Proving her innocence

means running for her life.

Framed for her foster brother’s murder, FBI special agent Wren Santino must clear her name—but someone’s dead set on stopping her from finding the truth. Her estranged childhood friend, Titus Anderson, comes to her aid...but standing by her puts him in the killer’s crosshairs, too. And unraveling a conspiracy may be the only way for either of them to survive.

FBI: Special Crimes Unit

Aside from her faith and her family, there’s not much SHIRLEE MCCOY enjoys more than a good book! When she’s not hanging out with the people she loves most, she can be found plotting her next Love Inspired Suspense story or trekking through the wilderness, training with a local search-and-rescue team. Shirlee loves to hear from readers. If you have time, drop her a line at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.

Also By Shirlee McCoy

FBI: Special Crimes Unit

Night Stalker

Gone

Dangerous Sanctuary

Lone Witness

Falsely Accused

Mission: Rescue

Protective Instincts

Her Christmas Guardian

Exit Strategy

Deadly Christmas Secrets

Mystery Child

The Christmas Target

Mistaken Identity

Christmas on the Run

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Falsely Accused

Shirlee McCoy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90637-5

FALSELY ACCUSED

© 2020 Shirlee McCoy

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Wren Santino was the last person Titus would have ever expected to show up at his house. Finding her in his backyard just after midnight on a late winter night? He couldn’t have imagined that if he’d tried.

But she was there.

Pale faced. Bleeding. Handcuffed.

And being shot at.

He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he

army crawled in the direction of the gunfire.

He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck.

“Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.

“Them?” he replied.

“Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed. They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead. Don’t make yourself a target, Titus. Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

Dear Reader,

No matter how much we plan and plot our lives, we can find ourselves in surprising and oftentimes difficult circumstances. Relationships, health concerns, finances all have a way of weighing on our minds and causing us stress and worry. There are days when it may seem that our fear outweighs our faith, times when we can’t see the blessings through the pain. If you’ve had days when you struggle, times when you feel abandoned and lonely and hurt, if your life is nothing like you expected or planned, remember that you are not alone. God hears your prayers. He understands your pain. He is your ever-present help in troubled times. May you find comfort and hope in the truth of His love for you.

Blessings,

Shirlee McCoy

My soul melteth for heaviness: strengthen thou me according unto thy word.

—Psalm 119:28

To my children. With all my love. Today and always.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

This was wrong. All of it. The squad car speeding along the winding mountain road, heading away from town and deeper into the Maine wilderness. The blood dripping down her arm and onto the leather seat. The silence of the two deputies who had arrested her.

Deputies?

Special Agent Wren Santino wasn’t sure about that.

Not anymore.

They hadn’t used their police radios. Not to call for medical assistance for her or for the deputy who had been shot. Not to call in a location, call for backup or do as she requested and ask for the FBI Boston Field Office to be contacted.

She might not be an expert on much, but she knew law enforcement protocol, and, after nearly a decade working as a special agent for the FBI, she knew this was going down all wrong.

She shifted in the seat, the scent of leather mixing with the odor of stale vomit and sweat. Blood oozed from the bullet hole in her forearm and snaked around her wrist, sliding under the metal handcuffs. She should be heading to the hospital. Not the town’s small sheriff’s department. And Ryan? The deputy who had been shot? The closest thing to a brother she’d ever had? They should be life-flighting him to a trauma center.

The thought of him as she’d seen him last—lying in a pool of his own blood—made her even more desperate to escape.

She twisted her uninjured wrist, hoping the seeping blood would make it easy to slip her hand out.

But, of course, that wasn’t how cuffs were designed.

She knew that.

The same way she knew that she was in trouble.

She glanced out the back window. Her SUV was a dark smudge against the sepia tones of the forest behind it. She could still see Deputy Ryan Parker’s squad car, parked just behind the SUV, pulled a little crookedly onto a grassy area beside the road.

She shouldn’t have stopped. Not on a road like this. Not at this time of night. He’d have understood if she’d put on her hazards, slowed her pace and continued driving until she’d reached a less lonely stretch of road. That was the advice she gave students in the women’s self-defense classes she taught.

Don’t stop if it feels unsafe.

Any legitimate officer will understand.

Hazards on.

Slow your speed.

Keep going until you reach a more populated area.

