His Secret Life. Debra Webb

to merit staring down a gun barrel to get.

      “If you get your story, you’ll leave me alone?” he ventured. “That’s all you came here for?”

      She nodded. “The readers love hero stories. Especially the ones about ordinary guys who come to the rescue. They’ll eat it up.”

      “And show up at the hero’s door wanting autographs and photo ops,” he countered.

      She shook her head this time. “Oh, I would never leak your location. You have my word on that.”

      He needed a new strategy. “Where are your press credentials?”

      Her right hand moved to the pocket of her slacks.

      “Wait. Stand up.”

      Her brow furrowed with confusion.

      “Stand up,” he repeated.

      Another of those beleaguered sighs accompanied her push up from the sofa.

      “Hands back up,” he ordered.

      She rolled her eyes but obeyed.

      He reached into her pocket. She tensed, drew in a sharp breath. Their gazes locked. “Just making sure you don’t have any pepper spray tucked in here.”

      A curt nod had him forcing his fingers deeper into her pocket until he’d found what he was looking for. He pulled out a press badge for the Chicago Tribune. After turning the badge over a couple of times, he said, “Looks real enough.” He held on to her phone as he resumed his seat.

      “So.” She sat down on the sofa again. “Do I get the story?”

      He thought about the question a moment, settled on his strategy. “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lowering his weapon, he stood and rounded the coffee table. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

      “Are you kidding me?”

      He didn’t have to look back to know she was following him to the door. Good, that would make getting her out of his house a little easier.

      “Wait.” She stalled halfway across the room. “You said you knew what I meant about the story being big.”

      “I said,” he reiterated, “I knew who Norcross was. Anyone who reads the papers would. I know his wife and child were in an accident—that was in the papers, too. But I don’t know anything about the guy who rescued them. If you thought that was me, you made a mistake.”

      Jane Sutton held up both hands stop sign fashion, then waved them back and forth as if to erase his statements. “No way. Mrs. Norcross described you.” She glanced at his left arm. “All the way down to the cut on your arm. You got that injury dragging her out of the wrecked car.”

      He folded his arms over his chest as if that would hide the truth she spoke. “According to the papers, the accident was pretty bad.”

      “That’s right. You should know.” She matched his stance. “You were there.”

      “I would imagine that Mrs. Norcross was panicked and confused. Probably scared to death. Worried about her child. Who knows what the guy who rescued her really looked like? Could’ve been anyone around here. Folks in this town don’t go around bragging about doing the right thing. Or—” he sent her a pointed look “—nosing around for rewards.”

      Her gaze narrowed. “So if you didn’t cut your arm in the rescue, what happened?”

      “I’m a short-order cook, lady. I get burned all the time. The diner’s equipment is old. Things don’t always work right and I have to tear ‘em apart to find the problem.” He held up his arm. “I cut my arm working on the grill’s wiring.”

      “I don’t believe you, Mr. Benson.”

      “Believe what you like, Ms. Sutton.” He opened the door. “Give your aunt my best.”

      “What about my phone and purse?” Her lips pinched in frustration. “And my press credentials?”

      He handed her the phone and press badge, then jerked his head toward the chair. “Take your stuff. And go.”

      She stalked across the room, shoved her things back into her purse. When she’d slung the strap over her shoulder she glared at him. “For a hero, you’re a really rude guy.”

      “I’m no hero, Ms. Sutton.” He studied her profile as she hesitated at the door but refused to look at him. “I’m just a short-order cook trying to get by.”

      Jane Sutton hesitated one more beat before walking out the open door. She stormed up the drive and to the road. Once she’d made the turn toward where they had left her car he lost sight of her in the dusk.

      He hadn’t seen the last of the lady.

      The other thing he was completely certain of was that he had to get on the road.

      What had he been thinking hanging around after that accident?

      The paramedics had asked him questions. The two cops had gotten a good look at him before he’d found an opportunity to slip into the woods. Mrs. Norcross had obviously remembered the details far too clearly.

      Troy was glad she and her son were okay. No way could he have walked away after witnessing her car going off the road.

      If he’d opted to forgo his run that night.

      If it hadn’t rained so hard so suddenly.

      If she hadn’t chosen that particular route that particular night.

      But she had. And he’d had no choice but to do the right thing.

      Now he was left with no choice once more.

      If the press, assuming Jane Sutton actually worked for the Chicago Tribune, was on to his identity, it wouldn’t be long until others learned those details as well.

      Troy Benson was finished.

      He would have to pick a new name.

      A new address.

      New job.

      But first he had to kill Troy Benson.

      That was the hardest part. Finding a way to end a life without getting caught or leaving too many lingering suspicions.

      He could do it.

      He’d done it before.