Читать книгу Latimer's Law - Mel Sterling - Страница 11

Chapter 2

“Hands up, lady.”

Abby’s shocked gaze traveled slowly up from the menacing dark little mouth at the end of the gun barrel to the blue eyes behind it, and locked there. Peripheral vision showed her the shiny, puckered nightmare flesh of an old acid burn fanning out from the edge of his left eye toward his hairline and ear, and spilling down the side of his neck to vanish beneath his clothing. A vision of splattered melted red candle wax flashed through her mind. It took her too long to look away from the damaged skin, and the man’s eyes narrowed in irritation at her visible shock and revulsion. When her gaze finally hitched away from the terrible visage, she barely noticed the rest of his appearance. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and a khaki fishing vest full of pockets. Her hands rose slowly on their own, the truck keys dangling from her left. Her own terror and guilt made her babble.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up. Turn around. Drop the keys. Down on your knees.”

“You ought to be down on your knees to me, Abigail. It isn’t every man who’ll take on his brother’s widow and his business and make it all work.”

“I know. I know. It’s just that...it’s the checking account. It’s the last thing with his name on it. It’s so hard to let go.”

“It’s been six months. Gary’s not walking through that door ever again.”

“Stop it! Just...stop.”

“Ah...I didn’t mean to make you cry. I don’t want to hurt you. Why do you make me say these things, Abby? Why?”

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t mean to...”

“Come here. Dry your eyes. It won’t look good at the bank when we change the names on the account if your face is puffy.”

Abby stared. With one hand the man reached out to open the tailgate while the other held the gun pointed at her. “I said on your knees, woman!”

Some final anchoring cord of rationality snapped inside Abby. “You can’t speak to me like that!”

His unbelieving laugh was deep and rich as he slid off the tailgate and stood. “This, from the nutjob who stole my truck with me inside it? Mort, fass.” At the single command, the dog leaped out of the truck and put his nose against Abby’s thigh, growling. “Turn around. On your knees. Do it now.”

Abby’s heart pounded. In her head she saw herself at dog-level, her bare throat torn and bloodied by the teeth of the menacing shepherd. Or her brains splattered on the sand of the campsite by a single shot from that beast of a gun. She turned slowly away from the tall, blue-eyed man, dropped the keys in the sand and went to her knees. The dog’s nose shifted to her shoulder and the growling continued.

“Hands on your head.”

She obeyed, lacing her fingers. “Please don’t let him bite me.” She could hear the trembling in her own voice. Fear spiked sharp and bitter in her mouth and she thought the orange juice might make a reappearance. She had the same feeling of horrible dread when Marsh was displeased.

“I’ll tell you when you can talk.” His foot nudged her ankles apart and then the sole of his work boot settled lightly on her calf.

The man grasped Abby’s left forearm and brought her hand behind her back, then joined the right to it with a grating ratchet. He had shackled her—not with handcuffs, but something else. Her heart pounded even harder and then the juice did force its way out of her throat, spraying the earth before her. With her hands behind her back, there was no way to wipe the sick from her mouth. Judgment upon her for her crime. Even while she wept from fear and dread, some freakishly alert portion of her brain noted that the man’s grasp, while firm, was not angry or brutal, and he didn’t wrench her arms painfully when he pulled them behind her.

A shameful part of her felt she deserved harsh treatment, expected it—perhaps would even have welcomed retribution. But the rest of her was pathetically grateful for small mercies. With a snuffling sob she tried to clear her nose. She turned her mouth against the shoulder of her shirt.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” He took his weight from her leg and grabbed her arm just beneath her biceps to help her rise. “Get up.” Abby could not hide her gasp, nor the wince that contorted her face when he gripped where Marsh had bruised her arm. “There’s a picnic table. Sit on the bench, and keep your mouth shut.” He hustled her over to the table constructed of concrete posts and bolted-on planks. “Stop that crying, too. You’re well and truly busted, lady. Tears won’t make me go easier on you. Now turn around and face the table.” The man grasped her shoulder to balance her as Abby obeyed—the black mouth of the gun was pointed her way again, though the dog had backed off a few paces—and swung her legs over the bench. There would be no leaping up and running into the scrubby woods. He knew what he was doing, impeding her without physically restraining her beyond the cuffs.