She hadn’t followed her own advice. She’d seen the lights, and she’d pulled over. Maybe because she hadn’t expected trouble. Maybe because she was always prepared for it. She hadn’t been carrying her service weapon, but she’d had mace in the pocket of her jacket and a repertoire of self-defense tactics that had served her well in the past.

At thirty-six years old, she knew how to defend herself, and how to guard against danger and trouble.

She hadn’t thought it would come to her on the lonely stretch of highway between town and the farm belonging to her foster mother, Abigail, but she should have been able to extricate herself from it.

She turned her attention to the two men dressed in Hidden Cove Sheriff’s Department uniforms. They looked legit. The jackets. The badges. The shirts and hats that were pulled low over their eyes. Clean-shaven. Caucasian. One with fair skin. One with an olive complexion. The fact that she could see those things meant they weren’t trying to hide their identities. She wanted to believe that was a good thing, but her gut was telling her something different.

No legitimate law enforcement officer left a man lying on the ground bleeding.

“What about Deputy Parker? You can’t just leave him there. He needs medical attention,” she said, trying to engage them in a conversation that went beyond the Miranda rights they’d read her before they’d cuffed her and shoved her in the back of their squad car.

“You probably should have thought about that before you shot him,” the driver said. Mid-to late-twenties. Slim build. A small scar on his jaw. His hair was hidden, but Wren would guess it to be dark to match his tan skin.

“I already told you, I didn’t shoot him. The shots were fired just before you arrived.” Ryan had pulled her over. She’d realized it was him after he’d gotten out of his squad car. He’d told her that he was in trouble and that he needed her help. She’d stepped out of the SUV. Before he could explain more, a shot had been fired, and he’d gone down. She’d reached for his service weapon and had been shot while trying to free it.

Not a kill-shot.

Not like the one that had taken Ryan down.

She swallowed a wave of grief. Like Wren, Ryan had been one of Abigail’s foster kids. A teenager with no future who’d been shuffled through too many placements for too long, he’d arrived at the farm three years after Wren. It had taken a while, but eventually they’d warmed up to one another. By the time she’d left for college, she’d thought of him as her annoying kid brother—still finding trouble, still not settled into the structured life Abigail offered. She had been frustrated with his lack of progress, but she had also been hopeful that he would grow up and mature.

Still, she had been surprised when he’d told her he planned to become a police officer. She’d been even more surprised when he had decided to stay in Hidden Cove. Small-town life wasn’t anything either of them had been used to when they’d arrived. Both had often complained about the constraints of living in a town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. As a teen, Ryan had always been chomping at the bit, ready to break free of the life he had been forced into. The idea of him getting a job with the local police and staying in Hidden Cove hadn’t been on Wren’s radar.

But then, she had never been close to Ryan.

She’d loved him like a brother, but they had been too far apart in age and in personality to be friends. The inner workings of his mind had always been as mysterious to her as hers had been to him.

Now, he was gone, and she was being questioned about his murder as if she were a suspect or the perpetrator.

“I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting. Swab my hands for gun residue, take me in for questioning, but while you’re doing all that, make sure you have someone out there looking for the real perpetrator,” she said, hoping to illicit a response from one of the men.

They remained silent. No further comment on her supposed shooting of a man she considered a brother, no questions asked in the hope of getting answers that could be used against her. The silence in the vehicle was eerie. The space between her and the two officers was unencumbered by mesh or Plexiglas.

This wasn’t like any police cruiser she had ever been in. There were locks and handles on the interior door panels. Easy escape for a criminal who wanted to get away. As far as she had been able to see, there wasn’t a radio or computer attached to the console. Even a low-budget, low-tech police department would have radios in the vehicles.

She shifted forward to get a better look, and the fairer-skinned man lifted a gun and aimed it in her direction.

“Back off,” he said harshly, barely glancing in her direction.

She did. She’d already seen what she wanted to. She had been correct. There was no police radio in the car. No computer system. Nothing tying this vehicle to the sheriff’s department. If these men were imposters, they had to be tied to Ryan’s shooting. If that were the case, they had an agenda that didn’t include taking her to the sheriff’s department and booking her on federal charges. This area of Maine was largely unpopulated, deep forest and stretching across the landscape. It would be easy to get rid of a body here—to hide someone and make it seem as if that person had gone on the run.

