Falsely Accused, page 8
Had Abigail stopped caring or had age made it difficult for her to perform all the necessary chores. She had money. She could have hired someone, but she had always been a little proud and a little reticent when it came to admitting her weaknesses.
“See anything?” Wren’s head and shoulders appeared in the opening.
“It’s unremarkable. No open boxes. No shredded pages. Nothing that tells me he was here.”
The attic was chock-full of stuff. Boxes stacked against boxes. A few bags. A trunk.
“It does look clean. He might not have known there was an attic.” She tried to boost herself in, but she couldn’t put weight on her bad wrist, and she slid down again.
“Here.” He grabbed her under the arms, lifting her easily. His hands were on her upper ribs, his fingers nearly touching in the middle of her spine. He was looking into her eye, seeing the girl she had been and the woman she’d become.
“Titus,” she said quietly, and he knew she felt what he did—the old connection that had carried them through adolescence and into adulthood.
The one broken by his accusations.
“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it wasn’t the right time or place but worried there would never been another opportunity.
“For helping me into the attic? I was just about to thank you. The broken wrist is making life challenging,” she said, her gaze skimming across the attic floor, dancing along the stacked boxes, focusing on anything but him.
He touched her cheek, his fingers grazing across her cool, smooth skin. She wore no makeup, and her skin was flawless. Aside from the faint scars on her neck and near her hairline, there was no hint of what she had survived. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“The past is that, Titus. Past. I don’t dwell in it, I don’t revisit it, and I certainly don’t want an apology for it.”
“You deserve one. What I said and did—”
“Don’t.” She held up her hand as if that could stop his words.
It couldn’t, but the look in her eyes did.
She was studying his face, focused—finally—on him. He was sure there was sorrow and regret in her gaze.
“What happened was for the best,” she said finally, a blithe tone to her voice that aggravated him.
“How do you figure?”
“Your life was obviously heading in a very different direction than mine. We couldn’t have remained friends forever.”
“That’s not what you said when we were kids,” he replied, and she tensed.
“Right, because I was a kid. I believed in fairy tales and make-believe. I thought wanting something enough could make it happen, and I had no idea how life would change us.”
“I hurt you, and I didn’t mean to. I was—”
“In love,” she cut in.
“An idiot,” he responded.
Her lips quirked, and he knew she was fighting a smile. He touched the corner of her mouth, his pulse jumping in a way he hadn’t expected and didn’t want.
This was Wren. His old friend. His chum. His buddy.
She was also a stranger. A beautiful one.
“Tell you what,” she said, turning away. “How about we stop talking about the past and start talking about the present. What do you notice about this place?”
“It’s neat,” he said, his focus jumping from one box to another and then dropping to the floor. Most of the attic was covered with dust. It was on the boxes, the trunk and the bags that had been tucked in a corner. But one section of the floor was clean, the area free of dust.
“Someone was up here.” He crouched and moved to the cleared area. There was a box nearby, the tape seal cut.
“Not our perp,” Wren murmured. “He wouldn’t have been so neat.”
“Ryan?” he guessed.
She shrugged. “Who else?”
“So, what’s in the box?” He’d have opened it himself, but Ryan wasn’t his foster brother. This wasn’t his home. He had no right to do anything other than stand back and let Wren look.
“I don’t know,” she said, moving close, her arm and shoulder pressed against his, her hair brushing his cheek, and she leaned toward the box. Silky hair. Firm muscles. Narrow shoulders with scapulae that jutted from beneath her shirt.
He shouldn’t be noticing any of that.
He shouldn’t be thinking about it.
He shouldn’t be fighting the urge to brush strands of hair from her cheek and let his fingers linger on her smooth skin.
“Let’s see what’s in here,” she said, oblivious to his thoughts, instead totally focused on the task.
Which was exactly how she should be. How he should be. They were there to figure out who had killed Ryan and why. If there was a clue in the mess strewn across the apartment floor or in the box that had been neatly stored in the attic, they needed to find it.
So, he would focus.
He’d set his mind to the task at hand.
And, later, when this was over and the danger had passed and the person responsible for Ryan’s death was in jail, he’d let himself think about the way he felt when he was close to Wren, and he’d spend some time figuring out exactly what it meant.
SIX
It wasn’t a large box. Certainly not the size Abigail would have used to store Christmas decorations. Wren wasn’t sure what she expected to see in it. Some clue, maybe, to what had happened to Ryan. Instead, there were stacks of gleaming brochures.
She took out one, frowning as she opened it. “Wonder why these are here.”
“What are they?” Titus crouched beside her. She tried not to notice the warmth of his arm pressed against hers or the hint of soap and aftershave that seemed to drift around him. They had once been as close as two friends could be. She had known all his secrets, and he had known hers. That kind of bond was difficult to break. When she’d stopped communicating with him, it felt like a piece of her soul had been taken away.
