If You Hear Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (41 page)

“What was he doing out here?”

Glancing up, he saw Ezra King standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, a grim light glinting in his eyes. “Your guess is as good as mine,” Nielson murmured.

“He’s not in uniform.”

“No.” Not that Nielson had needed that pointed out. Prather had on jeans and a T-shirt, now liberally splattered with blood and body fluids. Whoever had shot him had planted that bullet in his gut. A slow, painful way to die. If Prather had gotten help, he might have lived.

His killer had likely known that—which would explain the smashed cell phone lying a few feet away, and the equally destroyed cordless landline on the other side of the desk.

“Today was his day off,” Nielson said softly. “He worked the weekend so he had today and tomorrow off.”

“Law didn’t do this,” Ezra said, his voice sharp as a whip. He came into the room, stopping a few feet away. Crouching down, he peered at the body. “He’s been dead more than a few hours and Law was with me, hiking through the woods over at Lena’s place until just over two hours ago—been there since early this morning. Hope was shopping in Lexington with Lena.”

“You’ll give a statement to that effect, of course,” Nielson said, nodding. No, he didn’t think Law had done this. Law Reilly could kill. Hell, most people probably could kill, under the right circumstances. But Reilly would do it straight and quick.

Prather had suffered for some time before he’d died. Had crawled around trying to get out of the room, to a
phone to call for help—that much was evident in the blood smears all over the place.

His killer had tormented him with the pain of his impending death, Nielson suspected.

If nothing else, he suspected Reilly lacked the patience for that.

T
HERE WERE CERTAIN SOUNDS THAT NEVER CHANGED
, no matter where you were.

Like the beeping sounds you heard in a hospital.

The squeaking sound a nurse’s tennis shoes made on linoleum.

The smells weren’t much different.

The smell of hospital-grade disinfectant, used to eliminate the stink of death, decay, and disease. Flowers. The bland foods.

Hope knew, before she even opened her eyes, that she was in a hospital.

Trying not to panic, she lifted her lashes and stared around the room, tried to remember what she was doing there.

But she couldn’t. Couldn’t remember, couldn’t think. She remembered Law—they’d been at Lena’s house. She thought. Driving back to Law’s place. The rain.

And then … nothing. Just a blank. The harder she tried to remember, the more scared she became. The fear wrapped around her, suffocating her, a fist around her throat.

It hazed her vision, clouded her head. Dazed, barely aware of what she was doing, she started to clamber out
of the bed. Law. She needed to find Law. He was in trouble. Where …

Something dark … it tried to creep in on her vision. A shadow. Death. Danger. Shit. Shit. Shit. She needed to find Law. As panic tried to settle in, she fought to push it back.

A cheerful, chirping voice rang through the air. “There you are now, all wide awake.”

Startled, Hope looked up. The nurse wore a set of pale blue scrubs and she had that professional, blank smile on her pretty young face. Hope had never seen the woman before, but she recognized that smile all too well. “Where’s Law?” she asked, her voice cracking. Her throat. Dry—so dry.

“Why don’t you just lie back down …” The nurse went to ease her back on the bed.

But at the first touch, Hope’s nerves shattered.

She swung out. For a split second, the sight of the bandage on her wrist startled her, but only for a second. She was back in a hospital, damn it. Not again—

Remy Jennings stood at the nurse’s station, his arms folded over his chest, dread burning and twisting inside him.

He’d caught one glimpse of her face before the curtain had been drawn.

Hair tangled, hanging in her face, clad in one of those ugly hospital gowns, half-falling off one skinny shoulder.

Listening as she screamed and swore, he looked back at Nielson and then studied the reports.

“It’s not very likely she did it,” Nielson said, glancing toward the room as a particularly vicious curse rang through the air.

Remy looked up. “Why? Because she sounds so meek and mild?”

“She’s got a bit of an alibi,” Nielson said. “She was with Lena Riddle for more than half the day, shopping in Lexington.”