What kind of trouble were you in, Ryan? she silently asked. Something big. So big he had been killed because of it, and it looked as if Wren was being set up to be the fall guy. If she didn’t escape, her SUV and Ryan’s squad car would eventually be found. His body would be discovered, and she would be gone—a story people told for years to come. How an FBI agent killed her foster brother and then went on the lam. The police would be searching for her instead of searching for the real killer, but she would never be found. Her body would be buried somewhere deep in the Maine wilderness.

And that was something she couldn’t allow.

Not just because she was innocent and needed to prove it, but because she wanted justice for Ryan. She wanted the person who had shot him to be punished to the full extent of the law. She had gone into law enforcement to make that happen to as many criminals as she could. She had committed herself to that goal, and she had spent more than a decade of her life devoted to it. Everything she was, all that she did, was tied up in her need to see justice served. She had no regrets about that.

Lately, though, she had been tired.

She had returned home after long days of work at the FBI’s Boston field office and asked herself if her devotion to justice was worth the silent and empty apartment, the lack of romantic relationships, the bonds of friendship that had become frayed and worn after years of missed and rescheduled get-togethers. Returning to Hidden Cove to help Abigail had seemed like the perfect opportunity to reassess her life and her goals. Wren had imagined plenty of downtime spent walking the farm or hiking through the woods.

She hadn’t imagined this.

She hadn’t anticipated it.

She was neck-deep in trouble, and she was the only person who could get herself out of it.

She slid sideways on the seat, watching as the vehicle zipped past shadowy trees. She knew this road well and knew exactly where she was. She’d traveled this way hundreds of times as a preteen and teenager. She knew the curves and the hills, the places where it opened up and where it narrowed.

She knew that the next turnoff led down a long dirt driveway to a tired-looking bungalow-style house that overlooked Mystic Creek. She thought the place had been abandoned years ago, but she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t asked Abigail, because she hadn’t wanted her to know that there were still times when she thought about the bungalow and about Titus Anderson. Even after all these years.

She watched as the driver flew past the old white mailbox that marked the Anderson property. They were going too fast for the road, taking curves too quickly, tree branches scraping the sides and roof of the vehicle. If she jumped out now, she could be too badly injured to run.

She waited, her arm still seeping blood, her attention focused.

They traveled another couple of miles, and then the driver braked hard, spinning onto a side road, the car slowing just enough that she was willing to take the chance. Had to take it, because it might be the only one she got.

She opened the door and threw herself out, trying to jump clear of the back wheels. Her shoulder slammed into the thick trunk of a pine tree, needles jabbing her face as she stumbled and tried to regain her balance.

She fell, her forehead glancing off the rough bark, knees sliding across dead leaves and aromatic needles. The screech of brakes spurred her up and on.

Faster.

Faster.

The word chanted through her mind, her pulse matching the frantic rhythm of it. She was making too much noise, giving away her location with every frantic push forward.

She needed to slow down, be quiet, think through her options, because if she didn’t, she’d die. And, in a place like this, it might be years before she was found.

If she ever was.

And maybe that was what this was about. The trouble Ryan was in had led to his murder, and she was slated to be the fall-guy for it. All the perps had to do was get her away from the murder scene, kill her and hide her body where no one would ever find it. With her vehicle left near Ryan’s body, she could be pinned with the crime and called a fugitive from justice. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

She forced herself to stop and listen.

They were behind her, crashing through the thick undergrowth, breaking branches and twigs. They’d have lights. She was certain of that. She didn’t glance back to see if she was right. She turned to her left, walking parallel to the road rather than away from it. Moving deliberately, being careful where she stepped and what she bumped. The moon was high and bright. It had been rising when she’d left the rehabilitation center where Abigail had been staying since she’d broken her hip. Now, it had reached its zenith and was descending. She used it as a guide. East would lead her back to the dirt driveway and Titus’s childhood home. His mother had died when they were in college, overdosing on the drugs that had stolen her away from him years prior to her death. He’d inherited the house, but he’d told her that he never planned to return to it.

They’d still been best friends then.

Now they were strangers, but she knew how to find her way through the woods and to his childhood home. She knew that the back door didn’t lock properly, that there was a rotary phone hanging on the kitchen wall, that an old Chevy truck sat in the garage near the back of the property.

