An instant before she hit the blacktop, someone jerked her back. The bus whizzed by, so close its breeze touched her cheeks and chin. Then Jillian was standing safely on the sidewalk. Heart still racing, she looked for whoever had pulled her to safety.
A middle-aged woman, sturdy in a rust down parka and black Sorrel boots, grabbed her arm. “Are you okay?”
“Are you all right?” a man in a camel hair coat asked simultaneously.
“I’m fine. Thanks for rescuing me.” Jillian was uncertain whether she should be addressing the woman or the man.
“I think it was a man in a dark coat, but I don’t see him now.” The woman looked around. “Maybe it was your guardian angel.”
“Whoever it was saved my life. Did you see who pushed me?”
“Pushed you? I’m not surprised.” The man raised a brown leather finger. “These corners are a menace on Friday night, everyone rushing to be the first to cross when the light changes. They need more police and—”
“It wasn’t an accidental bump,” Jillian said. “Someone shoved me in front of the bus. I felt a hand on my back. Did you see anyone?”
The man and the woman both shook their heads, as did the rest of the small group who’d apparently decided the possibility of a good show was worth a slight delay in their weekend plans.
“Why on earth would anyone have done that?” another woman asked.
Jillian surveyed everyone, all eyeing her curiously. No witnesses meant no busy cop would believe it was other than an accident or her imagination. “It must have been an accident. I work in an ER, and I’ve had a long day.”
Everyone nodded.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” the first woman asked.
“I’m fine, and my car’s a block away,” Jillian said. “Thanks for your help.”
Insides quivering, she crossed the street, sticking to the middle of the crowd. A McDonald’s lit up the end of the block. She hurried to it then headed for the restroom. Once inside, she locked the door, dug her phone out of her purse, and made a call. “Andy? Can I come to your office? Either I’m going crazy, or someone’s trying to kill me.”
Chapter 7
Jillian sat wrapped in a navy and gray afghan Andy’s grandmother had crocheted, clutching a glass of cabernet. She’d been shivering when he’d pulled up outside the McDonald’s, and she still was. Even his warm car and condo hadn’t taken away the awful chill.
Andy sat beside her. “Talk.”
She’d started talking the instant she’d gotten into the car, but he’d asked her to wait until he wasn’t driving and able to concentrate on what she said. Now he was ready to talk, but she wasn’t. The shove had to be more of her imagination. Things like that didn’t happen to average people with normal, slightly dull, lives.
Except she couldn’t stop shaking.
Andy took her free hand. “You said you’re afraid someone’s trying to kill you. Why?”
“It seems stupid, and maybe I’m overreacting because of Kristen’s death.”
“You never overreact, which means it isn’t stupid. So talk. Please.”
Jillian set her glass on the mahogany end table and told Andy about being shoved tonight, as well as her earlier sense of being followed and that someone had been in her apartment.
Andy listened, his face expressionless.
“I know I didn’t imagine being pushed. Everyone had stopped for the signal, so it wasn’t an accident. Besides, it was a shove, not a bump. Coming on top of the chairlift and my car…” She rubbed her cheeks. “Do you think I’m being paranoid?”
Andy tapped his chin with the knuckles of his fisted hand, the familiar gesture comforting. “God, I hope so. To be safe, let’s assume you’re not. Do you have any idea why anyone would want to hurt you? Anything happen at work lately?”
“Nothing unusual.”
“You didn’t get someone’s mail or e-mails or strange phone calls?”
“Nothing.”
Andy leaned back, his fingers laced on his lap. Despite his relaxed posture, he was completely focused on her problem. His deceptively low-key approach was an asset in his job as a prosecutor, and fooled many defense attorneys. “The first unusual thing was the shooting on the chairlift, right?”
“That I noticed.”
“What did you do in Keystone?”
“What people always do on ski vacations. Ski and eat.”
“The people Kristen was going to meet that night, do you know them?”
“I met them that afternoon. Kristen went to law school with one of the couples, and the others were their friends. We skied with them during the day, then all decided to meet for dinner, but I was too tired, like I told you.” She drained her wineglass and set it on the table.
“Did you meet anyone skiing?”
“I took a class the first day.” Jillian pulled the afghan tighter around her shoulders.
“Was there anyone strange in the class?”
Clutching the afghan together with one hand, she picked the wine bottle up off the wagon wheel table and refilled her glass. “No one. Except maybe Mark.”
“Who?”
“Mark Jefferson. I was with him when I was shot.” She carefully returned the bottle to the table.
“He was strange?”
“No, but after the shooting, he disappeared.” She couldn’t look at Andy and talk about Mark. She picked up her glass and contemplated its ruby depths.
“Disappeared?”
She swirled the wine like a serious connoisseur, trying to get it as high as possible on the sides of the glass without spilling. “Not exactly disappeared. I assume he gave the cops a statement, but he said he’d call me, and he never did. The manager of his townhouse said he’d checked out, even though he’d told me he was staying the week.” She kept her eyes on her glass. “Kristen and I decided the shooting convinced him to go home, maybe because he’s married.”
“How well did you know him?” Andy asked sharply.
“I’d met him at a lesson the day before and had dinner with him that evening.” She’d never lied to Andy, even by omission, but he didn’t need the details, especially if he had feelings for her.
Andy didn’t pursue it. “Did you run into Mark the next evening or had you arranged to meet him?”
“I arranged to meet him. Do you think this has something to do with him?”
“Disappearing is definitely suspicious. What’s he do?”
“He’s an accountant in New York City. He said he works for a small firm, but I don’t know its name.” Her fingers cramped around the stem of her glass. She set the glass on the table and finally looked at Andy. “You don’t think he’s involved in anything illegal, do you?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he discovered something someone wants to make sure he doesn’t disclose.”
“But why would someone blow up my car and shove me in front of a bus? I haven’t seen him since the shooting.” She shook her head. “It must be something else.”
“Unless the shooter thinks you can identify him?”
“I doubt it. It was nearly