Hiding His Witness. C.J. Miller
what I’m suggesting.” Her light joke took the edge off his tension.
This was a nightmare, but a serial killer on the loose and the media hounding her was the least of her problems.
Carey gathered her scattered thoughts and took stock of the situation, trying to figure her next move. Walking out of here unescorted with the media waiting wasn’t an option and She knew the ADA wouldn’t let her leave without a plan of protection. The easiest option was to agree to their plan, and the moment she could, she’d ditch Detective Truman. If she couldn’t get rid of him before she left the city, at least it would be more difficult for Mark to track her from some unknown place. She was reasonably sure Detective Truman wasn’t on Mark’s payroll. Yet.
Detective Truman had pressed her too hard for her name. If he’d been looking for her under Mark’s direction, he would have recognized her.
But if Detective Truman threatened her, if she caught even a whiff of betrayal on him, she was gone. She didn’t know how or where, but she wouldn’t wait around for him to walk her into Mark’s trap. Mark had proven he wasn’t afraid to use law enforcement, or anyone else, to threaten and intimidate her. This time she would anticipate it. She would be ready.
Her guard was up, and not just for her personal safety. For the safety of those around her she would keep her distance. Mark wouldn’t hesitate to hurt someone she cared about in an attempt to get to her. He wouldn’t have a problem doling out punishment to those who didn’t bend to his will and give him information he wanted.
A pang struck at her chest as memories swept over her. Her good friend Tracy had paid the price for loyalty. Tracy hadn’t known where Carey had gone, but she’d known why. When Tracy had shown up in a morgue shortly after Carey went on the run, she’d no question in her mind who was responsible.
Grief and anger burned red hot in Carey’s gut. She’d had to run. The life she’d known had been stripped from her, people she’d loved had died, and Mark was living on easy street, running the restaurants and wineries her father had owned.
Carey wouldn’t let Mark find her. If he did, she was dead.
The moment Carey opened the door to her apartment, Reilly’s senses went on heightened alert. Flour dusted the floor near the entrance, likely a cheap mechanism to know if someone had been inside. An unknowing intruder would step directly into it and leave a print. That flour wasn’t for the Vagabond Killer. He’d been right—Carey was running from someone. An abusive ex?
Carey went into the apartment first, taking a wide step over the flour. “Watch your step.”
No further explanation about the flour? He avoided the powdery mess and followed her inside.
Her apartment was a tiny closet of a space with no personal items and nothing unpacked or settled. A ten-inch television sat on a packing crate and a cot in the corner of the room served as her bed. The floor was matted with grime, the vinyl likely original from when this building was constructed in the ’70s. The place smelled of citrus, as though she’d used a gallon of lemon-scented cleaner in a futile attempt to make the place livable.
She shrugged off his coat and handed it to him. “I need a few minutes to pack and I’d like some privacy. Do you mind waiting in the car?”
Private person, or was she hiding something?
“Not a problem. I’ll wait in the lobby. I can see the stairs from there.”
She gave him a thin smile and practically pushed him out the door. He returned to his car and circled the block, pulling into the alley behind the building. No way was she planning to meet him in the lobby of the building. She planned to run, and he would be hot on her trail.
Sure as the sun, ten minutes later, he saw her fling her slim jeans-clad leg over the window ledge and her body drop onto the fire escape. With a large duffel bag slung across her shoulder, she climbed down the rusty ladder to each landing. Her fierce persistence to get away gave him insight into the passion and resolve simmering beneath those plain clothes. What was she hiding or who was she protecting?
He got out of his car and jogged to meet her at the foot of the fire escape. “Going on a trip?”
She whirled, fear in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving behind bits of paint and rust that had stuck to her palms. “I need to go for a walk to clear my head.”
He called her bluff. “Great, I’ll walk with you.”
“I prefer to be alone,” she said through clenched teeth. She walked around him and started down the alley toward the main road.
He followed her. “It doesn’t matter what you prefer. The lieutenant assigned me to protect you and that’s what I’m going to do.”
She paused for a moment, stopping in her tracks. She looked over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t make this harder on me than it has to be. I gave you what you needed. You have your sketch of the Vagabond Killer. Do your job and find him.”
He chose his words carefully, not wanting to provoke her further. “We need your testimony.”
She hefted the bag higher on her shoulder, wincing slightly. “The ADA’s smart. She’ll figure something out.” She kept walking, stopping at the corner to wait for the light to change. “Stop following me, Detective. I’m not a suspect and I’m not required to stay in the city.”
He’d known she’d agreed to his protection too easily. “Tell me where you’re going.”
“It’s safer for both of us if no one knows.”
Reilly grabbed her elbow, stopping her in her tracks. “Let me help you.”
He held her gaze for a long, intense moment. Heat pulsed between them and arousal moved swiftly through his body. What was it about her, a simple touch, one smoldering look that made him ache for more? He wished the fabric of the sweatshirt wasn’t between them and he could feel the electric press of skin-to-skin contact.
He didn’t let go and she didn’t pull away. “He’ll kill you if you try to hide me. Don’t make me live with that on my conscience.”
The Vagabond Killer would have to find her first. And Reilly was good at hiding in plain sight. He was even better at it when he had options, places to disappear in the country. And if she was referring to whoever made her put flour by the door coming for him, it was laughable. He welcomed the attack of a woman abuser. It would give him the opportunity to pound some scum and give him what he deserved. “No one is going to kill me, and if I’m with you, no one is going to hurt you, either.” He let go of her arm.
She looked around, her expressive eyes wild. “Look, I’ll level with you because I’m in a hurry. Those reporters who took my picture are going to run it in the news, if they haven’t already. That means the man I’m running from will see it and come for me. I have to get out of town before he arrives.”
Not the Vagabond Killer. She was worried about her abuser. “Tell me his name.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
Loyalty to the man who hurt her? Nah, she didn’t seem like the type. Fear. She actually thought the man chasing her was that powerful. “I’m taking you out of town to someplace safe.”
“Thank you, but no.” The light changed and she crossed the street.
Reilly heard the fierce determination in her voice. She wasn’t going to give in and he couldn’t legally force her to comply. He tried another route to convince her. “Once he knows you’re in Denver, he’ll know you took public transportation out of here. How long before he narrows down where you went? Someone is bound to remember you.”
She huffed out a breath. “Stop trying to scare me. I’ll change buses and trains fifty times if I have to.”
“That’s expensive and you can’t make that much working at a Laundromat. My family’s ranch is safe. My