At least, those things had been true when she’d left town eighteen years ago. Maybe they were still true. Maybe she could walk in the back door, grab the phone and dial 911. She knew enough about Titus to know he wouldn’t have let the property go to waste. He would have rented it out or sold it, and he would have made certain the electricity, water and phone were always on. There had been too many times during his childhood when they hadn’t been.

So, the phone would be working.

It had to be.

And the place would either belong to someone else or be a rental property managed by Titus.

Either way, she should be able to find the help she needed.

She hoped.

Staying in the woods, trying to keep a step ahead of her pursuers when she was cuffed and injured would be a death sentence.

She shuddered, her body suddenly cold with shock.

Ryan was dead.

The reality of it seemed to finally be sinking in, and she was sick from it. Her stomach churned, her head pounded, her feet felt numb. She stumbled down a steep slope, falling face-first into a small creek. Cold water filled her mouth and nose, nearly choking her. She refused to cough, afraid her pursuers would hear. She could hear them shoving through the trees, closer than she wanted them to be. They hadn’t been fooled by her change in direction. They were hot on her trail, and if she didn’t do something quickly they’d find her.

She struggled to her feet, slipped and slid up the opposite side of the bank, praying for help, wondering if it would come. She wanted to run, but her legs were heavy, her body shaking with the force of her heartbeat. She had to settle for slow, steady progress. Down a hill and up the other side, the sound of her pursuers echoing through the otherwise silent woods.

From the sound of it, they were racing toward her, sprinting through the early spring foliage.

She needed to run, too, but she could barely manage to walk. A light flashed through the trees. She thought the men had circled around and were setting a trap, but the light remained steady as she ducked behind an ancient oak. Her heart jumped as she realized what she was seeing. Not the beam of a flashlight. A house light. She ran as fast as she dared. Finally breaking free of the forest and sprinting across lush grass. Her harsh breath was the only sound in eerily quiet darkness. The house was a few hundred yards away—a little bungalow that looked like a sweeter, more-cared-for version of the one Titus had once lived in. Manicured yard and whitewashed porch with a swing hanging from its ceiling. The light she’d been aiming for shone from a front window. Another was visible in the attic dormer.

A man cursed, the sound breaking the silence. Seconds later, she heard the soft click of a gun safety. She dove for cover, sliding across grass as the first bullet flew. It slammed into the earth inches away, kicking up bits of rock and damp soil. She managed to roll behind a bush and shimmy a few feet closer to the house, blood oozing in thick warm rivulets down her wrist and seeping into the back of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans.

She kept low as another bullet hit the ground.

She was almost to safety, crawling across the ground on her belly, her toes and knees propelling her forward, her pulse slushing loudly in her ears and blocking every other sound. She had no idea if her pursuers were approaching, no clue whether they’d fled. She knew only her goal: to escape, to survive, to get help for herself and justice for Ryan.

She skirted the front of the house and crawled around the corner, out of the line of fire. She managed to get to her feet again, to run the length of the house and around to the back. The door was there, just like she remembered it. Three steps up. Grab the doorknob. Turn it. That’s all she had to do. She made it up the stairs, managed to turn her back to the door and grab the knob with her cuffed hand.

Only, instead of opening like it had when she was a kid, it remained closed, the lock holding.

She tried again, afraid to knock and give away her location. When it didn’t open, she searched the back porch for a spare key. The beam of a flashlight skipped across the yard near the corner of the house, and she darted down the steps, tried to run to the back of the property.

Too late.

Someone grabbed her shoulder, hard fingers digging into tense muscles. She whirled, sideswiping her attacker’s ankle. He swayed but didn’t fall. She shoved forward, using her body weight against him, trying to knock him to the ground. He muttered something, his grip loosening almost enough for her to break free.

She tried again. This time he stepped sideways, letting her tumble to the ground. She fell hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her vision blurring. She could have stayed down, but she’d been fighting hard battles most of her life, and all she really knew was how to keep going.

She managed to roll to her back and was struggling to get up when a bullet whizzed past and slammed into a deck railing. Wood splintered, a piece of it digging into her cheek. She had no time to react.

Her attacker was on her, pressing her into the cool grass. All her training flew out of her head. All the years of careful control were gone. In an instant, she was back in time, fighting off the man who had just murdered her mother. She brought her knee up. Or tried. He had her pinned. Legs pressed to legs, chest to chest, his entire body covering hers.

She twisted, the bone in her injured arm snapping. She would have passed out if adrenaline hadn’t been pouring through her. She bucked, trying to throw off his weight.