He stood back from the table, lowering the gun at last. “What’s your name?”

Abby gulped and shook her head. She stared at the man. He wasn’t someone she knew from town. He didn’t recognize her, she could tell. She tried to think, but a moment later he spoke again.

“Mort, fass.” The dog bristled forward and pressed his nose against her again. Abby couldn’t stifle a fresh gasping sob.

“Your name.”

“I can explain—”

“I don’t want explanations. I want facts. Your name.”

Abby’s gaze dropped from the scar to the glinting barrel of the gun held at his side. Its latent menace dried her mouth, and try as she might, she could not summon enough moisture or breath to speak.

“Fine. We’ll do this your way.” He glowered at her and stepped forward. Abby flinched back instinctively, and then froze when the dog growled and breathed hot, moist air over her arm. She felt the prickle of his whiskers.

“I—I—” Fresh tears started. Abby feared they would only aggravate this man. “Please don’t make him bite me.”

“Then don’t push me.” He moved behind her and she craned her neck to watch him. “It’ll be best if you stay still and don’t give him a reason to attack. I’m going to take your wallet out of your pocket.”

How odd. He’s courteous, even when he’s demanding information. His hand went smoothly into her pocket and withdrew the thin bifold wallet—Gary’s, which she’d used since his funeral, a way to keep his memory alive.

The man put the table between them again. He laid the wallet on the plank surface and pulled out the contents one-handed. Her driver’s license, the solitary credit card, photos, cash. Abby stared up at him, noting that the blood on his face was dried and smeared, but the cut in his hairline was still moist and fresh. It needed attention. She supposed her wild driving was the cause of his injury, and bit her lip. He’d been hurt because of her. He had close-cropped straw-colored hair and the tan of an outdoorsman. He was muscled and fit, and he handled the gun and the dog with familiar ease.

“Abigail McMurray. 302 Carson Street, Wildwood.” His gaze flicked up and caught her own. “Well, now, Abigail, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Abby swallowed hard and faced her own crime. “There isn’t much to say, I guess. I stole your truck.”

To her everlasting astonishment, the man threw back his head and laughed. She could tell it wasn’t forced. He was honestly amused, and it startled her to see such confidence and poise in a man whose truck had been stolen, and who had the thief sitting right in front of him. She half expected the Phantom of the Opera to emerge from that awful visage, something rough-voiced and vengeful. The juxtaposition of the terrible scarring and his careful demeanor kept her off balance. “No kidding. I’d never have guessed if you hadn’t told me. No, Abigail...what I want to know is why. What makes a soccer mom like you jump in a truck at a quickie mart and drive off? Where’s your minivan, your Beemer? Start talking.”

“I’m not a soccer mom. I’m a...” Abby’s voice trailed off as she realized she’d just risen to his bait. She flushed. “Just call the cops and get it over with. I know I’m a felon.”

He gestured around them. “Nice of you to confess, Abigail, but just where might there be a phone in these parts? I’ve checked my cell—there’s no coverage here.” He straightened, reached to tuck the gun into the back of his jeans, and then bent forward, knuckles on the table. “And if there’s no cell coverage, that means we’re pretty remote, doesn’t it? No one to hear you scream when I make you tell me the truth. I’m more interested in the truth than in calling the cops.”

No one to hear you scream. Don’t grunt like that—what would the neighbors think? It’s so hot outside. I don’t want to wear a long-sleeved shirt to wash the car, but what would the neighbors think if they saw my arms? I’m not ready for those kinds of questions. I’ll never be ready for those kinds of questions. If only Marsh wouldn’t grip so hard. Abby pulled herself away from the dismaying flicker of memories. “I don’t think I should talk without someone else here. A cop, or a lawyer. Someone.”

