28

“Mac! In here!”

As Colin barked out the hoarse words, he did a quick sweep of Trish’s bedroom.

It was empty except for the woman lying on her side on the carpet, her back to him, her bound wrists and ankles zip-tied taut to the posts on the footboard of the bed. A drawstring bag was pulled over her head.

But he didn’t need to see her face to know it was Trish.

And she wasn’t moving.

No blood was visible—from the back, anyway—but there was no mistaking the bullet hole in the end of the mattress, above where she lay.

Behind him, Mac’s footsteps pounded down the hall from the far side of the house.

“Call 911!” Colin shouted the command over his shoulder.

And as he knelt beside the woman who was fast becoming the center of his world, he prayed it wasn’t too late for the paramedics.

Was that Colin’s voice?

Trish tried to rouse herself from the pit of pain where she’d spent the past . . . who knew how many hours? Time had stopped ages ago—not long after the sharp pain in her temple had morphed into a constant, throbbing ache and she’d lost feeling in her hands and feet.

All at once the string around her throat loosened, and a moment later someone gently lifted her shoulders, eased off the black bag, and pressed cold fingers against her neck.

She blinked her eyes open and squinted at the fuzzy form above her.

It was Colin!

As he came into focus, she searched his eyes. They looked moist.

Or was that a mirage induced by her blurry vision?

His whispered “Thank God!”, however, came through loud and clear.

He leaned closer and untied the gag, easing it gently from her mouth.

“Get her feet.” Colin threw the taut order over his shoulder.

She couldn’t see who he was talking to, but a few seconds later someone was cutting the restraints around her ankles while Colin worked on her wrists.

Only after she was free and he’d rolled her onto her back did he stroke an unsteady finger down her cheek and speak to her.

“Tell me where you’re hurt—besides your face.” His words came out raspy.

She tried to respond, but only a croak emerged from her parched mouth.

“Mac, would you get—”

“On my way.”

The tall, dark-haired detective who’d visited her with Colin not long after her mom died stood and disappeared out the door. In silence, Colin took her hand and held on tight. Less than half a minute later, the muted sound of running water drifted down the hall. Then Mac was back with a glass.

With Colin supporting her, she was able to sit up far enough to take several long drinks, the cool water a balm on her dry throat.

“Thank you.” The words came out raspy, but they were intelligible.

“Now tell me where you’re hurt.” Colin’s expression was somber as he gave her a thorough scrutiny.

“I’m not—except for this”—she held up her wrists and pointed to her ankles—“and my forehead.” In the distance, the faint wail of a siren seeped through the exterior walls. “Would you help me sit up all the way?”

“It might be better if you lay back down until the paramedics check you out.”

“I’m okay, Colin.” When she tried to struggle up on her own, he gave her the assist she needed, settling her against the footboard. Feeling was returning to her fingers and toes, prickly and painful—but proof she was alive.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Colin stayed down at her level, resting on the balls of his feet beside her.

While Mac went to usher in the arrivals, she told him her story. As she neared the end, the other detective and two paramedics entered the room.

“You two can take over in a minute. I need to hear the rest of this.” Colin waved them all in, never breaking eye contact with her. “Go on.”

“After Parker and the others left, the guy who stayed with me took the gun away from my head and fired it. Then he tied me to the footboard. He said I was lucky to be alive, and that I should stay still until they left the house. I heard the door close behind him, and after a while I kind of drifted. The next thing I knew, I heard your voice.” Even as she recounted the tale, she couldn’t make sense of it. “Why didn’t they kill me? They said they were going to.”

“I have no idea. Those types aren’t known for mercy—and they usually have no qualms about collateral damage. But based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like they intended to keep you alive from the beginning. Otherwise, there would have been no need for a hood. Maybe the person in charge has some remnant of a conscience.” Colin exhaled. “All I know is, it’s a miracle you’re still with us. One I’ll give thanks for every day for the rest of my life.”

He moved aside to let the paramedics take over, hovering within touching distance, his haggard face telling her she wasn’t the only one who had gone through hell today.

But in the end, by the grace of God, heaven had prevailed.

She was going to be fine.

Colin leaned back against the wall in the ER hallway and drew in a long, slow breath. Trish’s wrist and ankle abrasions would heal, and despite the purple bump on her temple, she didn’t have a concussion. The doctor had signed off on her release and she was getting dressed.

Thank you, God!

Pushing himself upright, he exited into the warm twilight air to check messages again.

Mac had texted twice in the past thirty minutes.

Van spotted. Call me.

He moved on to the second message, left three minutes ago.

On site. Call me.

He punched in his colleague’s number. Mac answered at once.

“How’s Trish?”

“No serious damage. I’m about to drive her home. What have you got?” He could hear the sound of police radios in the background.

“Some underage kids—who I suspect were looking for an off-the-grid place to drink—stumbled across the van. They heard noise inside, and found the driver tied up in the back.”

“He’s alive?”

