Sandra Orchard - Shades of Truth

The instant she saw his face the panic in her eyes flashed to relief, then white-hot anger. She lashed her arms free of his grip. “What are you doing here?”

He lifted his hands, palms out, to assure he meant no harm. “I live down the street, heard you scream.” Her cry had ripped through his chest like buckshot. He expected her to be falling apart, not taking a strip out of him. “When I saw you go down, my only thought was to get you to cover.”

Her gaze rested a moment on his bandaged left hand. Her rapid breathing began to slow. “You live in this neighborhood?” she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and repugnance.

Her tone, so similar to his ex-girlfriend’s after he’d told her about his stint in detention, made the back of his neck prickle. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his anger at her for putting herself in danger making the question sound harsher than he’d intended.

He’d driven by her house and found it empty. A neighbor said she was probably at the hospital with her dad. But deep down, he’d feared that whoever came after her this morning would try again.

“I caught a couple of kids vandalizing my car. What kind of stupid thrill is it to slash someone’s tires and smash their windshield? They won’t think it’s so fun when they wind up in jail. Let me tell you.”

He scraped a hand through his hair. Two attacks in one day couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone wanted her out. And he didn’t have a clue who. “What were you doing here in the first place?”

She averted her gaze the same way she had when she’d hedged his questions this morning.

How was he supposed to protect her if she didn’t tell him what was really going on?

“I came to visit a … friend.”

“Then why didn’t you run to her house?”

“They came at me so fast. I didn’t have time to think. I just ran.”

“Usually when kids are caught vandalizing property they scram. You didn’t recognize them?”

“No, but they seemed—” she hesitated, and at the raw fear in her eyes, his irritation over her secretiveness evaporated “—to know me. Or at least, that I owned the car.”

“They probably watched you park.” Not that it explained why they’d chase her, let alone shoot at her. What kind of “friend” was she here to visit?

Her face was white, her lips pinched tight, and from the way she shifted all her weight to her uninjured ankle she looked as though she was in serious pain.

He pointed to a rusty, overturned barrel behind her. “Sit for a minute.”

In the distance, sirens blared.

“Someone must’ve called in the gunshot.” He cocked his head. “Sounds like police and ambulance. Did you see who had the gun?”

“No. I didn’t see any gun. They were carrying a bat and knife.”

He looked around at the tattered houses with their boarded-up windows and curling shingles. Crushed beer cans littered dirt-patched yards. “Maybe the shot had nothing to do with you, then.” He hoped. Graffiti—sick slurs and even sicker images—defaced the factory wall. “This neighborhood attracts more than its share of crime.”

“You mean someone out there is taking potshots at people?”

He shrugged. “It happens.” He offered her a hand. “Come on.”

She hesitated a moment, and when she finally slipped her hand in his it felt oddly dainty. Dainty, yes, but when she leaned into his support and rose he could also feel the thread of steely determination that ran through her. The connection of their joined hands gave him a feeling of … rightness.

He ignored the irrational thought as she tested her injured ankle, resisting the urge to wrap his arm around her waist and carry her. “We’ll check over your car and give the police a description of the vandals,” he said brusquely. “Then you need to go home and rest.”

From the cover of the trees, Ethan scanned the vicinity for signs of the punks and squinted at every window for evidence of a sniper. Red-and-blue emergency lights from the next street strobed across the dead space between the houses. “If those punks have a brain in their heads, they’ll be long gone by now,” he said, sweeping the branches out of Kim’s way. “Can you manage with that foot?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.” She took a step, barely concealing a wince. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.

“You stay put and I’ll bring your car here. Where are you parked?”

“On the next street, but—” Her gaze darted from the factory to the row of run-down houses and back to him. She looked scared.

“Or we can cut through those yards.”

“That would be better.”

Supporting her weight as much as she’d allow, he forced himself to focus on helping her to her car, instead of the feel of her body leaning against his.

They crossed the street and shuffled down the alley between two houses. As they reached the backyards, Kim’s hand suddenly clenched. Her face went white.

Paramedics were loading a man onto a gurney. White gauze, stained red at the man’s temple, circled his head. A spent casing, flagged by police, lay in the dirt ten feet away.

“Looks like we’ve found the gunshot victim,” Ethan said. “At least this means the shot wasn’t intended for you.”

Kim made a choking sound. But something in her eyes said her shock wasn’t just over seeing a random shooting victim.

“You know that guy?” Ethan asked, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. “Was he the friend you came to visit?”

She stared at the medics pushing the gurney alongside the house to the street. “His name is Blake Owens. He used to be a resident at Hope Manor.”

“Do you know why someone might want him dead?”

Her head turned slowly from side to side, and then came to an abrupt stop.

“Kim?”

“No. I don’t know.” She swallowed. Hard. As if she was trying to dislodge the boulder-size lie.

He’d been a cop long enough to spot them. But this wasn’t the place to press her.

A police officer, winding crime-scene tape around the perimeter, glanced in their direction.

Ethan urged Kim to keep moving. He needed to find out what she was hiding before the police got ahold of her. They cut across the adjoining yard and slipped between the houses to the street. Police cruisers blocked both ends. Gawkers stood along the sidewalk. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

When Kim spotted the clutch of police officers questioning bystanders, she began to tremble.

But it was the sports car parked in front of the victim’s house that caught Ethan’s attention. Seeing no reason to sugarcoat the obvious, he said, “Blake was the friend you came to see. Wasn’t he?”

She stopped next to a silver Ford Escort with flat tires he presumed was hers. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it? So the treads of that white Camaro up there won’t match the tracks outside Hope Manor? Because in case you missed it, the back taillight is smashed.”

Kim sucked in a breath. “Okay, yes, I recognized Blake’s car this morning.”

“So why not report him?”

“Because he used to be a resident. Something like that would’ve lost him his parole. I thought I’d talk to him instead. But then those vandals came along before I got the chance.”

“You were going to talk to a guy who ran you down in broad daylight, and you’re calling me crazy? What were you thinking?”

Her expression hardened. “I was thinking about the damage that rumors of a hit-and-run by a former resident would do to the manor. I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve only been here a day. You couldn’t possibly care about the manor’s survival the way I do.”

He felt like dog meat. The woman was as loyal and compassionate as they came. How could he have suspected her of trying to protect a drug dealer?