“Your husband, maybe?” His fingers flicked Gary’s license so that it spun toward her over the tabletop. She watched Gary’s cheerful face come to a smiling stop. Who ever looked happy in their driver’s license picture? Everyone else looked startled or stoned or fat, but Gary just looked like Gary, ordinary and plain until he smiled. “Is he going to meet you here, maybe?”

“He’s dead.” Why she felt compelled to say that much, Abby didn’t know. She wedged her tongue between her teeth to remind herself to keep quiet. Sweat trickled down her face and the ridge of her spine.

“That explains why you’re carrying a man’s wallet and license.” He gestured with his left hand, and the dog sat. Abby turned to look at it, expecting to see wild eyes and froth at its lips, and instead was startled by the lolling tongue as the dog panted in the day’s glaring, humid heat. The shepherd looked as if he was grinning. He looked between Abby and the man continually, alert to each slight movement.

With the dog’s muzzle away from her arm, Abby was able to relax the slightest bit. It was clear the dog would obey its master. She gained an odd respect for the man. He controlled the dog without force—or, rather, with only the force of his will. It was a concept she hadn’t thought about for months. All men had been painted with Marsh’s brush, despite the years spent basking in Gary’s gentle love. One bad apple.

“Wait here. Don’t try to run. My dog will stop you.” The man went to the pickup and opened the passenger door, reaching in for the bag of groceries. He brought the sack to the table and started taking items out of it one by one. When he was finished, he surveyed the goods before him. The orange juice. Potato chips. Two cans of chili. A half gallon of milk. Grape jelly for Rosemary’s sandwiches. Emergency rations because she hadn’t had a chance to ask Marsh to drive her to the supermarket last evening.

Of course she hadn’t. She’d been busy doing other things. Busy collecting the latest set of bruises on her arms, and elsewhere. Busy taking pills to knock back the pain. Busy wondering if this time he’d slip and mark her face. Her stomach clenched; how long would it be before Marsh came looking for her? Had he called the cops because he couldn’t leave the day care while the clients were there? Or was he simply sitting, wondering what had happened to her, his anger growing? Had he fed the clients lunch?

Or...maybe...Marsh was afraid. Afraid she’d gone to the hospital or the cops at last. She hoped he was afraid, as terrified as she herself every time she saw the edges of his nostrils whiten or his hand reaching for her, or, what was worse, the look in his eye that signaled something less painful but more humiliating. She could picture him now, in one of his button-down short-sleeve shirts that brought out the green in his hazel eyes, watching her from where he sat in the living room while she folded his clothes—

“Did you steal these groceries? Was that why you were running away, because you were afraid someone at the store would catch you? Hardly seems worth the trouble for twenty bucks in junk food.”

“I’m not a thief!” Abby flared, realizing how stupid that sounded when his eyebrows shot up and he looked at her with a gaze of blue disbelief and a twisted smirk on his well-cut mouth.

“Surely you’re joking.”

Abby bit her lip, mystified. Unless her perceptions had been skewed by the time spent with Marsh, the man was honestly amused. He was angry, too, but about the truck and not her responses. “I mean...I...had reasons why I...”

“Why you took my truck?” He came around the table and loomed over her. Abby shrank away as far as she could without losing her balance. It wasn’t easy with her hands behind her back. “Come on, Abigail. Just give me the truth and this will go better for you. Why’d you steal my truck?”

“I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. It was a mistake, that’s all. An error in judgment.” She could hear herself babbling, and sought to divert him. “You’re bleeding, did you know?”

“Your fault.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He tilted his head and studied her for a long moment. “You know, Abigail, I believe you are.”

* * *

Marshall McMurray looked at his watch for the fifth time. What was taking Abigail so long? She hadn’t managed to get herself to the grocery store last night, though she knew they needed several basic things to be able to serve the clients lunch. But even if she’d decided to buy more than the few critical items on the list Marsh had jotted, she should have come home from the corner store by now. It was only a few blocks away.