“Yeah. Another surprise. Anyway, that’s not all they found. While they were waiting for the police to arrive, they wandered into an abandoned warehouse. Parker was there.”

“Not alive, I assume.”

“No. It was a typical execution-style shooting. The kids are pretty green around the gills.”

“Any sign of our Russian friends?”

“Nothing apparent. I could use your eyes on this if you can get out here.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I take Trish home. Give me the location.” He fished out a notebook and jotted down the information. Poking through a murder scene wasn’t how he’d like to spend his evening—but this was his case. “Is the driver of any help?”

“No. They hit him from behind, and he was in and out of consciousness. He does remember hearing two voices, but neither had a Russian accent. Did Trish offer anything else that might help us ID these guys?”

“She gave me a description of the fake serviceman who came to the door, but he’s the only one she saw. I expect he’s a lesser minion who isn’t on anyone’s radar. That’s probably why they picked him for that job. She also heard one voice with a Russian accent, but that’s not going to help us much. Hank is at her house now. Maybe her visitors left behind some useful evidence.”

“My money says they didn’t. They came here to take care of a specific piece of business, covered their tracks, and left.”

Mac was likely right. These guys were pros.

“Let’s hope you lose that bet. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

Ending the call, he returned to the examining room where Trish was dressed and waiting.

“Ready to ditch this place?” He took her hand and forced up the corners of his mouth.

“More than.”

He led her to the car, aimed it toward her house, and filled her in on everything that had happened over the course of the day.

By the time he finished his update and made a quick detour through a drive-through Panera, he was pulling into her driveway.

“It’s hard to believe all this actually happened—but those make it very real.” She motioned to the two patrol cars and a CSU vehicle parked in front of the house.

“At least the worst is over. All that’s left is the cleanup.” He set the brake and angled toward her. “I’d stay for a while if I could.”

“I know—and I appreciate the thought. But that cleanup you mentioned needs your attention more than I do tonight. I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t certain of that . . . but much as he wanted to stay, duty required his presence elsewhere.

“I spoke with the CSU tech. They’ll be concentrating on the first floor, so you’re free to wander around upstairs. They should be out of your hair in a few hours.”

“To be honest, I don’t mind the company. I think I’ll do better for a while if there are people around.”

“For the record, this person intends to be one of those people.”

“That’s what I was hoping.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Sit tight. I’ll get your door.”

As he circled behind the car, Stan waved at him and hurried across the street. He was huffing as he drew close.

“Everything okay? I asked the officer at the door, but he wouldn’t tell me a thing.” He peered into the Taurus.

“Yes—thanks in large part to your call. Trish is hurt, but her injuries aren’t serious. Hang on a sec.” He continued to her door and helped her out, relieving her of the Panera bag and soft drink. “Your neighbor’s asking about you.”

When she stood and faced him, the older man’s complexion lost a few shades of color.

“Oh my word!” He hurried forward and took both her hands in his. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. It looks worse than it is. Nothing some of your homemade ice cream wouldn’t help fix.”

“I’ll churn a batch first thing tomorrow and deliver plenty for two.”

Colin grinned. “I claim the second portion.”

“I hoped you would. Expect me before noon.” Stan gave Trish a gentle hug and retreated down the driveway.

“Nice man.” Colin took her arm again and urged her toward the house.

“I can think of a nicer one.”

“I might need some proof of that.”

“I might give it.”

“Hold that thought.”

He signed the scene log a patrol officer at the door handed him, let Hank know they were on site, then followed her up the stairs to the second floor.

On the landing, he set the Panera bag and drink on a small table and turned her toward him, resting his hands on her waist.

“Now, about that proof . . .”

“What did you have in mind?” She looped her arms around his neck and smiled.

Despite the purple-hued lump on her forehead and the lines of weariness etched in her features, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. How she was managing that flirty tone after all she’d been through, however, was beyond him.

Unfortunately, what he had in mind wasn’t going to happen tonight. She was hurting and exhausted and suffering the aftereffects of her traumatic ordeal. What she needed to do was soak in a hot tub, eat the take-out food he’d insisted they stop for on the way here, and get some sleep.

“Let’s try this for starters.” He dipped his head for what he intended to be a simple, gentle first kiss.

But it turned into more.

Much more.

When he at last backed off, he was breathing as hard as if he’d just run a five-hundred-meter race.

So was she.

“Whew.” She rested the uninjured side of her forehead against the curve of his neck. “If that’s starters, I may need to rest up for whatever comes next.”

Rest.

Right.

He needed to let her get some rest.

Summoning up every ounce of his willpower, he quashed the urge to kiss her again. “I’ll give you until tomorrow at six. And dress up. I’m bumping up our official first date. But I’ll call in the morning to confirm you’re up for it.”

“I’ll be up for it.”

“And I’ll be counting the hours.” He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers before descending the steps.

At the bottom, he looked back up at the woman he’d come so close to losing.

And as he smiled at her and turned to go, he gave thanks for all his tomorrows that would be brighter because of her.