She stopped walking, glaring at him. “If I give my statement, will you leave me alone?”
No. “Yes.” He indicated the road that would lead them back to the diner, and after a heavy sigh, Avery pivoted and walked in that direction. “Where’d you learn to throw a knife?” he said.
That got her attention. Her annoyance fled, and her eyes widened as she covered the slice at her neck. When her fingers connected with the seeping injury, she winced a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. After Jim dropped the knife, I threw it. I didn’t want him using it on me again.”
Bullshit, but informative. She sliced and diced Jim before throwing it at Eric. No one accidentally threw with that accuracy, or with the strength to pin a man’s hand to the stock of a shotgun. Her denial told him she was still invested in her role as Patty, and that meant she still thought there was a chance that Vincent was an unwitting dupe.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you.” He was sorry. Guilty, too. He’d replay what happened in that diner for many years to come, looking to see how he could have done better, ended it quicker. Less dead.
Avery glanced at him, her brows and pursed lips giving him some indication of her annoyance. “I protected myself. I didn’t need you.” Then she squared her shoulders and winced. Her limping grew more pronounced.
“No,” he said. “You did not.”
She stopped, putting her fists on her hips. “What exactly were you thinking, by the way? Putting your weapon on the floor when so many guns were in play? Yours was the only gun we had on our side, and you put it down.”
He scoffed. “I didn’t put it down. I pretended to—”
“Did you pretend to put our lives at their mercy, too? Because you did. Eric could have pulled the trigger at any moment.” She gave herself a little shake and then started walking again. Vincent couldn’t suppress a little annoyance at being called out like that.
“I had a plan. It worked.”
She scoffed. “They were a bunch of drug addicts. Addicts that had already killed a member of their own group, and… They’d killed Sam. You were going to comply, risking our lives in the hopes they’d be merciful.”
She was working herself into a frenzy. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing. Vincent found he preferred her mad rather than upset, and that made him smile. She noticed and narrowed her eyes, glaring at him.
“I wasn’t going to put it down,” he said. “What I did is what we call in the biz a bait and switch.”
She turned her eyes front, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s okay.” He didn’t believe a word she said either. “Still true.”
“Hmm.” Her grimace was ripe with annoyance, and she stayed that way, even when they’d arrived back at the diner, and when he’d arranged for her to step into the witness line leading to the sheriff and his men. Her annoyance, in fact, seemed to occupy the part of her brain that had been devoted to fear. He was glad of it, because she was so delicate-looking, and he felt like he should have protected her better. One good guilt-trip, and he feared being played like a drum. Women did that to Vincent. It was their superpower, so he was always on the lookout, but Avery didn’t seem interested in his sympathy.
The sheriff and his officers took copious notes, but after a half hour, Avery had told her version of the events, and he had no more excuses to keep her occupied. She’d frequently surveilled the road, and milling crowd, during and after her interview. He could see she was antsy, and got the impression she wanted to be gone so badly that if he’d tried to stop her, she’d have lashed out, so Vincent didn’t insist she see the EMT on site. Benton’s text arrived soon thereafter, declaring the cameras installed, and the team gone. By then, Avery was already heading to her apartment.
He watched her walking away as the white surveillance van parked across the street from the diner. Vincent knew the van contained a socialite, an impatient, beat-up team leader, a bruiser, and a fish. They’d want him to back off, dangle her as bait for Coppola’s contract killers, so the cameras could give them probable cause to rush into her apartment and find the files. But Vincent didn’t have the stomach for that anymore, not after what he and Avery had just been through. She was injured. What if Coppola’s men arrived and they got to her before Vincent and the team could? He couldn’t risk it.
Sure, she was a liar. Sure, she’d filleted Jim and stuck Eric. And yeah, she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, but he hadn’t expected her to be a Girl Scout. She was the ex-wife of a crime lord. He didn’t trust her, but she had something he wanted, and it was in both their interests to keep her safe.
He followed Avery, instead of crossing the street to get in the now open side door of the van. When he’d walked passed the van, the side door slowly closed again as his iPhone vibrated in his pocket. Benton or Deming, most likely, was attempting to micromanage him. Vincent ignored his phone.
When he reached Avery’s side, she rolled her eyes but remained silent. Then there was no conversation, no eye contact, nothing until they reached her front door. It was directly next to a Chinese restaurant, whose aromas made his stomach growl, because fucking Eric ate his cheeseburger.
After a fake smile, the kind that said eat shit, Avery extended her beat-up, cut, and swelling hand for a shake. Intending simply to hold it, he extend his hand, but Avery gripped it hard enough to make her rings bite into his palm. Then she pumped his hand up and down once before releasing him.
“Thanks for the walk home,” she said. “It was like having my own bodyguard, and after what happened at the diner, I’m a little shaken up. It was nice not to have to worry.” He didn’t believe a word she’d said. Her tone was right, but this woman fended off a meth-head with a knife. She didn’t need a bodyguard, and her gaze suggested an impatience to see him walk away. Avery Coppola was about to disappear, if she had anything to say about it. “It’s been nice knowing you.” She unlocked the door and was about to leave him on the sidewalk. Vincent stuck his boot out, stopping her from closing the door in his face.
“Invite me in,” he said. She grimaced.
“I’m tired. I’m gross. I know you’re on vacation, but I’m not.” Rubbing her face, she looked every bit as weary as she’d professed to be. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Please.” He did his best to cajole, lifting his brows, donning a hint of a smile. “Invite me in.” He was coming in whether she wanted him to or not, but he’d prefer she want him inside. It would look better on his report if he tripped over some evidence he wanted to use in court. “I could use a cup of coffee and the company of someone that won’t ask me if I’m okay.” Did he attempt to make her feel bad about not once asking if he was alright? Sure. Hopefully, it would work, but he was coming in one way or another.
She sighed, nodded once, and then turned her back on him, taking the stairs up to her apartment. “Just a cup. Then you have to go.” Two steps later, she was wincing in pain.
Vincent couldn’t handle it. Without a word, he lifted her, cradling her in his arms. With a nudge of his foot, he closed the door behind them, shutting out the daylight and leaving them in mostly darkness. Then the stairwell lights flickered on, and he saw Avery had flipped a switch.
Her arms encircled his neck, and she stared into his eyes, looking puzzled. “Who the hell are you, Special Agent Vincent Modena?”
He met her gaze for a moment, and then shrugged before climbing the stairs quickly. He saw her distrust, but that just meant she was smart. “Still figuring that out, Patty. Still figuring that out.”
Chapter 4
Avery found it painful to be taken care of, especially the way Vincent did it. Carrying her relieved the stress on her knee, but his arm pressed on her bruises, and kept the injured knee