Falsely Accused, page 6
“I thought you might want me to stay with you for a while.”
“We’ll plan the funeral later. For now, let’s both have our time to grieve. Go back to the house. Make certain it’s not worse than the fire marshal says. Call me with the details.” It was a command rather than a request.
Before Wren could reply, Abigail had stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
“I guess we have our marching orders.” Titus broke the sudden silence, his voice invoking a hundred pleasant memories of nights spent exploring the shore and the forests, of days eating ice cream on the dock or walking through town together.
“You don’t have to do this, Titus. You’re under no obligation to my family.”
“I can remember a time when you included me in that,” he said.
She met his eyes, planning to tell him that those days were long past, that they weren’t even friends any longer; something in his gaze kept her silent. A hint of sadness or longing. A silent plea for understanding and forgiveness.
She had already given the latter, but she had no intention of offering the first.
“I need to get back to the house,” she said, turning on her heels and striding from the room. Radley was already on the move as she exited, heading down the hallway toward the elevators as if he’d heard every word that had been spoken. He probably had.
“I spoke to Annalise,” he said as he pushed the elevator button. “She’s been in touch with the fire marshal and the sheriff. We’re cleared to go back in the house.”
“Is she in the SUV?”
“Yes. Parked in front of the building.” The doors slipped open and he stepped in.
She followed, ignoring Titus as he slammed his hand against the closing door and joined them.
* * *
The ride back to the farm was mostly silent. Wren asked a few questions of her coworkers, ignoring Titus. That was fine. He understood her anger. He knew it stemmed from hurt. If she’d had her way, she would have kept away from him for the rest of her life.
That was the way Wren was. Loyal to a fault until her loyalty was proved unfounded. Then she walked away and never looked back. He had seen her do that twice. Once during high school when she had dated the captain of the debate team. Brian Milton had been about as much of a geek as anyone could be, but he had been smart and driven. He’d had goals and dreams. Wren had been impressed by that, and she had agreed to a first date and then a second. Before Titus had time to realize what was happening, she and Brian were an item, holding hands in the hallway at school, going out together, sitting with one another at church. He had felt like a third wheel, which was an odd feeling since he’d had a girlfriend and didn’t need to cling to Wren for companionship.
Six months into the relationship, Brian had made the mistake of flirting with one of Wren’s friends. She’d cut him off like they’d never been together—a quick and well-deserved boot to the curb that had left Brian begging for a second chance.
Wren hadn’t given it.
She’d done the same to her college boyfriend—another nerdy guy she’d met in a physics class. He’d raised his voice and his hand to her one time. She’d punched him hard enough to break his nose, called the police and moved on with her life.
Titus had always cheered her on. He had always admired the strength it took to love and walk away the minute it became clear that Wren’s boyfriends didn’t really love her. He knew her backstory. He knew that her mother had jumped from one bad relationship to another, always looking for the next man to take care of her.
Wren had vowed to never be like that. She had promised herself that she would only be in relationships that were mutually beneficial and that she would never stay with someone who hurt her.
She had made good on her promise to herself.
Titus respected that, but he didn’t much like being on the receiving end of her commitment to that vow. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, and he would have done anything to mend what had he had broken between them. But, she had cut him off without a word, walking out of his life and never looking back.
He watched as she climbed out of the SUV and headed around the back of the house. She didn’t wait for Radley or Annalise, and she didn’t seem to be concerned about her welfare.
Titus was concerned.
Ryan’s murder had been a precursor to the fire at the farmhouse. Until they understood what had prompted the crimes, they had no way of knowing how to stop the perps from acting again.
“Do you need a ride back to your place?” Annalise asked, her light blue eyes devoid of emotion. She had a good poker face, one that probably served her well in court.
“I have a ride.” He pointed to his vehicle.
“And you think you should be driving with a head injury?”
“If I didn’t think I would be okay, I wouldn’t do it.”
“All right.” Annalise shrugged. “It’s your call. Do me a favor. If the sheriff interviews you about what happened this morning, let me know.” She handed him a business card, and he tucked it into his wallet.
“I’m going to be giving him my statement tomorrow.”
“I’m not talking about the fire. We’ll have no problem clearing Wren of those charges. She was with me and Radley at the time it was set. I’m more worried about what happened prior to that.”
“Ryan’s murder? I wasn’t there. I have no idea what went down.”
“You saw her immediately afterward. She went to your place for help.”
“She did.”
“The sheriff might try to get you to reevaluate what happened.”
“Reevaluate or reinvent?”
She shrugged again. “It’ll be the same result either way. He wants to arrest her for murder. I’m sure he legitimately thinks she’s guilty. After all, she was at the scene. She is a family member, and that puts her at the top of the suspect list. My concern is that he’ll try to influence eyewitness testimony to get the results he wants.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m not easily swayed from what I know is right.”