“Brochures for Sunrise Acres Retirement Village.” She eased away from his warmth. It would be too easy to fall back into old habits, to allow herself to count on him, confide in him and trust him.
It would be just as easy for her to be hurt again.
Since she didn’t believe in repeating her mistakes, she couldn’t let that happen.
“I’ve heard good things about it.” He reached for a brochure, turning it over to read the back.
“So have I. Abby is determined to move there. Most of her friends already have.”
“Tennis court. Golf. Movie theater. Barber. Hair stylist. Spa. Who wouldn’t want to live there?” he said, reading off the list of amenities.
“I’m aware of all the wonderful perks that go with living at Sunrise Acres,” she said. She’d been hearing about them from the moment she had visited Abby at the hospital after she had broken her hip.
“You sound annoyed by that.”
“Not annoyed. Just pragmatic. All those things come at a price.”
“Yeah? I’ve never looked into that.”
“Yes. Abby wants a two-bedroom condo with views of the cove. She’s selling the farm to cover the cost. That’s what most of the people who live there have done. Sold homes and property to afford a convenient lifestyle.”
“There’s nothing wrong with convenience,” he pointed out, setting the brochure on the floor and lifting a stack bound with a rubber band from the box.
“I know,” she agreed. She’d been telling herself that from the moment Abby had expressed a desire to sell the farm and move to the retirement village. The announcement had taken Wren by surprise. She had thought that Abby would spend the rest of her life on the farm her grandparents had bought and tended. She had known that there was no one to hand it down to. Abby was the last of the bloodline, and she had never married or had children.
Still, it hadn’t occurred to Wren that Abby would sell the property she had poured her heart and soul into.
“Then why does it upset you? Because Abby is jumping on board?”
“I didn’t say it upset me.” She lifted a stack of brochures, more to have something to do than to take another look.
“You didn’t have to. I know when you’re upset.”
“You knew. It’s been a long time. I don’t get upset as easily as I use to.” That was the truth. She’d learned to control her sharp tongue and to choose her battles.
“When two people were as good of friends as we were—” he began.
“How about we stay focused on what we came up here for? I’d like to figure this out before the sheriff arrives and kicks us out.” She cut him off. She didn’t need to be reminded of how close they’d been. She didn’t want to admit that it felt as if they could still be that.
“Right. We’ve got brochures for the new retirement home, and we want to know why.” He lifted another stack and frowned. “These are different.”
“Are they?” She leaned toward him without thinking, her arm pressing into his. He’d filled out in the past few years, biceps thick with muscle. She remembered him from their childhood—his lanky arms and legs and lean frame. He had been the only guy she’d known who’d been taller than her all through middle and high school.
“These are for a place in Florida.” He pulled one out from the bundle and handed it to her.
If she hadn’t been distracted by thoughts of Titus and their past, she would have already noticed it was different from the other brochures. Bright sunshine. Pristine beach. Beautiful condos and cottages that looked exactly like Sunrise Acres Retirement Village’s, just in a different location. “What are these doing in there?”
“It looks like the same development company is building both retirement communities.” He turned over a copy of each brochure and pointed to a name printed there.
“Garner Investment Initiative. Never heard of them.” She took a copy of each and tucked them in her back pocket. More than likely, the contents of the box had nothing to do with Ryan’s murder, the fire or the apartment being ransacked, but Wren didn’t believe in leaving any stone unturned. She would have someone at the field office investigate Garner Investment. Just to make certain it was on the up-and-up.
“Me neither, but it’s not surprising that an investment company wants to dip its toes in the retirement market. In places like Hidden Cove, where the community is aging and young people are moving away in droves, it’s almost a certain moneymaking venture.”
“Florida isn’t a bad investment location, either.”
“No, and if you’re going to sell Florida property, this isn’t a bad place to do it. Most people get tired of the cold weather and the long winters.”
“Not you. Winter is your favorite season,” she said without thinking.
She didn’t want him to know how much she remembered about their years of friendship. She didn’t want to admit—even to herself—how much she remembered about him.
She’d cut herself off from their friendship because she hadn’t wanted to be hurt again, but her feelings had taken a long time to change.
“Yes. And fall is yours.”
“The sheriff’s department has probably arrived. I’d better go speak with them.” She would have shimmied out of the attic, but he took her hand, his thumb running over her knuckles. There was tenderness in his touch and the kind of gentleness she wasn’t used to. She was a law enforcement officer, a woman who had made her mark in a man’s world. She knew how to take charge. She knew how to lead. She knew how to hide her pain and keep her emotions in check.
But she didn’t know how to look away when Titus stared into her eyes.
“We can’t avoid this forever,” he said, his voice as gentle as his touch.
“Avoid what?”
“The elephant in the room. The thing that keeps making you run.”
