Falsely Accused, page 7
“I don’t recall agreeing to that plan. Did you see anything?”
“Your friend. Heading into the cornfield.”
“Titus? He’s in the house.”
“No. He’s in this cornfield.” Radley enunciated every word as if he wanted to make certain she heard and understood.
She had done both.
She didn’t want to believe it was true. Titus had been a police officer years ago. She wasn’t sure why he’d quit the force. By the time she had heard about it, the two of them hadn’t spoken in several years. He had the training to handle this kind of situation, but it had been a while since he’d used it. She didn’t think now was a good time for him to see if he remembered his training.
“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” she muttered, moving past Radley so that she could lead. If there was danger up ahead, she’d rather face it ahead of one of her agents.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m the one with the weapon.”
“I won’t get in the way if you need to use it.”
“You know what I’m saying, Wren. Let me make certain things are clear.”
She knew she should.
She knew how she’d want things done if the shoe was on the other foot and she was the one with the gun. But she’d already lost Ryan. The thought of losing someone else she cared about was incomprehensible. “I’ll be fine.”
She stayed ahead, listening for the sounds of someone fleeing through the field. All she heard was the soft snap and rustle of cornstalks as Radley moved through them behind her.
“It’s quiet,” she murmured.
“I noticed.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You think whoever fired those shots is planning an ambush?”
“I don’t know, but we should at least be hearing Titus.” Unless he was injured.
Or worse.
Her pulse jumped at the thought, her stomach sinking. If something happened to him because she had asked for his help, she would never forgive herself.
“I’ve already called the local PD. I’m sure the sheriff is going to be happy to come out here again.”
“As far as I can tell, the only time he’s happy is when he’s trying to throw the book at an innocent person.”
“As a member of Ryan’s family and the last person to see him alive, you’re high on the list of possible suspects.”
“I know. I’m just pointing out that he seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of trying to arrest me.” She had reached the far end of the field and stopped, peering out from between golden stalks. There was another field beyond the one they were standing in. Once upon a time it had been an alfalfa field, the crop used to graze and feed the horses Abigail kept. She’d stopped keeping horses after her last mare died. Soon after, she’d let the field go fallow.
Wren had been concerned that she was giving up on the farm, letting things go and not caring that it was happening. She’d kept quiet. She hadn’t wanted Abigail to feel guilty for not keeping up on things. She certainly hadn’t wanted to convince her to do anything she didn’t want to. She had a right to whatever kind of retirement she wanted. She’d spent her life devoted to other people, and now she had every right to be devoted to herself and her dreams.
If her dreams were to live in an apartment at a retirement village, Wren wasn’t going to tell her she shouldn’t do it. As a matter of fact, she had returned to Hidden Cove to help Abigail prepare for the move.
It was still hard to see the once-bustling farm quiet.
She scanned the field and the area around it. A road bordered the property to the west, meandering through other properties and making its way back to a craggy, rock-strewn beach. She could just see the gray-black pavement snaking between Abigail’s property and the neighboring farm. A man was racing toward it. At least, she assumed it was a man. All she could see was a dark figure rushing across the fallow field. A few hundred yards behind him, Titus was sprinting in the same direction. She wanted to yell for him to stop, but she didn’t want to draw attention to her presence.
She darted out of the cornfield, racing across weed-choked ground. The dark figure reached the road. She didn’t see a vehicle, but she heard an engine spring to life. Seconds later, a white sedan sped into view. It braked hard and the suspect jumped inside.
Titus reached the road just as the car accelerated away.
He stepped onto the road, watching as it disappeared.
She knew he was trying to get a look at the license plate. It wasn’t safe, and he shouldn’t be attempting it.
“Titus!” she yelled.
He glanced in her direction, and she could almost feel the intensity of his gaze.
“Back off!” she continued.
“I want the plate number,” he responded, turning his attention to the car again. It braked, the squeal of tires on pavement a discordant note in the eerie quiet.
She was nearing the road, Radley pounding the dry earth and dead grass behind her. Dark clouds had edged out the sun, casting the day in deep shadows and gloom. Her feet hit the pavement as the car began to back up. Slowly at first and then more quickly, speeding backward the way it had come, heading straight toward Titus.
He was at a dead stop in the middle of the road, staring at the approaching vehicle. Reading the license plate number and trying to commit it to memory. She was certain of that.
But memorizing the license plate number wasn’t going to do anyone any good if he was dead.
“Titus, move!” she yelled.
He didn’t turn, didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge her in any way.
“This isn’t the right time to play chicken!” she growled as she dove the last few feet, slamming into his side and pushing him out of the center of the road. He stumbled but didn’t fall, his arm wrapping around her waist as the car zoomed past.
