Читать книгу Falsely Accused - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 15

Black smoke rose from the back of Abigail’s farmhouse, the dark streaks of soot-filled heat drifting into the sky. No flames that Wren could see, but that didn’t make the situation better. Something was burning. The house or the porch behind it. Not an outbuilding. The smoke was too close.

“What in the world?” Annalise Rivers muttered as she pulled up in front of the house. One of the FBI’s top-notch defense attorneys, Annalise had arrived at the hospital two hours after Wren had called the field office and requested help. She’d brought Special Agent Radley Tumberg with her. A member of the Special Crimes Unit, Radley had been part of Wren’s work world for years. Determined and tough, he knew how to go after the answers he needed to solve some of the most complicated crimes.

Any other time Wren would have found comfort in having him there. Right now, all she felt was confusion, grief and anger.

“Call the fire department!” she shouted as she jumped out of the vehicle, the soft cast the hospital had set her wrist in banging against her chest as the sling bounced with her movement. She’d had the bullet wound cleaned and stitched and the bone set. Until the stitches came out, her arm would remain in the soft cast. She had been released from the hospital with instructions to keep the arm elevated and to rest.

She had planned to go to the rehab center, explain to Abigail what had happened and then return to the farmhouse. Instead, she’d received a call from a nurse at the rehab center. The sheriff had broken the news of Ryan’s death, and Abigail was distraught, begging someone to bring her the photo album that contained pictures of Ryan when he was young.

Wren had been enraged at the sheriff’s callousness. She knew he had intended to arrest her. Only Annalise’s law enforcement savvy had kept that from happening. Wren’s hands had been swabbed for gunpowder residue. When it wasn’t found, she’d been told she was free to go.

For now.

If her arm hadn’t been broken, she’d have been at the rehab center before the sheriff. Instead, she’d headed to the farmhouse to get the photo album.

The farmhouse that seemed to be on fire.

She shouted for Annalise to stay back and raced to the side of the house, feet pounding the packed earth and soft grass. She’d planned to pull up the shrubs that were edging too close to the siding this week. The Realtor Abigail had hired had suggested it.

Now her only concern was keeping the old house from burning to the ground.

“Wren!” Radley yelled, grabbing her good arm and dragging her backward. “Go back to the car. I’ll handle this.”

“In what world would that ever happen?” she replied, her voice tauter and sharper than she’d intended.

“In my perfect world,” he muttered, letting go of her arm and running around the back of the house with her.

He knew she wouldn’t back down, and he wasn’t going to waste time trying to convince her to. That was one of Radley’s strengths. He knew how to take charge and how to concede leadership to someone else if necessary.

“In my perfect world, there wouldn’t be smoke billowing out from the back of my foster mother’s house,” she replied, sprinting up the porch stairs.

The back door was cracked open, the threshold singed black.

She slammed her good hand against the door, and it flew open, banging into the wall behind it. If Abigail had been there, she’d have chastised Wren. She wasn’t, and neither was Ryan. The closest thing to a kid brother she’d ever had, he’d been living with Abigail after divorcing his wife of five years. Darla had moved to Boston after the divorce was final, and Ryan hadn’t been able to afford the house they’d bought together. The property had gone into foreclosure.

Wren knew that had been a blow to his ego.

He’d prided himself on doing better than his biological family had, of making his way in a world that wasn’t always fair or equitable. He’d been almost too prideful about his accomplishments, something she’d never had the heart to tell him. He was Ryan—bighearted and bigheaded.

Now he was gone.

She crossed the threshold, barreling into the kitchen.

A room that had always been Abigail’s favorite, it had once had fifties vintage charm that permeated all Wren’s best memories. Now it was a disaster, water flooding the floor, smoke billowing up from curtains that were smoldering.

“You have a sprinkler system here?” Radley asked, stepping into the kitchen behind her, his gaze darting from one corner of the room to the other. She knew he wasn’t looking for a sprinkler system. He was looking for danger.

“No,” she responded, toeing an old green garden hose that was snaking through the kitchen and into the dining room. “Someone turned on the garden hose.”

“To put out the fire?”

“I can’t think of any other reason.” She inhaled, the harsh scent of smoke stinging her nose. “I think I smell gasoline.”

“I was thinking the same. Someone set the fire, and then tried to put it out?” Radley grabbed the hose and tugged it back into the room, turning the nozzle to shut off the water that had still been flowing out of it.

“That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Does any of this?” he asked, following her as she moved cautiously into the dining room.

Unlike the kitchen, it had no deep char marks on the walls. She was so busy noting the condition of the room that she almost didn’t see the man splayed out on the sopping area rug near the table. His face was turned away, his hair wet, his clothes soaked. Her heart jumped.

