She took the steps at breakneck speed, listening for the sound of pursuit behind her. By the time she reached the first floor, she realized she hadn’t heard anyone behind her at all.
But she didn’t dare pause to investigate. She burst through the exit door and into the hardware store, her breath coming in short, keening gasps.
Harold, the clerk at the tool desk, looked at her as she ran up to him. His brown eyes widened. “My God, Jane, are you hurt?”
She looked down at her T-shirt and realized it was wet with Angela’s blood. The sight made her head swim, and she grabbed at the tool desk, trying to keep her balance. Her hand slipped, painting a crimson streak across the shiny wood as she slid to the floor.
Her world narrowed to a tiny pinpoint of light in a churning sea of darkness. Vaguely, she was aware of Harold’s voice as he barked information into the phone. He must have called 911, she thought, struggling not to drown in the darkness.
Somewhere in the void, a low, familiar voice murmured her name. “Jane.”
She stirred, looking toward the voice. The darkness began to recede, and she found herself gazing into the wintry gray eyes of Joe Garrison.
Chief Garrison, she amended mentally, tears burning the backs of her eyes as she met his hard scrutiny.
Unbidden, the words came from somewhere deep inside her, a place she had long feared existed. A place where wariness and suspicion were old, trusted friends.
“I didn’t do it,” she said.
JOE SLIPPED a pair of plastic covers over the soles of his snakeskin boots and entered the crime scene, crossing to the kitchen alcove where the investigator from the coroner’s office was doing the preliminary examination of the body.
Joe introduced himself to the crime scene investigator, Sanderson. “What’ve we got?”
“Deep incision from the carotid to the jugular. She’d have been dead pretty damn quick.” Sanderson glanced up at the rangy lawman standing beside Joe. “Never thought I’d see this in Trinity, Hank.”
Chief Hank Trent shook his head. “Neither did I.”
Sanderson reached across the body and picked up something lying half-hidden by the body. It was a large filet knife, sticky with blood.
Joe looked up at the kitchen counter and spotted a knife block. There was an empty slot.
“Weapon of opportunity,” Chief Trent murmured.
“Guys, I don’t want to make your case more complicated, but I’m not sure Jane Doe could’ve done this,” Sanderson said quietly. “We’ll know more after the autopsy, but this cut looks like it was done in one stroke. Not sure a slip of a woman like the roommate could’ve made that happen. It probably would’ve taken a man.”
Trent exchanged a look with Joe. “I don’t think Ms. Doe needs to know that just yet.”
Joe nodded in agreement. “I want to question her.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “This happened in my county, Chief. I get the first crack at her.”
“Let me in on it, then.”
Trent looked inclined to argue, but after a moment he gave a nod. “I take the lead. Let’s not muck this up with interagency squabbling.”
“You take the lead,” Joe agreed.
“CAN I change out of these clothes?” Jane asked, her posture stiff, as if the feel of the bloody clothes against her skin was painful.
“Soon,” Hank Trent promised.
Joe leaned against the wall of the interrogation room, keeping his distance as Hank Trent had requested. He’d listened for the last half hour as the police chief took “Jane Doe” back through the events of that afternoon. It was hard to stay silent with so many questions still unasked, but he wouldn’t appreciate an outsider interfering with one of his own investigations, either.
Besides, sooner or later, he’d have his turn with her. And she’d think dealing with Hank Trent was a walk in the park in comparison.
“There was a man in your apartment when you arrived,” Trent said for the third time since the interrogation started.
“I told you that already.” Her voice rose in frustration. “I’ve told you what he looked like. I’ve described his voice. I told you that he had packed a bag for me and expected me to go with him. I told you everything I remember. Can I please just get out of these bloody clothes? Please!” She smacked her hand on the table between them.
“Why’d you bypass the front entrance?” Joe interjected, unable to remain silent any longer.
Both Jane and the police chief turned to look at him.
“You didn’t enter the front,” Joe said. “I know. I was in the hardware store, watching for you.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. She looked back at the chief. “I couldn’t find my key,” she answered smoothly.
She was a good liar, Joe thought. Believable. But then, he knew that already.
He pulled up a chair and sat by Chief Trent, who shot him a glare. Joe ignored it. He didn’t have the time or inclination to play nice with the locals on this case. “Your key was in your purse. Want to try again?”
“I didn’t see it in my purse. Why does that matter?” She didn’t look so fragile anymore, vibrant color rising in her cheeks and her voice growing hard and tight. She looked more like the woman he remembered from almost a year ago. Images flitted through his mind, daring him to remember her as he’d known her then.
He gritted his teeth and held her angry gaze, replacing the unwanted memories with the stark mental picture of Tommy’s lifeless body.
Jane Doe looked at Chief Trent. “Who is this man?”
She didn’t say it like someone who wanted an answer, Joe realized. She knew who he was already.
So she did remember.
Anger burned in his gut, mingling with the black coffee he’d drunk at the River Lodge Diner. He was beginning to regret skipping breakfast and lunch.
“Chief Garrison is here in Trinity because of you, Ms. Doe. Says you’re his prime suspect in a murder in Canyon Creek. Ever been to Canyon Creek?”
When she turned her eyes to meet Joe’s gaze, a zing of energy caught him by surprise. Even pale and wary, as she was now, she still possessed the vibrancy he’d noticed the first time he set eyes on her a year ago.
He hated himself for still feeling it.
“Where’s Canyon Creek?” she asked.
“Wyoming,” Joe answered.
“I hear Wyoming’s pretty.”
Hank Trent shot a glare at Joe. “I hate to interrupt the travelogue—”
“You spent almost a year in Canyon Creek, Wyoming,” Joe continued, ignoring Trent. “You worked for a rancher there. Thomas Blake.”
He watched closely for her reaction. Her gaze didn’t drop, but he could see her mind working behind those soft green eyes. Was she remembering Tommy’s laughter-lined face? The way he could make people feel like family the second he met them?
Was she remembering his body, slumped and still on the stable floor, drenched in the river of crimson flowing from the three bullet holes in his chest?
“We’re getting off track here,” Hank Trent said firmly. “Chief, unless you’d rather wait outside—”
Joe