Mallory Kane - His Runaway Juror

Ever since her mother had died when she was twelve, she and her dad had depended on each other. She didn’t count the months right after her mother’s death, when her dad had retreated into his own grief. For the most part, he’d been a great dad. He’d taught her how to defend herself, how to handle a gun, so she’d never be helpless. He’d listened when she’d cried with her first broken heart. And he’d been there to cheer when she’d graduated college with a degree in interior design.

“I need you now, Dad,” she whispered. “More than ever. I need to know what to do.”

The father who’d raised her would be appalled if he knew she was even considering voting not guilty. Not with the kind of evidence the prosecution had against Simon. He’d have waved away the danger.

I can take care of myself , he’d have told her. And I can take care of you .

But there was no way he could do that now. She had to take care of him. And if that meant letting a killer go free—so be it.

Still, the strong, beloved voice she’d listened to all her life echoed in her ears.

It all comes down to what’s right, Lilybell. You can’t outrun your conscience .

She slapped the steering wheel with her palms, and wiped her eyes. Enough of acting like a baby. She’d find a way to get help. There had to be someone she could trust.

A car’s headlights glared in the rearview mirror, causing her heart to leap into her throat. She’d broken one of the basic rules of personal safety. Don’t park the car and sit in it. She needed to get inside and put the chain on the door.

Imaginary spiders crawled up the back of her neck as she grabbed her jacket and purse. She shuddered and glanced around. Then she took a deep breath, jumped out of her car and ran up the steps to her second-floor apartment.

As she unlocked her door, her shoulders tightened in awful expectation of the feel of a heavy hand.

She looked over her shoulder. Nothing. She pushed open the door and sighed in relief when she saw her living room bathed in the light from the lamp she’d left on.

The attack came from her left.

A hand clapped over her mouth.

No! Not again! She kicked and bit and tried to scream for help.

The hand pressed tighter and a rock-hard arm pinned hers to her sides. She flung her head backward, trying to head-butt her attacker, but he dodged and pressed the left side of his head against the right side of hers, then pushed her inside and kicked the door shut.

She smelled soap and mint. Alarm sent her heart racing out of control.

“Shh! Lily!” His voice was raspy and soft. “Be still. Shh. Stop struggling.”

Desperately, she stomped his instep.

“Ow. Stop it! Listen to me.” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her into the living room.

She was so helpless, so weak. None of the defensive moves her father had taught her worked against this man. She struggled, but he was like a massive tree—immovable, sturdy, unbending.

His hand over her mouth loosened and she took a breath to scream.

“Don’t.” The hand tightened again, as did the arm across her chest. She could barely breathe.

She went limp, tears of frustration and fear filling her eyes.

“Promise?” his whisper rasped in her ear. His stubble scraped her cheek.

She tried to nod.

“This is serious, Lily. Don’t try anything. Don’t yell, don’t hit, and for heaven’s sake, don’t bite.”

She nodded again. Her chest burned for air. She sucked as much as she could through her nose. It wasn’t enough.

His hand on her mouth eased up.

She gasped.

He slid his hand down past her jaw, which was still sore from the Cajun’s punishing fingers the night before, to her neck. He didn’t grab her, he didn’t punish. His thumb touched the minuscule wound left by the Cajun’s knife.

In another world, in another time, she might have thought his fingers were gentle, caressing. But here and now, she knew who he was. He’d been here last night. He’d held her—let the Cajun touch her. A quiver of revulsion rippled through her.

He’d threatened her with a searing glare and watched her like a hawk in court.

Lily felt sick. A cold sweat broke out across her face and neck.

He tightened his hold. “Don’t faint on me, Lily. I need you to be strong. You have to listen to me.” His breath was hot on her ear.

She tried to turn, but he held her in place, tight up against his unyielding body. The heat he gave off burned her to her core.

“You almost got kicked off the jury today. Do you know that?”

She swallowed against his fingers, which still held her throat in an ominous caress. Any second he could tighten them and choke her.

“Do you?” he snapped.

She nodded jerkily.

“You’ve got to be brave. You’ve got to stop looking like a doe facing a rifle.”

His low voice sounded earnest, as if he was worried about her. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to give up, to lean against him and stop struggling.

But she knew he couldn’t be trusted. He was the enemy. He had hurt her. He’d held her while the Cajun had hurt her.

“That’s pretty much what I am,” she said shakily.

“You’ve got to look confident. Can you do that? It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

“Wha-what are you talking about?” she croaked, confused by the urgency in his tone.

His hands slid down over her sleeveless top and tightened on her bare upper arms. He turned her around to face him.

His face was grave, his blue eyes burning with intensity as they searched her face. He lifted one hand and traced the bruise the Cajun had left on her jaw with a surprisingly gentle brush of his fingers.

Conflicting emotions swirled inside her. He’d grabbed her, threatened her. Why was he being so kind? Was it a trick? Was the Cajun waiting outside?

She stiffened, and cut her eyes over to her front door.

“Shh. It’s okay. He’s not here.”

Her gaze shot to his, suspicious. “He sent you?”

“No. I came on my own, to warn you.” His left hand touched her chin. “Listen to me, Lily. Jury summations are tomorrow. They won’t take long. The prosecution thinks they’ve got the case sewn up. Get up in the morning, shower and fix your hair. Put on makeup. Do whatever it is you do to look good.”

Tears burned her eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t do it. I can’t sit there in front of the judge and the lawyers, with the families of people Sack Simon killed watching me with their hopeful eyes. I can’t betray them.”

“You’ve got to. You have to walk into the jury box like you own it. Don’t give the ADA a reason to kick you off the jury. If you do, your father will die.” His face darkened. “You’ll die.”

She blinked and the tears streamed down her cheeks, down her neck. His thumb moved, rubbing the dampness into her skin, touching her in a way he had no right to. Making her feel safe when she knew she wasn’t.

“Don’t cry, Lily. Be strong.”

She sobbed.

“Shh.” He bent his head and put his mouth against her ear. She sniffled and was hit with the scent of him— soap and mint.

He’d brushed his teeth to come threaten her again. A little hiccuping giggle burst up from her chest.

“If you can be strong, if you can hold out, I promise you I’ll keep you safe.”

“You?” she spat, jerking her head away from his seductive whisper. She hiccuped again and looked him in the eye. “I’d rather die.”

He sighed and his eyes went storm-cloud gray. “Then you will.”

He turned her around and pulled her back up close against him again. His soft, ominous whisper burned through her. “Think about it, Lily. It’s your only chance. It’s the only way your dad will survive.”