“Titus?” she murmured, rushing to his side, every thought of the hose, the water and the fire gone. Even now, even after so many years apart, she would have known him anywhere.

Seeing him like this—unconscious and vulnerable—tore at her heart.

She touched his neck, feeling for a pulse and praying she would find one. She’d already lost Ryan. She didn’t want to lose Titus, too.

His eyes flew open. Not green or blue. A shade of teal that reminded her of the sky at dusk.

“Wren?” He snagged her hand.

“What happened?” she replied. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Is this our perp?” Radley asked, his hand hovering near the holster that was nearly hidden by his suit jacket.

“This is Titus. A friend of mine,” she responded.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not the perp,” Radley pointed out reasonably.

“I’m not,” Titus bit out, his eyes blazing. “Your perps are gone.” He got to his feet, Wren’s hand still in his.

She could have pulled away.

She probably should have.

Their friendship had ended years ago.

She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day she’d told him she’d seen his wife with another man. She had thought she was being true to their friendship, honoring the honest and caring relationship they had.

He hadn’t taken it that way.

He’d called her jealous and petty, and had accused her of lying.

And she had stepped out of his life.

Just like that.

The hurt had felt like the worst kind of betrayal. That he hadn’t known her well enough to have discovered the truth about who she was and what she was capable of had nearly broken her heart.

She’d survived by walking away and cutting herself off from him the same way she cut herself off from anyone who didn’t respect her boundaries. She had learned plenty of hard lessons watching her mother, and she had vowed to never repeat the mistakes she’d witnessed. She wanted mutual kindness in her friendships, mutual care and respect and affection in all the relationships in her life.

Titus had once ticked all those boxes.

And, then, he hadn’t.

They were strangers now, and she had no business holding on to him as if they were more. But he looked unsteady, and she told herself she was offering him support he obviously needed. The truth was more complicated. It was about friendship and loyalty and years when they had been each other’s staunchest supporters. It was about time passing, about all the days and nights when she shouldn’t have been missing him but had.

It was about that same heart-jolting feeling she had always gotten when she’d stared into his eyes. It was about the kind of love that didn’t stop because of hurt feelings and broken trusts. Not romantic love. Real and deep and abiding friendship.

“Perps? As in more than one?” Radley asked, inhaling deeply. “I smell gasoline in here, too.”

“Because two men were trying to burn the place down,” Titus said. “I walked in on them before they could get the blaze going enough.”

“Did you see them?” Wren asked, pulling her hand from his because she needed to—she was a professional, and he was the possible victim of a crime.

“Yes. One looked like a kid. Maybe late teens, early twenties. Skinny. The other was older. Heavier. I didn’t get a good look at him. I was too busy dodging the baseball bat he was swinging at my head.” He touched the back of his skull, pulling his hand away and looking at it as if he expected to see blood on his fingers.

“I take it you weren’t successful?” Wren probed the area he’d just touched and found an egg-sized lump. No broken skin. No blood. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a serious injury.

He winced away. “How’d you guess?”

“That huge bump on your head clued me in,” she replied. “Can you call an ambulance, Radley?”

“Sure.”

“That’s not necessary,” Titus cut in.

“You could have a fractured skull. Or a concussion.”

“I’m not seeing two of everything. I don’t feel sick. I’m not disoriented. I have a headache to beat all headaches, but I think I’ll be just fine. What we need are the police.”

“Based on the number of sirens I hear, I’d say they’re on the way,” Radley said.

Wren could hear the sirens, too, their warning muted by walls and glass. Once the police arrived, she might not have a chance to retrieve the photo album. The sheriff’s department was small and had limited resources. It could be days before the house was processed and cleared.

She didn’t want to wait days.

Not when Abigail was so upset.

“I’m running upstairs for something. Meet me out front.” She tossed the word over her shoulder as she sprinted into the wide hallway that led to the front staircase. Functional rather than ornate, it had thick newel posts and dark wooden stair treads. None of it seemed to have been touched by the fire.

“Wren!” Radley called, rushing after her. “You know better. This is a crime scene.”

“And my prints are already all over it,” she replied, jogging up the stairs, her wrist throbbing dully with each movement.

“It’s not about your prints. It’s about contaminating evidence and disturbing the scene.”

“From what I can see, the perps didn’t go upstairs.” She hit the landing at a near run. She couldn’t bring Ryan back for Abigail, but she could at least do this.

“You may not be seeing everything.”

“She’s seeing enough. No gasoline trail up here. No burned carpet. No sign that they were trying to set it on fire.” Titus cut in, following right on Radley’s heels.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t here,” Radley reiterated.

“No, but I’m fairly certain the sheriff’s office isn’t going to have their investigation ruined by an FBI agent walking through the house she spent half her childhood in.” Titus reached the landing and bounded up the stairs after Wren.