Marsh’s gaze roved the large living room, where most of the people Abigail and Gary took into their home each day were playing board games. Rosemary, who should have been seated with Stephen playing checkers, was roaming the room looking for the television remote, which Marsh had in his pocket. She loved to get possession of the remote and blast the volume, hooting with excited glee when the others moaned in reaction. Abigail let her have it far too often. Marsh saw no need for such indulgence, not when it resulted in only more noise and agitation for the other people. He was in charge now; Gary was gone.

Marsh missed his brother, but he knew he was better suited to Abigail than Gary had been. Gary had always catered to Abigail’s whims, which meant the business floundered. Small businesses, and women, required steady direction and a firm hand on the tiller. No wonder the adult day care hadn’t been delivering much more than a basic living for his brother and his brother’s wife. Together Marsh and Abigail would fix that, though. It wasn’t Marsh’s first choice for a living, but it was a start.

All the clients seemed quiet enough, but Marsh knew they’d be asking for Abigail before too much longer.

He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain that shielded the clients from the nosy stares of passersby and blocked some of the summer heat. The placement of the window didn’t give him much of a view to the street, but Abigail wasn’t walking up the driveway.

Behind Marsh, someone was slapping wet clay at the art table. Over and over. The flat sound reminded Marsh of the noise of skin on skin, the noise of two bodies in bed. And just like that, his brain revealed the explanation, the reason why Abigail hadn’t come home yet.

She was meeting someone else.

His gut knotted. His fingers knotted in the fabric of the curtain, and he yanked it closed, sending the wooden rings rattling along the rod. Behind him the slapping continued. His fists wanted to knot, too.

She was probably sleeping with the man even now, leaving Marsh to deal with everything by himself, when she knew perfectly well state regulations required a minimum caregiver-to-patient ratio. She knew they were violating those very regulations, with only Marsh at hand to tend her clients. She knew it was nearly lunchtime when she left. She knew they’d be getting agitated, hungry and bored.

She’d told her clients she’d be right back.

Abigail had lied. Bald-faced lied. Lied to him.

Marsh turned from the window, glaring at Joe, the middle-aged man with pimples, who was slapping the clay mindlessly while he rocked back and forth in his chair, his eyes roving back and forth at high speed. Any moment now Joe would start moaning, overstimulated by whatever was going wrong in his neurons.

Abigail had left Marsh to cope with her pack of misfits, while she was off doing God knew what, probably with the idiot clerk at the store, maybe in the back room, maybe behind the store, up against the concrete wall where she could be seen from any passing car—

Rosemary bounced up to Marsh. “Lunchtime!”

Marsh gritted his teeth. “That’s right. Almost lunchtime, as soon as Abigail comes back.”

“I’m having peanut butter and grape jelly!” Rosemary said. Joe moaned a little, but Marsh could tell Rosemary’s outburst had settled Joe in some way, opened a pressure valve. That was a good thing—Joe was damned strong, and without Abigail’s soft voice and hands to calm him down, it would be a problem if Joe acted out his disturbance and became physical. Joe’s eyes slowed their frantic flicking.

The old guy, Smith—Marsh never remembered his first name—who varied between utter stillness and manic activity, looked up. “Tuna fish. Tuna fish.”

“Peanut butter!” Rosemary said, her mouth tightening as if Smith’s preference would overrule her own.

Joe moaned again. His eyes started to flick.

Stephen joined the general ruckus, sending a hand across the checkerboard and scattering the game pieces. “Abby, Abby, where’s Abby, where’s lunch, where’s Abby to make our lunch and pour the milk, lunch and milk, lunch and milk?”

Damnation, how all of them repeated themselves. It made Marsh nuts. If only he didn’t have to put up with them—if only Abigail were here, as she should be. Next time he’d go and do the shopping, since she couldn’t manage to get it right. Couldn’t get herself home to feed the people she was responsible for.