* * *
He would have pulled his gun if his arm hadn’t been wrapped around Wren’s waist, but he had a firm grip on her side, his fingers digging into solid abdominal muscles. She was lean and muscular, her strength honed from years training in the gym and out of it. Even after all this time apart, he knew that to be true. If she had wanted to, she could have freed herself. She could have used momentum and surprise to toss him off his feet and into the ditch at the side of the road. He had seen her teaching women’s self-defense classes in college. He had watched her take down larger, stronger men. He had even helped her demonstrate technique. That had been nearly a decade ago, but based on her toned muscles, he would guess she had never stopped training. From what he knew about her past, he would say she had never stopped teaching self-defense classes. She believed in empowering women to fight their own battles.
He had always applauded that.
But she was injured, her arm wrapped in a soft cast. It slapped into his ribs as she whirled to face the car.
“Here he comes!” She grabbed his arm, yanking him off the road and into the drainage ditch beside it. The dry bed was filled with leaves and grass and debris.
“You should have stayed back at the house,” he growled, jumping up as the car passed again. He darted out into the road, pulling his gun and shooting at the fleeing vehicle. The bullet hit the back window, shattering it.
“Stand down and get out of the way,” Radley shouted.
He moved to the side, not bothering to rush. There was no hurry now. The car had disappeared around a curve in the road. They could chase it, but they’d never catch up on foot.
“Did you get the tag number?” Wren asked as she climbed out of the ditch. There were smudges of dirt on her jeans. More on her shirt. Her hair fell to her shoulders, a tangled mass of waves that she had been securing in tight buns for as long as he had known her.
“Yes.” He reeled it off, doubting it would help. The vehicle had probably been stolen and would be abandoned somewhere away from town. In an area like this—with dozens of side roads leading into mountains and wilderness, an abandoned vehicle would be difficult to locate.
“I’ll call that in so the sheriff can put out a BOLO. Next time, you might want to stay out of it,” Radley muttered.
“I don’t believe in staying out of things when I think my help is needed,” he said easily.
“Your idea of helping and mine aren’t the same.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He met Radley’s eyes and kept his tone even and light. No sense in going head-to-head with one of Wren’s coworkers, but he wasn’t going to back off, either.
“You were in my way. I could have taken out a tire and stopped the car cold, if you hadn’t been standing on the road.”
“You don’t know that, Radley.” Wren sighed. Her skin was pale, her eyes red rimmed and deeply shadowed.
“Sure, I do,” Radley responded.
“How about we focus on fact rather than speculation?” She turned her attention to Titus. “What happened, Titus? How did you end up out here instead of in the house?”
“I was getting some tools from my truck. I saw someone walking out of the garage apartment, and I followed him.”
“The garage apartment?” She frowned. “Ryan was living there. We had better check things out and make sure nothing is missing. Not that I know what he had,” she said.
“I’ll meet the police here. That’ll give you a chance to look things over before the sheriff arrives,” Radley said, and pulled out his cell phone.
“Thanks,” Wren murmured, turning back toward the house and heading across the old alfalfa field.
Titus followed. He had no desire to speak with the sheriff. He remembered Camden from high school. Two years ahead of him, he’d been a loudmouth who had loved to tell everyone that his father was sheriff’s deputy and best friends with the sheriff. He and Titus hadn’t run in the same circles. And not just because they were in different grades. Titus had been a newcomer, and he had been a poor one. He and his mother had lived in the house she had inherited from her grandfather. Aside from the roof over their heads, they hadn’t had much. Camden had been as close to royalty as anyone in small-town America could be.
Titus caught up to Wren, matching her pace as she moved quickly across the abandoned alfalfa field. Years ago, he had helped Abigail plant the fields. He had taken a lot of pleasure in watching the crops grow, and he had always been eager and willing to help with the harvest. Back then, the farm had been alive with animals and people and lush fields. Now it was a lonely, dead place.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Wren said as they entered the rows of dried-out cornstalks.
“What?”
“That this place is neglected. That Abby has let it go. Maybe that Ryan and I should have stepped in and helped before it got like this.”
“Is that what you think? That you should have done more to help before it came to this?” He touched a dead cornstalk.
“Of course.” She had always been honest and matter-of-fact. The kind of person who saw the world for what it was and loved it anyway.
“If Abigail had asked you to come and help, would you have?”
“I’m here because she asked. So, of course.”
“Then you did everything you could. As far as Ryan goes, who knows?”
“What do you mean?” She shot a look in his direction, her dark lashes shadowing her eyes so that he couldn’t read the expression in them.
“He was here. He saw it every day for...what?...a couple years?”
“He moved in after his house was foreclosed on. That was nearly three years ago.”
“Right. He lived here. He knew what needed to be done to stop things from getting like this.” He touched another dead cornstalk.
“He was busy trying to build up savings and get back on his feet, and we both know that he wasn’t very good at doing work on the farm.”
They had reached the edge of the field. The garage was to their right, red paint faded from too many bright summers and harsh winters. Ryan wasn’t the only one to blame. Titus could have stepped in. He could have visited. He could have helped without being asked.