She could have joined the conversation, reminded them that she could handle herself and the situation. Under normal circumstances, she would have. These were not normal circumstances. Ryan’s murder had pulled the rug out from under her, and she was still trying to regain her footing.

She walked into Abigail’s room, trying not to notice the layer of dust on the once-immaculate dresser. She’d known that Abigail was getting older. She’d seen small changes in her at every visit. Less energy and verve. Less concern for keeping the house as spotless as it had once been. Overgrown lawn and weed-choked flower beds. Wren had told herself Abigail was busy with her church friends, her clubs and her volunteer work.

She had worried that it wasn’t true.

But she hadn’t visited more. She hadn’t extended her stays. She hadn’t asked Abigail flat out if she was able to handle the farm on her own.

She should have.

Just like she should have kept her mouth shut about Titus’s wife. It was too late now. She couldn’t change the past, but she could make certain that Abigail’s future was secure, and that she had everything she wanted and needed.

She opened the closet, expecting to have to search the shelves for the album Abigail wanted. To her surprise, it was sitting on the floor near Abigail’s shoes, Ryan’s school pictures filling little oval slots on the cover. She tucked it under her arm and turned to leave the room, nearly bumping into Titus.

Surprised, she stumbled back.

“Careful,” he said, grabbing her arm to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She shrugged away, determined to keep distance between them. She didn’t want to fall back into the trap of caring. She didn’t want to be hurt like she’d been before.

“Is that the album?” Radley asked.

“Yes.”

“Album?” Titus eyed the thick book.

“Abigail heard about Ryan’s death. She wanted me to bring this to her.”

“Heard about it?”

“The sheriff broke the news to her.”

“He couldn’t have waited for you to do it?”

“Considering I’m his prime suspect, I’d say he probably wanted to ask questions about our relationship.”

“You and Ryan got along well most of the time.”

“We did, but he was encouraging Abigail to sell the farm. I wasn’t as excited about it.”

“That doesn’t make you a killer,” Radley intoned.

“No, but it could be motive.” It’s certainly a motive she’d be considering if she were the investigating officer.

The first responders had arrived, firefighters banging on the front door asking if anyone was inside. She ran to open it, bracing herself for the chaos she knew was coming.

Wren hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said that she was the prime suspect in Ryan’s murder. Once the sheriff had arrived, he’d questioned Titus, put out a BOLO for the perps and then begun questioning Wren. He didn’t come out and accuse her of setting fire to the house to cover up evidence, but he hinted that it might be a possibility. Titus listened silently, leaning against the mailbox at the end of the driveway as Sheriff Camden Wilson volleyed one question after another in Wren’s direction.

“Sheriff, my client has already answered these questions,” the FBI lawyer Wren had introduced Titus to cut in. She’d exited a black SUV as soon as the sheriff had arrived, her blond hair and fair skin contrasting sharply with her black suit. He should remember her name, but his mind was still foggy from the hit he’d taken.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

“You have three witnesses who can all testify that Agent Santino was not here at the time the fire began—”

“She could have hired someone.”

“Before or after you questioned her? During or after her wrist was set? At what point do you think she had access to a phone and the ability to make a call without being noticed.” She crossed lean arms over her waist and eyed the sheriff dispassionately. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, fine lines near the corners of her eyes and a few strands of white mixed with her dark blond hair. She wore minimal makeup, a conservative suit and a half smile that Titus knew was getting under the sheriff’s skin.

“What I’m saying is that she could easily have set all this up ahead of time.” He glanced toward the house, frowning as he spotted the fire marshal moving toward them. “We can take up the conversation later. I need to speak with the fire marshal.”

“I’m assuming my client is free to go?” the lawyer said.

“For now. Are you planning to leave the scene, Titus?” he asked. They knew each other from church but didn’t run in the same circles. On a first-name basis but not friends.

“Yes.” He hadn’t put any thought to it. He’d been too busy trying to figure out why the sheriff would think Wren had murdered her foster brother. Now he was certain he wasn’t sticking around. Not if Wren was leaving.

Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good, and she seemed to be right at the center of it.

“Can you come to my office tomorrow to make a statement?” the sheriff asked.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he pointed out.

“Crime has no favorite day of the week, and my office stays open 24/7 all year long. If you’d prefer to wait until Monday, that’s fine, but we can move the case along more quickly if we have all the information we need.”

“I’ll be there after church. Maybe noon?”

“Whatever time suits you. You’re not a suspect. You’re free to come and go as you please.” He shot a dark look in Wren’s directions but didn’t lob accusations at her.

He knew the limit of the law.

He seemed willing to bide his time.

He also seemed convinced she was responsible for the two crimes he was investigating.

“You’re heading to the rehab facility?” Titus asked, stepping into place beside Wren as she walked to a black SUV.