Remy grunted. Yeah, pretty decent alibi. But still … there was something really strange going on with that woman. “Were there fingerprints on the gun? The bat?”

“Yes. We’re running them.” He scowled and reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. “And my gut says they’ll be hers. But my gut also says she didn’t do it.”

Remy frowned. “Then find me proof. We’ve got a dead deputy on our hands. We need something more than your gut instinct.” He glanced toward the other end of the small emergency department. In the large room there, he could see Law Reilly.

He hadn’t woken up.

There was swelling on the brain, and according to the doctor Remy had spoken with, it was entirely possible Reilly could die in the next twenty-four hours. Bringing the murder count up to two.

Could that shy, nervous woman have killed both of them?

If he went with his gut, he had to agree with Nielson. “What in the hell is going on here lately?” he muttered.

But the sheriff didn’t have an answer for him.

Lena held Law’s hand in hers.

They’d moved him to ICU sometime the previous night. She had lost track of time—hell, she wasn’t entirely sure what day it was. Sometime early Tuesday morning, she thought. She was pretty sure only a little more than a day had passed since she had gone shopping with Hope in Lexington.

A day.

Shit.

Tears leaked out from under her closed lids and she squeezed Law’s hand. “Come on, Law, wake up,” she whispered.

She wouldn’t let herself think he might not wake up. She couldn’t think that way. Couldn’t. He was strong, he was stubborn—so what if he had some bruising and swelling on the brain? He had a hard head—he could handle it. The rest of it, broken ribs, a busted radius, those would heal. Bruising and swelling on the brain shouldn’t even slow him down.

A sob slipped out of her.

“Damn it, wake up,” she snapped.

But he made no sound. Made no move.

Sighing, she sat up and wiped the tears from her face. Time was slipping away from them, she knew. She didn’t know much about medical shit, but she vaguely remembered hearing something about the fact that the more time passed without him waking up, the worse it got. In her mind, that meant he’d already been out of it too long.

Way too long.

A door opened and she heard the heavy tread of shoes, a familiar gait. The feet paused at the foot of the bed and she shifted to face the visitor.

“Any change?” Sheriff Nielson asked, his voice quiet.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” He sighed. “Ezra’s dozing out in the waiting area. Your dog looks kind of pissed about being out there instead of in here with you.”

“At least this way, Ezra can take him outside every little while,” Lena murmured.

An awkward silence fell and finally, the sheriff cleared his throat. “Ah, Ezra said you were in Lexington most of the afternoon shopping with Hope.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure you were in Lexington?”

Lena rolled her eyes. “We don’t have a Target anywhere around here, do we?”

“No. Did you buy anything?”

Lena shrugged. “Hope did most of the buying. I think I bought a CD.” She bent down and grabbed her backpack, only to stop. “Yeah. I did, but I left it at home.”

“The receipt as well?”

“Yes.” Tapping her fingers on her knee, she asked, “Why do you want to know? What’s going on?”

Come on, man. Wake up, now. You had me dragging my butt out of bed to go help your friend, now it’s your turn. She needs some help, Law, and she needs it in a bad, bad way
.

It was Lena’s voice. Law would know her voice anywhere.

But he couldn’t figure out what she was talking about.

What friend?

And why did he have to wake up now?

He was so fucking tired …

Drifting away, he tuned her voice back out.

A hand caught his. Squeezed. Hard.

She’s in trouble, Law. They are saying she put you here. Come on, Law. You can’t let them do this. Wake up. They are going to put her away—they are saying she’s crazy. Hope isn’t crazy, Law. You need to wake up and tell them that
.

Hope. Crazy—fuck, not this shit again.

Something stirred in the back of his mind.

Memory.

Hope … standing in his hallway.

A look of fear flashing across her face.

Shit.

Pain exploded through his head as he tried to think.
Groaning, he went to lift his hands to cradle his head, but he couldn’t even move.

Weak, weak as a kitten.

