“You know that guy?” Ethan asked, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. “Was he the friend you came to visit?”
She stared at the medics pushing the gurney alongside the house to the street. “His name is Blake Owens. He used to be a resident at Hope Manor.”
“Do you know why someone might want him dead?”
Her head turned slowly from side to side, and then came to an abrupt stop.
“Kim?”
“No. I don’t know.” She swallowed. Hard. As if she was trying to dislodge the boulder-size lie.
He’d been a cop long enough to spot them. But this wasn’t the place to press her.
A police officer, winding crime-scene tape around the perimeter, glanced in their direction.
Ethan urged Kim to keep moving. He needed to find out what she was hiding before the police got ahold of her. They cut across the adjoining yard and slipped between the houses to the street. Police cruisers blocked both ends. Gawkers stood along the sidewalk. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
When Kim spotted the clutch of police officers questioning bystanders, she began to tremble.
But it was the sports car parked in front of the victim’s house that caught Ethan’s attention. Seeing no reason to sugarcoat the obvious, he said, “Blake was the friend you came to see. Wasn’t he?”
She stopped next to a silver Ford Escort with flat tires he presumed was hers. “That’s crazy.”
“Is it? So the treads of that white Camaro up there won’t match the tracks outside Hope Manor? Because in case you missed it, the back taillight is smashed.”
Kim sucked in a breath. “Okay, yes, I recognized Blake’s car this morning.”
“So why not report him?”
“Because he used to be a resident. Something like that would’ve lost him his parole. I thought I’d talk to him instead. But then those vandals came along before I got the chance.”
“You were going to talk to a guy who ran you down in broad daylight, and you’re calling me crazy? What were you thinking?”
Her expression hardened. “I was thinking about the damage that rumors of a hit-and-run by a former resident would do to the manor. I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve only been here a day. You couldn’t possibly care about the manor’s survival the way I do.”
He felt like dog meat. The woman was as loyal and compassionate as they came. How could he have suspected her of trying to protect a drug dealer?
He edged her out of view of the cops. The ambulance wailed to life, a glaring reminder of the danger she was in. He had a bad feeling that someone didn’t want Blake to talk to her. And with a bullet in his head, the kid wasn’t going to give Ethan an explanation anytime soon.
“I’m sorry, Kim. I was out of line. Believe me, I want to help you.” More importantly, he wanted to get her out of here before the police connected her—or him—to the shooting.
“Come on.” He nudged her toward the house that backed onto his. “I’ll drive you home.”
“What about the vandals? The police will want their description.”
Ethan held her in place. The last thing he needed was a cop unraveling his cover. So far, other than the officer on the perimeter tape, no one had paid them any attention. “Since you’re parked nearby, the police will record your license plate, and stop by your house in due course.”
“But if I leave without talking to them, won’t that make them suspicious?”
“Not once they see the condition of your ankle.”
In the meantime, he needed descriptions of the punks, because chances were good one of them shot Blake, or saw who did. And Ethan needed to talk to them before the wrong cop got to them. Or to Kim.
Witnesses in this case had a bad habit of showing up dead.
A news truck squealed around the corner and stopped at the end of the street.
Great, just what she’d hoped to avoid by not reporting Blake in the first place.
Ethan tilted his head, and waited for her to meet his gaze. “Let me drive you home?”
The compassion in his eyes tugged at her heart. Twice in one day he’d come to her rescue. Why not make it three?
“Okay.”
He deftly skirted her around the officers canvassing the neighborhood and the reporter charging toward the scene, and led her back the way they’d come.
What would the police think if they found out she’d fled?
Then again, if she admitted why she was in the area, some ambitious reporter was bound to find a nosy neighbor who’d identify Darryl’s truck as being here, too. He’d squealed away minutes before the shot was fired. But people’s memories had a bad habit of getting those kinds of important details confused. Or they’d theorize he snuck back. She could see the headline now—Former Hope Manor Resident Shot By Founder’s Son.
Everyone who knew Darryl knew how protective he’d become of her since Nate had stomped all over her heart.
She misstepped, turning her ankle on the uneven pavement.
Ethan’s strong arm circled her waist, unleashing a flurry of butterflies that made her feel as if she’d tumbled into the middle of a Jane Austen romance novel. She allowed herself to lean on him, borrow the strength and protection he offered. Just for a little while.
He was so different from Nate. Ethan took immediate, confident action, where Nate was indecisive and slow to respond.
A pang of guilt squeezed her chest. She wasn’t being completely honest with Ethan.
He steered her between two houses, practically carrying her to spare her from putting too much weight on her ankle, and her guilt increased. Ethan had shown her nothing but kindness.
“The dark green Chev is mine,” he said.
“How soon do you think the police will come by my house?”
“Hard to say. Sometime tonight. Tomorrow at the latest, unless they get a solid lead.”
She shivered. If anyone had overheard Darryl threatening Blake, the police or reporters or both would dig up whatever incriminating information they could find on him—like that he’d been a regular at the gun club with his friend Frank. His friend who was now serving twenty years in a federal prison for manslaughter.
Oh, Lord, Darryl wouldn’t shoot a kid just because he drove a little recklessly. He wouldn’t. Please let Blake be okay. And please let the police track down the shooter quickly.
Was it just her guilty conscience that made Ethan sound as though they were fugitives?
A few minutes later, a police officer wearing those mirrored sunglasses, whose chief purpose had to be to intimidate the person staring into them, stepped up to their window. “License and registration, please.”
Ethan reached into the glove box, handed over his registration and then pulled his license from his wallet. “We heard a gunshot. Someone get hurt?”
The officer responded without emotion. “The victim’s in critical condition.”
Kim smothered a gasp.