Читать книгу His Secret Life - Debra Webb - Страница 10

“Hands up.” Troy Benson backed up a step as the driver’s side door opened.

The woman slowly raised her hands as she dropped her feet to the ground and pushed out of the vehicle. “I don’t know what this is about, mister, but I’m lost. All I need are some directions on how to get to town.”

He would just bet she needed directions. “You have some ID?”

She nodded. “In my bag.”

He motioned to his right with his weapon. “Step away from the car.”

When she’d sidestepped, not taking her eyes off him, to the middle of the road, he reached, equally careful not to take his eyes off her, for the purse sitting on the console inside the vehicle. He closed the door and jerked his head toward the place he called home for now. “This way.”

She didn’t argue, which surprised him. It shouldn’t have. The woman wasn’t lost. She had been watching him all afternoon. She’d come into the diner earlier that day.

Leading the way, she walked along the gravel road, then made the left into the dirt driveway leading to the house. Midway down the drive, she hesitated.

“Look.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I don’t want any trouble. I just need to find my aunt’s house. She called and I haven’t seen her since I was a kid and I don’t have a clue where she lives except that it’s—”

“Keep moving,” he ordered, cutting her off. She could just save all that babble. Whatever she was up to, he would soon know.

As she climbed the rickety steps to his porch, he considered the idea that he should have left already. He had known this was coming. What a damned fool he was. This town didn’t mean anything to him. The job damned sure didn’t. Still, he hated like hell to pick up and leave. He’d gotten close to a couple of people, as close as he dared anyway.

Stupid. Way stupid.

Anyone close to him was a target. He knew better. But four years had allowed him to lose his edge…to believe it was over.

It would never be over.

The only thing he could do to protect those around him was to get the hell out of here as fast as possible.

At the front door she stopped and faced him defiantly. “Okay, I’m not going in there with you.” She stared him straight in the eye. “You’ll just have to shoot me here, I guess.”

The lady was tall and slim, but not at all helpless or frail looking. In fact, she looked damned determined and fearless for a woman lost on a deserted road.

Troy reached past her and pushed the door open. “I don’t know who you are—” he held his aim steady on her chest “—but I do know who you aren’t. You aren’t lost and you definitely aren’t looking for your aunt’s house. Now get inside.”

A pulse-pounding moment passed with her staring defiantly at him. No way was she some lost stranger. The lady was way too steady, way too in control. Evidently she thought he was as stupid as his recent actions had shown him to be.

“Fine.” She executed an about-face and stamped inside. “But I’m warning you, my aunt’s expecting me. She’ll call the police if I don’t show up soon. I left her a message saying I was in the area.”

Brave, determined and smart. He kicked the door closed behind him. “Sit.” He gestured to the sofa.

When she’d taken a seat, he plopped her purse onto the back of the closest chair and dug through it. He tossed the usual female items into the chair’s seat. Brush. PDA. Lip balm. He opened her wallet. Jane R. Sutton. Chicago. Twenty-nine. No other forms of ID, no credit cards. One bank check card. A picture of her with an older woman.

“That’s my aunt,” she piped up. “Like I said, she’s expecting me.”

He tossed the purse onto the seat with the other stuff, then walked around to sit on the coffee table directly in front of her. That her eyes didn’t flare with fear and she didn’t draw away with the same confirmed his suspicions.

“Why are you here?”

“I told you—”

“The truth, Ms. Sutton—if that’s even your real name,” he fired back. “I want the truth now.”

She shook her head. Dropped her hands into her lap and shrugged. “You’ve got problems, mister. Have you seen a shrink about your paranoid delusions?”

He ignored her question. “Who sent you?”

“My mother,” she retorted. “She thinks her sister needs help after her surgery. I’m supposed to stay with her a couple of weeks.”

She was good. He’d give her that. “Just stop,” he warned. “I’m not playing that game with you.”

“What game?”

That she could look so innocent only fueled his fury. “I tell you what, Ms. Sutton. I’ll tie you up in the basement.” He stood. “And when you’re ready to tell me the truth, we’ll try this again.”

There was the widening of eyes he’d anticipated several minutes ago. She did not want to be tied up.

“Wait.” She leaned forward a bit. “I’ll tell you the truth. Just don’t put me in the basement.”

He resumed his seat on the coffee table. “Why are you watching me?”

She heaved a big breath. “I’m from the Trib. My boss wanted me to get the story on how you rescued Stuart Norcross’s wife and son. It’s a big story. Maybe you don’t realize, but Norcross is—”

“I know who he is.” Troy’s fury simmered. He should have left the woman and child before the cops arrived. But the woman had been so shaken, her injuries possibly life-threatening, he had been afraid to leave her alone with the child until help arrived.

So much for the good Samaritan bit.

“Then you know that any event, large or small, in his life is big news.” She chewed her bottom lip a second. “I need the story. That’s all I came for, I swear.” She glanced at the gun. “I won’t say anything about your lack of social etiquette.”