“Shut up, Stephen!” Rosemary scrabbled after the checkers on the floor. “You messed me up. I was winning. You messed me up!”

Joe threw the pancake of clay at Rosemary, who shrieked in fury. Smith got out of his chair and started to walk in a circle in the center of the room, coming too close to Rosemary. Marsh was just in time to get between the two of them before Rosemary decided to slap.

“I know what, we’ll all have popcorn for lunch!” Marsh said, with false cheer. He cursed Abigail silently. She had a lesson coming when she did get home, after causing all this mess. “Let’s go in the kitchen and put a bag in the microwave. It’ll be special, real special.” Just like the special words he’d have for Abigail later that night, once everyone had gone home to their families.

“Special,” repeated Joe, getting to his feet.

“And a movie. I get to pick!” Rosemary chanted. She stepped on the pancake of clay and ground it into the short-loop carpet. Marsh closed his eyes for a second, not nearly long enough to count to ten, but enough to allow him to ignore the newest mess. Then he got hold of Smith by his elbow and brought him along to the kitchen. The only way to stop Smith from walking in circles for the rest of the day was to completely change the scenery and give him a new focus. No way was Marsh going to let Rosemary pick the movie, though. He was damned sick of Finding Nemo, her latest favorite.

The afternoon wore on, full of countless exhausting and infuriating outbursts from the entire group. Marsh’s patience thinned with each passing minute that Abigail didn’t arrive. Rosemary and Stephen both had meltdowns ending in tears and thrown objects, events that wouldn’t have happened had Abigail been present instead of shirking her responsibilities, wherever the hell she’d gone.

Marsh couldn’t shake the idea that she was with another man. Where would she have met someone else? The produce aisle at the grocery store? It wasn’t like Abigail went very many places without Marsh. He could hardly think. He tried to keep himself from going to the window every few minutes, because the clients were starting to notice his own agitation. He popped more bags of popcorn and got out crackers and cheese, and settled the group for a long afternoon of movie watching. It was easier than doing art projects or baking cookies in the kitchen, though both activities were favorites with the group.

Finally, at four in the afternoon, just ninety minutes before family members were due to retrieve their grown-up children, Marsh dug out the telephone book and wetted his finger to flip through the yellow pages. God help Abigail if she was still at that store.

Marsh dialed, keeping an eye on the group, who were quiet at the moment, engrossed in the umpteenth repeat of Finding Nemo. Stupid film.

When someone answered on the third ring, Marsh had to swallow down a growl of anger. “I’m looking for someone who was headed to your store a little while ago. I...uh, forgot to tell her to get a gallon of milk. She’s about five feet six, and she has a long light brown ponytail. Wearing jeans and a blue cotton shirt. Is she there?”

“Store’s empty, just me here right now.”

“Has she been there?”

“Not since I came on shift.”

“Well, when was that?” Marsh couldn’t believe the idiocy of the clerk.

“Coupla hours ago. Look, is there a problem?”

“No. There’s no problem. Is anyone else there, your supervisor maybe, someone who was there before you?”

“No, man. Wish I could help you, but like I said, haven’t seen her.”

“Thanks.” Liar. You’re probably the man she’s run off to meet. She’s probably there now, listening to you answer my questions, laughing at me. Marsh clicked off and put the handset away, in the cupboard, where it was out of Rosemary’s view. That woman had a real thing for anything with buttons on it, telephones, remotes, controls for electric blankets, stereos.

“Where’s Abby?” Smith asked.

Marsh clenched his fists behind his back. “She’s... She had to go to the doctor.” Yes, that was it. Get the story squared away with the clients, then set the expectations with their families: no day care tomorrow, Abigail was ill, it was probably contagious, she’d been at the doctor all day. Really sorry for the inconvenience and no notice. Knew they’d understand. Really, really sorry.

Beside Smith, Joe started to rock and hit his hand on his thigh. “Don’t like the doctor. Don’t like the doctor.”

“She’ll be fine,” Marsh assured him, putting a big hand on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s just a virus. In a day or so everything will be back to normal.”

