair and fair skin contrasting sharply with her black suit. He should remember her name, but his mind was still foggy from the hit he’d taken.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

“You have three witnesses who can all testify that Agent Santino was not here at the time the fire began—”

“She could have hired someone.”

“Before or after you questioned her? During or after her wrist was set? At what point do you think she had access to a phone and the ability to make a call without being noticed.” She crossed lean arms over her waist and eyed the sheriff dispassionately. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, fine lines near the corners of her eyes and a few strands of white mixed with her dark blond hair. She wore minimal makeup, a conservative suit and a half smile that Titus knew was getting under the sheriff’s skin.