“Stop!” he growled. “Someone’s shooting at you, and we’re both in the crosshairs. I don’t know what your plans are for tonight, but I’m not planning to die.”

It was the voice rather than the words that stilled her frantic movements. She knew the gritty texture of it, the soft Southern drawl that had never left. Not even a decade after moving to Hidden Cove with his mother.

“Titus?” she managed to say, the name ringing hollowly in her ears.

He tensed, then shifted just enough so she could breathe.

“Wren?” he responded.

He was looking into her face, staring into her eyes like he had dozens of times when they were kids exploring the woods together.

“What’s going—?”

Another bullet slammed into the deck, and his weight pressed into her again. This time, though, she didn’t fight it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d headed toward his property. If she had she wouldn’t have done it. Bringing danger into someone else’s life wasn’t the way she operated. She didn’t want Titus hurt because of her, and if she could have jumped up and led the gunmen away, she would have.

“You need to get out of here,” she whispered.

“We need to get out of here,” he responded, his lips brushing her ear. “Who is it? What does he want?”

“I don’t know who he is. What he wants is me dead,” she replied.

“How about we don’t let him achieve his goal? Stay down and stay quiet. I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He rolled away, cold air replacing the warmth of his body as he moved.

She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to remind him that she was an FBI agent and knew how to take care of herself and her problems, but her thoughts were sluggish. Before the words could form, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the darkness.

Wren Santino was the last person Titus would have ever expected to show up at his house. Finding her in his backyard just after midnight on a late winter night? He couldn’t have imagined that if he’d tried.

But she was there.

Pale faced. Bleeding. Handcuffed.

And being shot at.

It had been years since they had last spoken to each other. That had been his fault. It was a fact he had acknowledged each time he had been tempted to reach for the phone to call her or make the trip to Boston to visit. Selfishly, he had wanted absolution and a return of the companionship and friendship he had lost. But, he had known Wren well enough to know that if she wanted to offer any of those things, she would have reached out to him.

She never had.

Until now.

He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he army crawled in the direction of the gunfire. He knew he had to stop the shooter, but he hated leaving Wren alone. They had been best friends. Buddies. Confidantes. She’d stood as his best man when he’d married Meghan.

He knew her almost as well as he knew himself, and he didn’t trust her to stay where he had left her. Even injured and cuffed, she would try to apprehend the shooter. He glanced back but couldn’t see her through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her, either, and he took that as a good sign.

He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck. He’d been meaning to dig them up. Now he was glad he hadn’t. He waited a few seconds, listening to the sudden silence, watching the darkness beyond the manicured yard.

“Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.

“Them?” he replied, glancing back and meeting her dark eyes. She was on her stomach, her skin pasty white in the gloom.

“Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed.”

“You’re sure they aren’t actually police?” he asked.

“They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. It’s possible that he can be saved if help arrives soon enough. I’d rather have you call for an ambulance than run into the woods looking for the shooters.”

“Your Ryan?” Titus asked, knowing that it had to be, that there was only one Ryan in town who Wren was affiliated with.

“Yes.” Her voice broke, and he had to resist the urge to hug her the way he would have before he’d ruined everything between them.

“I’ve already called 911. Help should be here soon, but letting them go? That’s not going to work for me.” He’d noticed the blood trail in his front yard as soon as he’d walked outside. He’d thought it might be an animal wounded by a hunter who was shooting out of season and on private property. That had made the most sense to him. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for four years. He’d found more than a couple poachers on his property.

Usually he let them go with a warning.

Tonight, he had been in the mood to press charges.

He had called 911 and then he’d gone out to look for the perpetrator. He hadn’t expected to be shot at, but he had been prepared for almost anything.

“Don’t make yourself a target, Titus,” Wren said. “Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

“Where is he?”

“Near his cruiser. About five miles outside of town. On Mountain Road. My SUV is there. The police shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”

The faint sound of sirens drifted on the breeze. “It sounds like help is almost here,” she said.

“Wait for them here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, crawling away, army-style.

“You’re not going to find the shooters. They’re heading back to their vehicle. There’s no way they’re going to wait around for the police to arrive,” she said, shifting into a sitting position.

“Get down,” he barked, fear making his tone harsher than he’d intended.

