Sandra Orchard - Shades of Truth

He edged her out of view of the cops. The ambulance wailed to life, a glaring reminder of the danger she was in. He had a bad feeling that someone didn’t want Blake to talk to her. And with a bullet in his head, the kid wasn’t going to give Ethan an explanation anytime soon.

“I’m sorry, Kim. I was out of line. Believe me, I want to help you.” More importantly, he wanted to get her out of here before the police connected her—or him—to the shooting.

“Come on.” He nudged her toward the house that backed onto his. “I’ll drive you home.”

“What about the vandals? The police will want their description.”

Ethan held her in place. The last thing he needed was a cop unraveling his cover. So far, other than the officer on the perimeter tape, no one had paid them any attention. “Since you’re parked nearby, the police will record your license plate, and stop by your house in due course.”

“But if I leave without talking to them, won’t that make them suspicious?”

“Not once they see the condition of your ankle.”

In the meantime, he needed descriptions of the punks, because chances were good one of them shot Blake, or saw who did. And Ethan needed to talk to them before the wrong cop got to them. Or to Kim.

Witnesses in this case had a bad habit of showing up dead.

A news truck squealed around the corner and stopped at the end of the street.

Great, just what she’d hoped to avoid by not reporting Blake in the first place.

Ethan tilted his head, and waited for her to meet his gaze. “Let me drive you home?”

The compassion in his eyes tugged at her heart. Twice in one day he’d come to her rescue. Why not make it three?

“Okay.”

He deftly skirted her around the officers canvassing the neighborhood and the reporter charging toward the scene, and led her back the way they’d come.

What would the police think if they found out she’d fled?

Then again, if she admitted why she was in the area, some ambitious reporter was bound to find a nosy neighbor who’d identify Darryl’s truck as being here, too. He’d squealed away minutes before the shot was fired. But people’s memories had a bad habit of getting those kinds of important details confused. Or they’d theorize he snuck back. She could see the headline now—Former Hope Manor Resident Shot By Founder’s Son.

Everyone who knew Darryl knew how protective he’d become of her since Nate had stomped all over her heart.

She misstepped, turning her ankle on the uneven pavement.

Ethan’s strong arm circled her waist, unleashing a flurry of butterflies that made her feel as if she’d tumbled into the middle of a Jane Austen romance novel. She allowed herself to lean on him, borrow the strength and protection he offered. Just for a little while.

He was so different from Nate. Ethan took immediate, confident action, where Nate was indecisive and slow to respond.

A pang of guilt squeezed her chest. She wasn’t being completely honest with Ethan.

He steered her between two houses, practically carrying her to spare her from putting too much weight on her ankle, and her guilt increased. Ethan had shown her nothing but kindness.

“The dark green Chev is mine,” he said.

“How soon do you think the police will come by my house?”

“Hard to say. Sometime tonight. Tomorrow at the latest, unless they get a solid lead.”

She shivered. If anyone had overheard Darryl threatening Blake, the police or reporters or both would dig up whatever incriminating information they could find on him—like that he’d been a regular at the gun club with his friend Frank. His friend who was now serving twenty years in a federal prison for manslaughter.

Oh, Lord, Darryl wouldn’t shoot a kid just because he drove a little recklessly. He wouldn’t. Please let Blake be okay. And please let the police track down the shooter quickly.

Ethan helped her into his car. The air inside was stifling. He cranked up the air-conditioning, and then glanced at the line of cars idling at the end of the street—employees from the candy factory, likely. “The police must be checking cars. Prop your injured foot on the dash. Let me do the talking.”

Was it just her guilty conscience that made Ethan sound as though they were fugitives?

A few minutes later, a police officer wearing those mirrored sunglasses, whose chief purpose had to be to intimidate the person staring into them, stepped up to their window. “License and registration, please.”

Ethan reached into the glove box, handed over his registration and then pulled his license from his wallet. “We heard a gunshot. Someone get hurt?”

The officer responded without emotion. “The victim’s in critical condition.”

Kim smothered a gasp.

Ethan shot her a silencing glare.

She buried her hands under her legs so the officer wouldn’t catch her wringing them. If the police connected her to the car near Blake’s house she’d look as suspicious as her brother. Maybe she should call Ginny and talk to her husband, Rick, about what happened. Reporting in, so to speak, before they came looking for her had to look better in the end. “My phone,” she blurted, remembering that she’d dropped it when the shot rang out.

Ethan’s silencing glare swept over her a second time.

“Why are you in the neighborhood?” the officer asked as he recorded the license information.

Ethan motioned to the row of duplexes. “I moved into 103, second floor apartment, on Saturday. Haven’t had time to change my license yet.”

“And the woman?”

“Kim Corbett.”

“Relationship?”

“A friend,” Ethan said, with a lilt that implied something more.

Kim’s heart gave a funny kick.

“She hurt her ankle,” Ethan explained. “I’m taking her to have it checked.”

The officer wrote down everything Ethan said, and then looked at her. “Address?”

“Two-thirteen Maple Crescent.”

His attention zeroed in on Ethan again. “Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?”

“No, sir.”

The officer opened Ethan’s door. “Could you step out of the car, please?”

Ethan turned off the ignition, his expression pained. “It’s okay,” he said to her before climbing out, but suddenly every warning her brother had ever voiced about her being too trusting screamed through her head.

She’d known this man less than twelve hours—twelve hours in which she’d been threatened twice. He lived in a seedy neighborhood and maybe carried a gun. And she’d just let him convince her to leave the scene of a crime!

If he was really an ex-cop like he said, why didn’t he tell this guy? Play up the professional courtesy card?

Or was that why he was playing it by the book, not making waves?

Too trusting! The voice in her head screamed.

The officer patted Ethan down, glanced at the interior of the car and then said, “Do you mind if I look in your trunk?”

“Not at all. I’ve got nothing to hide,” Ethan said easily, although Kim thought she glimpsed the muscle in his jaw flinch.

The officer riffled through the trunk, and then handed Ethan back his license and registration. “Thank you, sir. Have a good day.”

Kim closed her eyes and let the air seep from her chest. He didn’t have a gun. That was good, at least.

Ethan climbed in the car. “What were you saying about your phone?”

“I dropped it in the street.” She lowered her voice. “When I heard the shot.”

“Okay, we’ll go back and find it.” He rolled down the window again. “Officer, my friend dropped her phone. I need to turn around for a minute and see if we can find it.”

“Go ahead.” The officer backed up a few steps so Ethan had room to turn on the narrow street.