The low, pitiful sound would have been more suited to a baby animal instead of a grown man. But it was angel’s music, as far as Lena was concerned.

Resting a hand on his chest, she trailed her fingers up, touched his cheek. “Hey … you awake in there?” she asked, trying to sound teasing, joking.

She was just a breath away from tears.

He grunted. Then sighed and shifted. And his hand, the one she still held, squeezed hers.

Twenty-four hours later, Law Reilly sat up in his bed—with the aid of the adjustable head of the bed and a few pillows. Staring at the sheriff, he said quietly, “You want to run that by me again?”

“I might have to arrest her. They also want a psychiatric evaluation, and she’s being held in the psych ward for the time being,” Nielson said.

He looked completely disgusted as he said it, but it didn’t help Law’s state of mind at all.

“Stop it. All of it,” Law snarled. “And get her out of the damned psych ward.”

“I can’t,” Nielson said. “I tried to keep this from happening, but her prints were all over the gun that shot Prather, and all over the baseball bat that was used to clobber you.”

“I saw Prather lying dead in my office before somebody hit me, and she was gone all fucking day, so she didn’t kill him,” Law said, trying not to lose his temper. He’d get her out. He would. She’d be fine. “She didn’t do this to me—I was looking at her when somebody hit me from behind. Hope didn’t do this.”

Nielson sighed. “Look, Reilly, I believe you. And once
we get your report done up, I’ll take it to Jennings myself. Maybe that will change things. But …”

A muscle throbbed in Nielson’s jaw and Ezra had a bad feeling he knew what the sheriff was going to say.

“But what?” Ezra asked softly when Nielson remained quiet.

“It appears she’s got a history of mental imbalance.”

“What she has is a history of being abused,” Law said shortly. “Her fucking husband created the ‘mental imbalance’ picture to make it easier for people to ignore her and his fucking …”

He cut himself off before he could finish. That was Hope’s private business—she probably wouldn’t thank him for sharing it. Shaking his head, he said, “She is not crazy.”

She wasn’t.

But if he didn’t get her out …

Don’t think like that
, he told himself.
Just don’t
.

She’d gotten out before. She’d do it again. And this time, she wouldn’t have to handle it alone.

This time, that crazy, cruel bastard ex of hers wasn’t around.

This time was different.

Flexing his left hand, he stared at it and tried to remember something else. Anything else. But there was nothing. He was nothing but one big bruise all over, and he didn’t remember much—he remembered seeing Prather’s body sprawled on the floor of his office, and he remembered a look of fear, horror racing across Hope’s face in that last moment, just before something hit him in the back of the head.

Hearing footsteps, he glanced up. Nielson was leaving.

“I look like I went a round with a Mack truck, don’t I?” Law said quietly. He knew—he’d seen his reflection for the first time that morning. He hadn’t been able to
make it to the bathroom to piss without holding on to the damned IV pole.

“You look … rough.” Nielson stopped in the door, waiting.

“Yeah. Rough.” He looked down at his right forearm, broken. The doctors thought he’d probably blocked a blow to his head with it. This was one way to get him to use that stupid voice software he hated so much. “Takes a lot of strength to beat somebody black and blue, even if they are using a baseball bat.”

Looking at the sheriff, he said softly, “Hope look like she’s got the physical strength for this?”

“I already told you I don’t think she did it,” Nielson said. “What else do you want me to say?”

“Convince Jennings it wasn’t her. Don’t let him have her arrested, Nielson. If he tries to issue a warrant, talk him out of it. I’m telling you—she can’t handle it. She’s already been through hell, and this will only fuck her up even worse.”

Nielson sighed. “I’ll do my best, but people around here are gunning for blood. Half of them are convinced your friend is the one who killed that woman. Hell, Hope might even be safer if she was in jail for a few days—let everybody cool off. I don’t really think Remy suspects her anyway, but we have to go by the evidence, Reilly. Not by our gut, but by the evidence.”