“You’d be surprised at how many people believe that about themselves and are surprised to find out they’re wrong. I’m heading inside. Give me a call.” She strode to the back of the house.
Wren and her coworkers seemed to think he was heading home, but he’d been hired to do a job. The sooner he began, the better. If that put him in close proximity to Wren, he wasn’t going to complain. She might think that being arrested was the only thing she had to fear. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for enough years to remember just how closely the town guarded its secrets and protected its residents. He and Wren—even after all these years—were still outsiders. It would be easier for the community to believe she was guilty than to look for homegrown suspects. The blinders tied on by community loyalty could be dangerous. Until the perpetrator was caught, a murderer would remain free. And, as long as that was true, Titus wasn’t going to trust that Wren was safe.
He walked to the back porch, jogged up the stairs and opened the back door. Wren, Annalise and Radley were standing in the kitchen. All three looked surprised to see him.
“I thought you left,” Wren said, her voice sharp and tight. She didn’t want him there. He knew that. Still, he couldn’t convince himself to back away from the situation and let her and her team do what needed to be done.
“If Abby is coming home this week, I need to get started on the reno. I’m going to look around. Take some measurements and figure out what needs to be done.”
He didn’t ask permission.
He’d already been hired by the homeowner.
Wren frowned. “I’d prefer you wait until tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“We’re working,” she responded.
“I’ll be quiet.” He walked into the dining room. She didn’t follow. Years ago, they’d been nearly attached at the hip. Where one went, the other followed. He shouldn’t miss those days; he didn’t miss them.
But maybe he missed her.
He frowned, walking to the front door and opening it. He kept tools in his truck. He didn’t need much. A notebook. Pen. Measuring tape. The floorboards in the dining room could be sanded down and refinished. The linoleum in the kitchen would need to be replaced. Once Wren and her team finished working, he’d check under the melted and scorched flooring. It was possible there was old tile or hardwood beneath it. That was one of the things he loved about restoration work. There were often cool things hidden behind ugliness. Police work had been the opposite. Smiling faces often hid dark thoughts and ugly souls.
He walked onto the front porch. A few of the boards were loose, the paint peeling in several areas. The railing needed to be sanded and refinished. The entire structure needed to be weatherproofed and secured. He’d been here hundreds of times as a kid. Now he was seeing it through the eyes of an adult. One trained in restoring properties just like it.
Abigail hadn’t asked him to do anything more than fix the fire-and water-damaged areas, but he didn’t think she’d mind if he did a little work for free. If she planned to sell the place, it needed to pass inspection.
He touched the banister at the top of the porch stairs. He would visit the town historical society to find out what color the porch had been originally. Maybe he’d check into the siding color, as well.
He strode down the stairs and across the yard.
The day was eerily quiet, the sky edged with dark clouds. This time of year, winter storms were still a possibility. He hadn’t had time to check the weather, and it looked like one was blowing in. He’d take the measurements, make his list and then head home to draw up a contract for the work. Abigail wouldn’t like it, but she’d be getting a steep discount. When he had been a young teen, she had been the only adult who had stood consistently by him. His teachers had tried, but he had been a troubled kid with a troubled home life. His grades had always been excellent, but his attendance and attitude had left a lot to be desired. They’d done what they could in the classroom to encourage him, but it had been Abigail who had cooked him meals and made him feel like someone cared.
He hadn’t forgotten that.
She’d been right when she’d chastised him for not visiting sooner. She had offered him what no other adult could or would. He owed her a lot for that.
He grabbed a clipboard and notebook from the truck, took his tape measure out of the toolbox he kept in the back and headed around the side of the house. To his right, green lawn stretched to golden fields. For as long as he had been in Hidden Cove, Abigail had maintained a working farm. She grew acres of corn that she donated to food banks and churches. She had a small apple orchard and a few other fruit trees. She had taught every kid who had walked through her door how to sow and how to reap. No one left the farm hungry for food or for knowledge. She had always made sure of that.
Now, though, the place looked neglected. The fields were overgrown and untended. A two-story garage stood near the edge of the yard, Ryan’s beat-up Ford Mustang parked nearby. From what Titus had heard, Ryan had moved into the garage apartment after he and his wife divorced and his house had been foreclosed on.
It was a bad deal, but Ryan had never seemed upset about it. Every time Titus had seen him, he’d been his normal jovial self. Had there been more going on his life than he’d let on? Had he been hiding things from his family? Keeping secrets from the world?
The door to the second-floor apartment opened, the movement so unexpected that Titus’s heart skipped a beat. A man darted out. He was broad shouldered and heavy, and his bald head gleamed in the muted sunlight.
“Hey! What are you doing up there?” Titus called, sprinting for the building.
The guy was already down the stairs and racing across the yard. He made it to the cornfield a few hundred yards ahead of Titus and ducked into the dried-out stalks, disappearing from view.