“I need to get these cuffs off, and I need to get back to my SUV. My cell phone is there. I want to call the FBI Boston Field Office and get some of my colleagues up here.”

“Wren, get down,” he repeated, crossing the distance between them.

“You don’t have any handcuff keys, do you?” she asked, dark strands of hair sliding across her cheek as she tried to get to her feet.

“I stopped carrying those when I quit the Boston Police Department,” he responded.

“I have some in my SUV.”

“I guess you have a good reason for that?”

“Yeah. You never know when you might need them.” She didn’t smile, but there was some life in her eyes again. “I want these guys. Sitting in cuffs while they escape isn’t helping me get them. You have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.” She strode toward the two-story garage as if she knew he would only ever park his Jeep there. Because, of course, he did. Jeep in the garage. Coats in the closet. Keys on the hook by the front door. Everything in its place. All of it in order and neat.

She knew that. She knew him. More than most people.

His hang-ups and his habits.

And she had loved him anyway. The way one friend loves another. That had meant the world to him.

It still did.

He followed, making another call to 911 as he unlocked the garage and flicked on the light. He had the keys and his cell phone in his pocket. He unlocked the Jeep, helped Wren into the passenger seat, his hand curved around her biceps.

She’d always been muscular and fit. Now she felt fragile, her tendons and ligaments drawn tight over small bones. He reached for the seat belt.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said.

He shook his head. “Safety first.”

She didn’t argue. He had known she wouldn’t.

He knew her. Just like she knew him.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling out of the garage and onto the dirt driveway that led to Mountain Road. They bounced over the deep ruts that he planned to fill when the weather warmed up and then turned onto the paved road that led to town.

She’d said Ryan was there.

Ambushed by the men who’d been trying to kill her.

He was thinking about that, watching the road in front of him more than he was the road behind. He expected to see emergency vehicles speeding toward his place. When he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind him, it took him by surprise. No headlights. Just white paint gleaming in the moonlight.

“What’s wrong?” Wren asked, shifting to look out the back window. “That’s them,” she murmured, her voice cold with anger or fear.

“Good. Let’s see if we can lead them to the police.”

“They’ll run us off the road before then.”

Probably, but the closer they were to help when it happened, the better off they’d be. He sped around a curve in the road, the white car closing the gap between them. It tapped his bumper, knocking the Jeep sideways. He straightened, steering the Jeep back onto the road, and tried to accelerate into the next curve as he was rear-ended again.

This time, the force of the impact sent him spinning out of control. The Jeep glanced off a guardrail, bounced back onto the road and then off it, tumbling down into a creek and landing nose down in the soft creek bed.

He didn’t have time to think about damage, to ask if Wren was okay or to make another call to 911. He knew the men in the car were going to come for them.

Come for Wren.

And he was going to make certain they didn’t get her.

He unsnapped his seat belt and jumped out of the vehicle.

“What are you doing?” Wren asked, her hands behind her, unable to do anything to free herself. He reached across the seat and unsnapped her belt.

“I’m going to discourage them from coming down here to find you,” he said, backing out of the Jeep.

“It will be easier and less dangerous to let them come to us,” she replied, scooting across the center console and climbing out.

“Only if you stay out of sight and let me handle it,” he replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, they’re after you. If you walk to them, they’re going to get exactly what they’re hoping for.”

“I’m not going to wait here while you fight my battles,” she argued.

“You have no idea whose battle this is. Neither do I. But right now? We’re both in danger. Since I’m currently the only one capable of fighting, I’ll do it for both of us. You can have your turn next time. Get back in the Jeep. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

She raised a dark brow, but did as he asked, sitting in the driver’s seat as he turned toward the road. He pulled his gun from the holster, keeping it ready as he began the steep ascent. He had quit law enforcement a few years after he had found out the truth about Meghan. It wasn’t something he had planned or, even, contemplated. Being a Boston cop had been his life goal. He had achieved it and had enjoyed moving up in ranks, becoming a homicide detective and following the path he had planned for himself.

But, when the opportunity to quit and change careers had presented itself, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d dived in headfirst and prayed it would work out. Four years after he’d returned to Hidden Cove and taken over his old carpentry teacher’s restoration business, he finally felt like he’d found his niche, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a police officer. He knew how to pursue suspects and apprehend perpetrators. He wasn’t going to allow the men who had run him off the road to escape. There was too much riding on their being apprehended. Justice. The safety of the community.