“Don’t like the doctor,” Joe repeated, but his voice was quieter as long as Marsh was touching him. Abigail was going to need the doctor when Marsh got through with her, that much was certain. He’d make sure her legs were too sore to carry her off to the store, hell, go anywhere.

“She’ll get some medicine and be fine.”

Smith turned his head and looked up at Marsh. “I don’t like it when Abby isn’t here.”

“I don’t like you,” Rosemary chimed in. “I think you’re mean.”

“Now, now,” Marsh muttered. “That’s not very nice, Rosie. I think we’ll have to tell your families you can’t come here tomorrow, since Abigail won’t be feeling very well. We don’t want you to catch her virus, do we?”

“Mean,” said Rosemary, and Smith nodded, then kept nodding. Well, Smith could nod his head right off his neck, for all Marsh cared. He wouldn’t stop the perseveration this time.

“Shut up and watch the movie. All of you. Or I’ll turn it off, and you can just sit in your chairs until it’s time to go. You don’t want that, do you?”

Joe began to rock again. Idiots, all of them. Why Abigail thought they were worth bothering with, Marsh would never understand. When all of their faces were turned back to the neurotic fish-father searching for his lost fish-son on the television, Marsh walked into the next room to get his temper under control and plan what he needed to say to the families to keep them away tomorrow. He couldn’t legally operate without a second certified attendant, but more important, he didn’t want to.

He’d see to it that Abigail learned this lesson. Learned it well. Learned it pronto. She’d never leave him in the lurch like this again.

And she’d never get another chance to sneak off with someone while Marsh wasn’t looking.

Ever.

* * *

While he took the bag of groceries back to the truck, Cade assessed what he knew about the woman seated at the picnic table.

Thirty-one years old, based on her driver’s license. She was too thin in that nervous way of women who were perpetually on their guard, either out of fear that if they gained weight their lovers would abandon them, or anxiety for other reasons. He was betting on the latter. His cop instincts were telling him something much bigger than a shallow boyfriend was at work here. You didn’t steal a truck because you were anxious about gaining a little weight from too many chocolates or not enough exercise. It was possible her thinness was from drugs, but her teeth weren’t those of a meth-freak, rotting and ground down. Until he knew for certain, he’d be cautious and expect the worst.

Her face and hands were tanned, but at the gaping shirt neck where a button was missing, he could see pale flesh beneath. Above her wrists the flesh was pale, as well. So she got out in the sun but not in short sleeves. Her straight hair was light brown, edging past her shoulders but scraped back in a plain ponytail, with blonder streaks threading through it. He’d have bet money the streaks were from the sun and not a bottle.

Her shirt and jeans were worn. Maybe she’d been doing chores when she decided to take his truck on a joyride, or maybe she couldn’t afford new things.

The groceries looked like lunch for someone. Herself? Did women buy chili for themselves? Potato chips, sure, as an indulgence or, as a few of his girlfriends had taught him, greasy burnt offerings for the PMS monster. But why shop at a convenience store, where prices were guaranteed to be high? Simple: because she didn’t have a car, and the store was closest to where she lived. She’d driven before, though—you couldn’t just steal a manual transmission vehicle without knowing how to drive a stick. She’d never have made it out of the parking lot, much less to a campground in the middle of nowhere an hour from town.

Her husband was dead. That lined up with the bare left hand, and perhaps the worn clothing, but not that nagging hum in the back of his head that told him this woman was terrified of more than just his anger at her theft of his property.

This woman was running away from something. When she looked up at him as he loomed over her, he saw the flicker of alarm in her gray eyes. Her straight, level light brown eyebrows were drawn together over her nose in a worried expression. She feared him, feared his reaction to her crime. As well she should—but Cade knew this woman was no hardened criminal, just a woman on the run. Now, to get her to give up her secrets, because he was sure there was a doozy lurking just beneath the surface, like a catfish in a murky lake.