Titus kept running. There’d be an unmistakable trail through the cornfield—broken and smashed stalks. He was halfway there when the silence was shattered by gunfire.
He threw himself to the ground and crawled to the nearest tree, ducking behind the thick trunk as he pulled his gun from its holster and got ready to fire.
FIVE
Three gunshots fired in rapid succession.
Then silence.
Another gunshot, and then Radley shouted for her to stay inside while he went out to investigate.
Wren knew the most reasonable thing to do was exactly that. Stay inside and out of the way. Stay out of trouble and out of the sheriff’s line of sight. Rushing into danger would only put his attention squarely on her again. She would have to answer questions, explain her reasoning, justify her response.
She ran out the back door, pausing on the porch to survey the yard. There was no sign of gunfire or trouble. The green lawn rustled as a soft breeze blew through. Dark clouds edged in on the horizon, blocking the sunlight and warning of a coming storm.
Radley shouted, the words muffled by distance.
She ran in the direction of the sound, rounding the side of the house and crossing the yard. The cornfields were there—golden yellow, the old stalks still standing. Leaving them wasn’t like Abigail. She either tended the fields herself or paid someone to do so. Last year she had done neither. Age creeping up on her, time stealing her energy and motivation. It was a normal part of life.
At least, that is what Wren had told herself when she’d visited in September. Just a weekend stay to make certain Abigail didn’t need anything. It had been as obvious as the nose on Wren’s face that she did and that someone should step in and help out. Ryan had been living in the house and, later, in the garage apartment that had once been a source of extra income. Wren had tried to talk to him, explain that the farm was falling behind its seasonal schedule, but he’d had financial problems and was working overtime.
So she’d left, telling herself that she’d handle the problem when she visited for Christmas. If it still existed.
It had, but Wren had been working a case, and all her thoughts and energy were being put to solving it. She had let the situation go. Again.
She wished she hadn’t.
She wished she had insisted that Ryan help more. If she had, he might have cut back on his hours at work. He might have spent more time at the farm. Maybe he would still be alive. Maybe whatever had motivated someone to kill him wouldn’t have happened.
It had to be work related.
An angry perp who had been released from prison and sought revenge. An unhappy loved one who thought their relative had been railroaded by the arresting officer. Revenge hits were always a possibility when a person worked in law enforcement. They weren’t common, but they happened.
She dashed across the yard, her injured arm thumping against her chest, her wrist throbbing. She could feel the arm swelling. She knew she needed to do exactly what the doctor had told her—rest and elevate.
Still, she didn’t know how to not rush in when things went south. She’d worked as a Boston beat cop, then made her way up the ranks and, finally, joined the FBI. She’d trained hard, she’d worked hard. She had sometimes spent upward of twenty hours in the office and on the street, pounding pavement to get the answers she needed to solve cases. Special Crimes was her passion. She couldn’t rewrite history for the victims, but she could make sure they got justice.
She needed answers for Ryan. She needed to know who had taken his life and why. Not just to protect herself from prosecution, but to make certain justice was done. Accomplishing that was going to take more than waiting in the kitchen while someone else fought her battles.
She sprinted to the cornfield and found the place where someone had crashed through the old stalks. They’d been trampled down and broken. She could hear someone rustling through the field just ahead. It had to be Radley.
She followed, shoving through scratchy foliage, the loamy scent of decaying plants filling her nose. She wanted her gun. She wanted the heavy weight of it in her hand, but she had only her instincts and her ability to move quickly and quietly. Even in a place like this—with dead plants ready to crackle and break—she knew how to be silent.
She had honed the skill decades ago when she’d tiptoed through the mine field of her mother’s abusive relationships. She had lost count of the number of boyfriends who had entered and exited their home. She couldn’t remember any of them being kind. Her mother had always been too desperate for love to be picky about the men she allowed into their lives. When she was murdered by her second husband, Wren had been orphaned. She’d never known her father, had no aunts or uncles or grandparents to take her in. Her mother had been an only child who had cut ties with her family before Wren’s birth. She hadn’t had any good friends who would have been willing to finish raising her daughter. After her death, Wren had entered the foster system. She’d learned to silently open windows, drop from second-story bedrooms onto grass or into shrubs so that she could escape the confines of homes that had felt like prisons. It wasn’t that her foster families had been horrible. It was more that she had never felt as if she belonged. Moving silently through houses filled with other family-less kids had been her way of staying out of the limelight. She had tried her best to be invisible—to move through each new placement as quietly as possible.
She used the skill to her advantage, moving quickly through last year’s crop until she could see Radley. He barreled through with little concern for being heard.
“Radley,” she said just loudly enough that she thought he would hear. She didn’t want him swinging around with his gun in hand.
He glanced over his shoulder and frowned.
“You’re supposed to be back at the house.”