“Yes.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“Why?”

“Because I should have visited Abigail a long time ago and didn’t.”

“Now is probably not the time.” She opened the back door of the SUV and slid in. She would have closed it, but he grabbed the top of the window and held it open.

“I’m going. If I have to drive myself, that’s fine, but with the headache I’ve currently got, it’s probably not the wisest choice.”

She frowned, her forehead creased, her usually perfectly styled hair falling around her shoulder in wild waves. She had smudges of dirt on her cheek and shadows under her eyes, and she looked...

Tired?

Worried?

Sad?

Maybe all those things. Years ago he could easily have read the expression on her face and in her eyes.

Now he wasn’t sure what she was feeling or thinking.

“We could give you a ride to the hospital,” she suggested. “Or back home.”

“I’d really like to visit Abigail and offer my condolences. I know how much Ryan meant to her.”

Mentioning Ryan seemed to loosen something inside Wren. She sighed, her shoulders bowing as she pulled her injured wrist closer to her chest. “All right. We’ll give you a ride. When we return, I’ll have Radley take you home.”

“So, that’s the kind of job a guy gets when he travels from Boston to help you? Chauffeur?” Radley asked as he got into the front passenger seat.

“There are worse gigs,” the attorney said. “Go ahead and get in, Mr. Anderson.”

“Titus,” he corrected as he rounded the SUV and did as she asked.

“And you can call me Annalise.” She started the engine and pulled away from the house.

Annalise.

Right.

He’d remember that.

Hopefully.

The throbbing ache in his head wasn’t doing much to motivate him. All he really wanted was to take a nap. Not a good choice with a head injury.

“You’re not falling asleep, are you?” Wren’s voice speared into his conscious, and he realized he’d closed his eyes and was drifting off.

“I was thinking about it,” he admitted.

“Don’t,” she commanded, her gaze focused on the window and the world outside. She was doing her best to ignore him. He couldn’t blame her, but he didn’t like it.

“You’re getting bossy in your old age, Wren.”

That got her attention.

She whirled to face him, her dark eyes flashing. “Old? You’re a year older.”

“Ten months,” he corrected, as if she didn’t know or couldn’t remember.

She did.

Wren had an uncanny memory and a keen intellect that had made her stand out in middle and high school. Based on how far she’d come since her years at the university, he’d say she hadn’t changed.

“I know.” She sighed. “You need to stay awake for a while. Closed head wounds can be just as dangerous as open ones.”

“I know.”

“So...” She glanced toward the front of the vehicle and lowered her voice. “Why are you here instead of at the hospital?”

“I already told you, I want to see Abigail.”

“That’s not the only reason.” It was a statement rather than a comment.

“You’re right. It’s not,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t like what’s gone down. You seem to be at the center of it, and that worries me.”

“I see. You want to play knight in shining armor and rush to my rescue?”

“I want to be the friend I should have been nine years ago,” he replied.

Her eyes widened just enough to show that he’d hit a nerve.

“The past is the past, Titus. How about we not bring it up?”

“I owe you an apology.”

“And this is your way of giving it? Riding to the rehab facility with me?”

“Offering you support.”

“I have support.” She waved her hand at her coworkers.

“Now you have more,” he replied.

She frowned. “This isn’t the time or the place to discuss what I think about that.”

“Good.”

“But we will discuss it,” she continued, turning away again.

He studied her profile, tracking the angle of her chin and the smooth plane of her cheeks. She was an older, more stunning version of the teen he’d spent so much time with. More polished. More streamlined. Even with her hair falling in tangles and her clothes ripped and stained, she looked sophisticated and professional. Everything she’d once told him she wanted to be.

I’ll never be like her.

How many times had she said that? When they were teens and young adults, it had been a constant theme in her life. She worked hard to assure herself that she would never be like her mother.

“If there is a choice between you staring at me and you sleeping,” she murmured, “I’d prefer you to sleep.”

“Even with a head injury?” he asked, curious to hear her response.

She glanced his way, the frown still in place. “No,” she replied. “So how about we discuss what isn’t going to happen.”

“Between us?”

“There is no us. There is a volatile situation that I don’t want you involved in,” she replied.

“Unfortunately, you’re not going to get what you want, because I’m already involved.”

“No—”

“This got personal the second someone trespassed on my property and began shooting. I’m not going home and forgetting that happened.”

And he wasn’t going to forget that they had once been good friends who would never have turned their backs on the other’s troubles.

If Wren thought that he was going to turn his back on her now, she was wrong. Despite the past, despite the hurt that was between them, he still cared, and he was still willing to do whatever it took to make certain she stayed safe. If that meant accompanying her wherever she went until the perpetrators were behind bars, then that was exactly what he planned to do.