“Why stop here?” Cade questioned, leaning too close. Intimidation often worked to jolt confessions out of honest people. Habitual liars were a different matter. They’d learned to sidle along the truth for maximum believability, but he didn’t think this woman was a liar. A little judicious pressure would get him what he sought. “Middle of nowhere. How does a chick like you drive my beater truck to a campground? How’d you even know this place was here, much less drive straight to it?”

“I’ve...I’ve been here before. Fishing. Years ago.”

“You’re on a fishing trip, are you? Saw my truck, thought it would be just the thing for a little jaunt? Who are you meeting here? When do they arrive?”

“No, I— That’s not how it is. I’m not meeting—” She flushed darkly and stopped. “You’re trying to make me talk. Just call the police and be done with it. You have all the proof you need. My fingerprints are all over the cab of your truck. I won’t even try to deny it.”

“That’s right, I’m trying to make you talk. I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to want to understand this, do you? If the police get involved, I may never learn the whole story.”

She narrowed her eyes at him speculatively, her soft mouth tightening. “Are you...are you saying that if I tell you everything, you might not...might not call the police?”

Was that hope in her voice? Cade felt only mild guilt at using law enforcement interrogation techniques on this woman, who every passing minute seemed less and less a criminal and more and more a runaway girlfriend.

“Whadd’ya know, I think maybe I am. Why don’t you see if you can convince me not to truss you up, toss you in the back of my truck and haul you to the nearest sheriff’s department? I’m not an unreasonable man. Maybe I won’t bother with the cops. Maybe you’ll get a pass. But your story’s got to be good, and I’ve got to believe it.”

Abigail sat there, considering, for nearly a minute. Then she looked up at him. “I stole your truck because I needed to get away from some bad things in my personal life. I know it was wrong. I would rather not go into them, but I can at least promise you they’re not illegal things. I’m really not a criminal. I’m just...stupid, I guess.”

Cade folded his arms. “Not good enough, Abigail. I don’t buy the stupid part.” He looked up at the sun. “But we’ve got all afternoon. You say this is a good fishing spot? Maybe I’ll just see about that. What’s biting, do you think? Some bream?”

She nodded, her winged brows drawing together above her nose, revealing her confusion. “Maybe bream. That’s a tributary of the Styx River, and there’ll be bluegill or sunfish. Catfish, too, if you like those. Lake fish, mostly, here where the current is slow.”

Cade put a foot up on the bench and leaned his elbow on his knee. His hand dangled, not carelessly, but not aggressively. Her eyes went to it briefly, checking it as he suspected she would. Then her eyes returned to wander to the side of his face, where the acid had ravaged his skin, marking him as a monster, a beast, a savage. “Styx, huh? I just can’t get over how many backwoods Florida places have these scholarly names. I’m not much for catfish, unless they’re farm-raised. Taste too much like mud, otherwise.”

“They say you are what you eat—I suppose that goes for fish, too.” She lifted her chin to gesture at the unscarred side of his face. “You’re still bleeding a little.”

“Go on about stealing the truck, Abigail.”

“Someone should look at the injury. It’s swollen like a goose egg. You’re not feeling dizzy, are you?”

“You’re avoiding answering my questions. While you think about what you want to tell me, I’m just gonna do a little fishing. Don’t try to leave the table. Mort will stop you.” He strode to the truck, conscious that she turned her head and body to watch him. It wasn’t exactly kind to leave her sitting in the hot sun while he sat in the relative cool of the shaded riverbank, but it might be the thing that pried her story out of her.

Cade didn’t really plan to fish, but he’d make a good show of it. And if a bream or perch or bluegill turned up, so much the better. He just might be in a mood for some fresh fish. There was charcoal in the back of the truck, and a handy metal grill rested on a concrete fire circle not far from the picnic table. He checked the pistol’s safety and returned the Beretta to his waistband. Opening the truck’s hatch, he reached inside for a camp stool and his fishing tackle.