That was what family did.
And Abigail had always considered him that.
“You’re right. Ryan wasn’t great at working on the farm, but I always enjoyed it. I could have stepped in and helped,” he admitted.
“Did she ask for your help?” Wren said.
“No.”
“Then, you did what you could. We both know how stubborn Abigail can be when it comes to asking for and accepting help. So, how about we focus on other things?”
“Like?”
“You said you saw the perp coming out of the garage apartment?” Wren switched gears, her focus on the exterior stairs that led to the second-floor apartment. A small studio with a kitchenette, bed and living area, it had been rented out to hunters and fishermen when Titus was young. During the winter—when it was empty—Abigail offered it free of charge to anyone who needed a place to stay for a few nights.
He had stayed there on more than a few occasions, sick of his mother’s drug-induced haze. Tired of cleaning up and cooking and being the parent in the home. He’d escaped to the garage apartment, Abigail’s home-cooked meals and satisfying farmwork.
“Yes,” he said.
“Let’s go see what he was doing up there.” She headed up to the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.
He followed, stepping onto the landing behind her.
“The door is open,” she said, eyeing the one-inch crack.
He wasn’t sure if she was speaking to him or to herself.
“He was in a hurry.” He responded anyway.
She nodded, using her foot to nudge the door open more.
She stepped inside, the soft inhalation of breath the only hint he had that something was wrong. He pressed in behind her, his shoulder brushing hers as he moved by and caught sight of the interior. The place had been ransacked. The couch was torn apart, the cushions slashed, the stuffing strewn across the floor. The mattress had been tossed off the bed, sheets left in a pile nearby. Pillows destroyed. Mattress gutted. Papers and books had been torn from shelves and drawers, and clothes littered the floor.
“He was definitely looking for something,” he said, walking through the room and into the alcove that contained the kitchenette. The cupboards were empty, boxes and containers of food ripped apart, flour and cereal spread out on the floor and counters.
“What?” Wren asked.
This time he knew she was talking to herself. He could almost see her mind working as she glanced at the kitchenette and then walked into the only separate space.
“He went through the bathroom, too,” she said.
He walked to the doorway and surveyed the small room.
Like the rest of the apartment, it had been torn apart, the linen closet emptied, everything tossed on the floor. “Was he carrying anything when he left?” she asked, turning to face him.
They were just feet apart, her eyes blazing the way they had when she was young and on a mission for justice. She had been the kid teachers either loved or found exasperating, her strong desire to learn and understand matched by her need for justice and truth. She had never been afraid to call a teacher out or correct misinformation. She had never let a point go. Not if she knew she was right.
He had loved that about her.
Loved? That was a strong word.
Liked. Admired. Applauded. Cheered.
“No,” he said, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions he knew were coming. Unless she had changed a lot in the years since they’d spoken, she’d ask him to repeat every detail of what he’d seen until she was satisfied that she knew everything there was to know.
“You’re sure?”
“Unless he was carrying it in a pocket or hiding it under his jacket.”
“He was wearing a jacket?”
“Yes. Dark colored. Jeans. A light-colored shirt.”
“So, the jacket was open?” She pulled a stepladder from the linen closet, her broken wrist cradled close to her stomach. He wanted to ask if she was in pain, suggest that she wait outside and let him look, tell her that she should take it easy.
But he had given up his right to try to influence her life when he had accused her of lying about Meghan. In retrospect, what he’d done made no sense. He had always known Wren’s heart, and it had always been for what was right and good.
“Yes. It was open,” he replied, taking the stepladder from her hand. “You’re planning to go into the attic?”
“I want to see if he’s been there.”
“Wouldn’t he have left this out?” He carried the stepladder to the living area and set it in the middle of the room. A small panel in the ceiling could be removed for access to the attic. Abigail kept exterior Christmas decorations there.
At least, she had.
“Probably, but I want to check. Whatever he was looking for, he was thorough in the search.” She nudged a gutted pillow with her toe. “If he was in the attic, I want to see what he went through.”
“Christmas decorations. Isn’t that what Abby keeps there?” He climbed up and removed the panel, sliding it sideways and into the attic. Cold air seeped through the opening.
“A lot of Ryan’s stuff was up there, too. He had an entire house to store, remember? Come on down. I’ll go up.”
“You have a broken wrist,” he pointed out, hoisting himself up. The attic stretched the length and width of the garage, the hand-hewn beams salvaged from a barn that had once stood on the property. Abby had told him that the first time he’d carried boxes of lights and outdoor decorations into the space. She’d been proud of the ingenuity her parents had shown in choosing to salvage old materials to create something new. She had planned to spend the rest of her life honoring the time and effort they had put into the beautiful property.
It didn’t look beautiful now. One glance out the garage window, and he would be able to see the fallow fields and the overgrown orchards. The house needed to be painted, the porch whitewashed, the garden tended.