Troy searched Jane Sutton’s face, then her eyes, looking for the lie. It was entirely possible that one of the cops had leaked his description to a reporter friend, especially one as determined and persuasive as this one. She could be telling the truth. But her demeanor, her lack of fear of the weapon in his hand, indicated otherwise. If she was a reporter, she had a background in something else. Yes, Stuart Norcross was a big deal in the social and business pages, but this story wasn’t big enough to merit staring down a gun barrel to get.

“If you get your story, you’ll leave me alone?” he ventured. “That’s all you came here for?”

She nodded. “The readers love hero stories. Especially the ones about ordinary guys who come to the rescue. They’ll eat it up.”

“And show up at the hero’s door wanting autographs and photo ops,” he countered.

She shook her head this time. “Oh, I would never leak your location. You have my word on that.”

He needed a new strategy. “Where are your press credentials?”

Her right hand moved to the pocket of her slacks.

“Wait. Stand up.”

Her brow furrowed with confusion.

“Stand up,” he repeated.

Another of those beleaguered sighs accompanied her push up from the sofa.

“Hands back up,” he ordered.

She rolled her eyes but obeyed.

He reached into her pocket. She tensed, drew in a sharp breath. Their gazes locked. “Just making sure you don’t have any pepper spray tucked in here.”

A curt nod had him forcing his fingers deeper into her pocket until he’d found what he was looking for. He pulled out a press badge for the Chicago Tribune. After turning the badge over a couple of times, he said, “Looks real enough.” He held on to her phone as he resumed his seat.

“So.” She sat down on the sofa again. “Do I get the story?”

He thought about the question a moment, settled on his strategy. “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lowering his weapon, he stood and rounded the coffee table. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He didn’t have to look back to know she was following him to the door. Good, that would make getting her out of his house a little easier.

“Wait.” She stalled halfway across the room. “You said you knew what I meant about the story being big.”

“I said,” he reiterated, “I knew who Norcross was. Anyone who reads the papers would. I know his wife and child were in an accident—that was in the papers, too. But I don’t know anything about the guy who rescued them. If you thought that was me, you made a mistake.”

Jane Sutton held up both hands stop sign fashion, then waved them back and forth as if to erase his statements. “No way. Mrs. Norcross described you.” She glanced at his left arm. “All the way down to the cut on your arm. You got that injury dragging her out of the wrecked car.”

He folded his arms over his chest as if that would hide the truth she spoke. “According to the papers, the accident was pretty bad.”

“That’s right. You should know.” She matched his stance. “You were there.”

“I would imagine that Mrs. Norcross was panicked and confused. Probably scared to death. Worried about her child. Who knows what the guy who rescued her really looked like? Could’ve been anyone around here. Folks in this town don’t go around bragging about doing the right thing. Or—” he sent her a pointed look “—nosing around for rewards.”

Her gaze narrowed. “So if you didn’t cut your arm in the rescue, what happened?”

“I’m a short-order cook, lady. I get burned all the time. The diner’s equipment is old. Things don’t always work right and I have to tear ‘em apart to find the problem.” He held up his arm. “I cut my arm working on the grill’s wiring.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Benson.”

“Believe what you like, Ms. Sutton.” He opened the door. “Give your aunt my best.”

“What about my phone and purse?” Her lips pinched in frustration. “And my press credentials?”

He handed her the phone and press badge, then jerked his head toward the chair. “Take your stuff. And go.”

She stalked across the room, shoved her things back into her purse. When she’d slung the strap over her shoulder she glared at him. “For a hero, you’re a really rude guy.”

“I’m no hero, Ms. Sutton.” He studied her profile as she hesitated at the door but refused to look at him. “I’m just a short-order cook trying to get by.”

Jane Sutton hesitated one more beat before walking out the open door. She stormed up the drive and to the road. Once she’d made the turn toward where they had left her car he lost sight of her in the dusk.

He hadn’t seen the last of the lady.

The other thing he was completely certain of was that he had to get on the road.

What had he been thinking hanging around after that accident?

The paramedics had asked him questions. The two cops had gotten a good look at him before he’d found an opportunity to slip into the woods. Mrs. Norcross had obviously remembered the details far too clearly.

Troy was glad she and her son were okay. No way could he have walked away after witnessing her car going off the road.

If he’d opted to forgo his run that night.

If it hadn’t rained so hard so suddenly.

If she hadn’t chosen that particular route that particular night.

But she had. And he’d had no choice but to do the right thing.

Now he was left with no choice once more.

If the press, assuming Jane Sutton actually worked for the Chicago Tribune, was on to his identity, it wouldn’t be long until others learned those details as well.

Troy Benson was finished.

He would have to pick a new name.

A new address.

New job.

But first he had to kill Troy Benson.

That was the hardest part. Finding a way to end a life without getting caught or leaving too many lingering suspicions.

He could do it.

He’d done it before.