As he walked past the table with his gear, Abigail spoke. “Since your dog will watch me and there’s nowhere for me to go, could you please take these off?” She lifted her wrists away from her back to remind him of the cable ties he’d cuffed her with. “They’re really uncomfortable.” Her movements strained the front of her worn chambray shirt and hinted at the womanly shape of her beneath. Her throat was flushed with heat and dewy with perspiration, the cords of her neck trim and taut.

Cade looked at her thoughtfully and said, “No.” He turned his back and found a spot on the riverbank where Abigail was in easy view and he could cast into the slow-flowing stream. He set up the stool and sat at an angle. Mort looked at him alertly, but Cade gave the hand signal to continue on guard, and the shepherd turned his brown eyes back to Abigail.

Abigail shifted, trying to make herself comfortable on the hard bench seat of the picnic table. The movement made Cade wonder what she looked like in motion, walking, bending, busy at whatever it was she did for a living. He forced his gaze toward the river for a few minutes, working at clearing his head. Normally his emotions didn’t get this involved with the people he was investigating, or worse yet, taking into custody. He had to get his priorities back in order. Her problems weren’t his. Intellectually he knew that, but he continued to feel a strong need to dig out the truth. It wasn’t a rational need. He told himself he was off duty, on vacation, but it didn’t make even a dent in his stubborn will.

She was just a woman with a problem. He’d seen hundreds of them, helped some, condemned others. He didn’t have to fix the world. Hell, she probably didn’t even want him in her business in the first place, but by stealing his truck she’d dragged him right into her mess.

What would she look like if she smiled? Would the smile reach her eyes, transform her from sadly pretty to beautiful? Or would she get a goofy grin on her face that made her more charming than pretty? What would it be like to be the man Abigail McMurray smiled at? He missed being the sort of man women looked at with interest, even pleasure. The scar on his face saw to that.

Cade shook his head again, continuing to gaze at the river so Abigail would not see him scowling. When he scowled, he was truly a monster. He was unaccountably unwilling for her to view him that way. He might be ugly—he couldn’t help that—but he didn’t have to be frightening.

She stole your truck, Latimer. Keep that in mind. He tried to summon his cop brain uppermost, but it was having trouble, fighting with the white knight living deep within. The two sides of himself weren’t always incompatible, but in this case he wasn’t merely a disinterested party. He was personally involved, and growing more so by the minute. The cop brain had made him one of the best at the undercover game. It was the knight that made him keep believing in the basic goodness and worth of most people. Some people were worth saving, and his instincts told him Abigail might be one of them.

He fought down the urge to whack his own forehead with his open palm. He was acting like an idiot, thinking with his hormones instead of his brain. Abigail was pretty, sure. She was ragged and worn with care and fright. Likely he’d never have a chance with her, and he shouldn’t want one. She probably wasn’t the sort of woman who’d date a deputy for any reason, even if he weren’t ugly as sin these days. He hadn’t had the best of luck in the past with women, at least the sort of women who might want a long-term relationship. It took only one or two late nights on duty, a missed date at a swanky restaurant or a story about a dangerous takedown and a gunshot blessedly gone wide, for a woman to decide she was better off without the worry and fear her man might not come home some night. There were moments when he himself had wondered if scratching the adrenaline itch was worth it, if he might not find similar satisfaction in some other job where his life wasn’t on the line half the time. Maybe then a woman would find him a worthy recipient of her time and affection. Those kinds of women weren’t out stealing trucks, however. They were making vastly different life choices.

He knew all that.

It didn’t make a difference.

Cade reeled in the lure and tossed it again. If only getting crooks to take bait was as easy as getting a fish to bite. Some of them were too smart, like this one. He stole a glance over his shoulder.

Abigail was still seated like a good girl, her head drooping, staring at the picnic table’s wood grain. The sun blazed down on her head, turning the paler streaks in her brown hair to blazing gold. Even confined in a ponytail, it was the sort of hair that would look gorgeous loose around her shoulders, alive with gleaming highlights as it fell forward along her cheeks.