“I’m not running. I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is to heal.”
“My job is to find out who killed Ryan and to make certain that person pays. Ryan was as close to family as I have. I’m not going to sit back and wait for the local PD to figure this out.”
“I’d feel the same, and I would be doing what you are. That doesn’t change the fact that every time we’re close, you scurry away.”
“First, I don’t scurry. Second, we haven’t been close.”
“Closer than you’re comfortable with.”
“I’m not going to deny that.”
“Which begs the question. Why are you uncomfortable?”
“We were friends. Now we’re not. That’s all either of us needs to know. Now, if you don’t mind, I really do need to go speak to the sheriff.” She tugged away, slid out of the attic on her belly, her bad wrist and hand useless. He positioned his hands under her arms, supporting her as she descended.
It felt like old times.
Good and comfortable and right.
It wasn’t any of those things. It was old habits that were rearing their ugly heads. It was hurt about to happen again. It was a second chance at losing a piece of her soul.
“Thank you,” she said as her feet found the stepladder. She climbed down easily and didn’t wait for Titus. She needed fresh air to clear her head and to rid her of the butterflies that were dancing in her stomach.
Because of Titus.
Because she had stared into his eyes and allowed him to hold her hand. Because he had helped her down and hadn’t argued with her need to seek justice for Ryan.
He had been what he was to her all those years ago—a good friend, ready to help in whatever way was necessary.
That was a tempting thought.
To believe he could be depended upon. To allow herself to trust him. To give herself over to what had once been.
She couldn’t afford to do any of those things. There was too much riding on her ability to stay focused. Ryan was dead. He’d been murdered. She planned to find his killer. And she wasn’t going to let anything or anyone distract her from that goal.
* * *
Wren was stepping outside as Titus climbed off the stepladder. He followed, knowing that she wouldn’t glance in his direction. She was running away again, and that was fine. He wasn’t going to chase her down or try to get her to admit to feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge. He knew they were there. He could see them each time their eyes met. He could feel them every time their hands touched.
Their friendship had been dormant.
If they allowed it, it would spring back to life.
He stepped onto the exterior landing.
Wren had already reached the ground and was jogging around the side of the house. The day was silent. No sirens breaking the stillness. No voices calling from the front of the house.
He could see strobe lights flashing on the ground at the side of the house. The sheriff or one of his deputies had arrived. Like Wren, Titus was interested in speaking to whoever it was.
There had to be some leads that pointed to the real murderer. He was certain the trail wasn’t leading directly to Wren, so who was it leading toward?
That was a question local law enforcement needed to answer.
Titus knew it would be best if he kept his nose out of it. But, like Wren, he wanted justice for Ryan. If that meant digging through boxes in attics, so be it. If it meant going head-to-head with the sheriff to get answers, he could do that, too.
What he couldn’t do was go home and pretend none of this had happened. He couldn’t walk to his car, drive away and go back to the life he had carved for himself.
No matter how much Wren might want him to.
He walked down the stairs and around the side of the only house that had ever really felt like home. He had asked Wren if she was upset that Abby was selling it. She had sidestepped the question, but he thought he knew the answer. She wanted what was best for Abby. She always had, but she didn’t want the place sold. Her only good childhood memories had been made within the walls of the two-story farmhouse. It would be hard to say goodbye to a place that had offered her security, safety and peace.
It was also hard to see the woman they had both thought of as unstoppable and indestructible getting to a point where she could no longer care for the property she loved. Abby’s broken hip had forced her into a decision that had been coming for a long time. All he had to do was look at the fallow and untended fields, the peeling paint and the weed-choked flower beds to know that.
Three cars belonging to the sheriff’s deputies were parked at the front of the house, the officers who had driven them standing in the front yard. Wren was speaking to them, her hair gleaming in the gloomy light, her face colorless. Radley hadn’t returned, but Annalise stood on the porch, arms crossed, blond hair pulled into a neat ponytail. She was tiny and cute, her heart-shaped face and large eyes belying her tough interior. He imagined she was cutthroat and aggressive in the courtroom, and that she took unsuspecting prosecuting attorneys by surprise.
She met his gaze, nodded and went back to staring at the sheriff’s deputies. Wren had people in her corner. This wasn’t like when they were kids—the two of them pitted against the world. He could leave and not worry that she would have to face her troubles alone. He could grab what he needed from the truck and return to the work he had been hired to do.
Even better, he could get in his truck, drive to the sheriff’s office, give his statement and go home. He could plan the rehab of the farmhouse from there and leave Wren alone. It was what she seemed to want, but he couldn’t make himself do it. There was too much between them still—all the memories of their teen years still taking up space in his head and his heart.
He had tried to forget her. He had often told himself that the bond they’d once shared hadn’t been nearly as strong as he had recalled, but each time he looked into her eyes, he proved himself wrong.