And, most importantly, Wren’s safety.

It may have been years since they’d last spoken, but he still cared about her, and he wasn’t going to step back and allow her to be hurt by an unknown enemy.

A door slammed, and he stopped, crouching behind thick undergrowth as he waited for the perps to make their move.

TWO

Nine years was a long time to not speak to the best of friends, the staunchest supporter, the most enthusiastic encourager.

Nine years should have changed everything, but the rhythm of her friendship with Titus? It was the same. The verbal sparring. The quick exchanges of ideas and plans. The compromising and the challenging. It all felt as natural as breathing.

That was the only excuse Wren could find for allowing him to walk toward the perpetrators while she sat in the Jeep and waited.

His plan had made sense.

He’d presented his argument, and she’d agreed because he’d been right. She wasn’t in the position to win a skirmish let alone the battle she thought might be coming.

But sitting idle?

It wasn’t something she did well.

She scooted closer to the door, legs out of the Jeep, feet on the muddy ground. Her tennis shoes were already soaked through, the cuffs of her jeans damp. If she’d had use of her hands, she’d have rolled them up, removed her shoes and climbed the steep hill that led to the road. She’d done it dozens of times as a teen, returning home with dirty feet and mud-caked clothes and listening to Abigail’s good-humored grumbling about her tomboyish ways.

Sirens screamed, the sound echoing through the forest and pulsing behind her eyes. She’d been exhausted before this, pulled in too many directions by too many people. Work. Friends. Abigail. She’d hoped that the two weeks she’d taken off to help her foster mother move her belongings into the retirement home she planned to move into when she was released from rehab would clear her mind and renew her flagging spirit. She hadn’t expected this kind of trouble. Not in a place like Hidden Cove.

But she should have been prepared for it.

A year ago, she would have been.

Life had been wearing her down. Fatigue had caused her to make a rookie mistake. Instead of carrying her service revolver, she’d left it in the gun safe at Abigail’s. Ryan might have paid for her mistake with his life.

Might have?

No matter how much she kept trying to deny it, she knew the truth.

She blinked back hot tears. Crying did no good. What she needed was razor-sharp focus because she planned to catch his killers, and she planned to throw them in jail and toss away the key.

An engine revved. A door slammed.

She expected a volley of shots to be fired.

Expected to have to duck for cover and worry that Titus was in the line of fire. He’d quit the Boston Police Department several years after she’d joined the FBI. She’d heard it through the law enforcement grapevine. She’d wanted to call and ask him why. He’d been a great cop and a fantastic homicide detective. He’d been on his way to a great and fulfilling career.

But by the time she’d heard he’d quit, the silence between them had seemed too deep, the distance too great to overcome.

She wondered what he’d been doing since he’d left the force. He still acted like a cop. Still moved like one. She could see him crouched behind brush halfway up the hill, gun in hand and at the ready.

She wanted to call out and tell him to be careful, but that would bring bullets flying in her direction.

Or maybe not.

The car sped away. Lights still off.

She stepped out of the Jeep.

“Stay where you are!” Titus shouted, and she realized she’d made another mistake. She’d assumed both perps had left the area. One might have stayed behind.

She froze, waiting for gunshots.

All she heard was the pulsing siren of the approaching emergency vehicle and the rapid beat of her heart.

“It’s clear, I think,” she finally responded, stepping out of the muddy creek bed.

“I’d rather we both know,” he muttered, jogging toward her.

Strobe lights flashed on the street above them.

Help had finally arrived.

She wanted to feel relieved and victorious, but all she felt was grief. Ryan was gone. They hadn’t ever been close, but they’d always had each other’s backs. She’d bailed him out of jail when he was a young punk kid with more attitude than brains. She’d helped him with college expenses, encouraged him to keep his nose clean and lectured him when he’d needed it.

He’d always called her on her birthday and on holidays. Always sent funny cards reminding her not to take life too seriously. Always called her “sis.”

“You okay?” Titus asked as he reached her side.

“Do I look it?” she responded.

His gaze dropped from her face to her blood-splattered T-shirt.

“No.” He shrugged out of his flannel shirt and dropped it around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find the person who did this.”

“People,” she corrected. “Two men.”

“We’ll find the people who did this. But, first, I need to get you out of these cuffs.” He touched her uninjured wrist. “This one is fine, but the other one is so swollen, the cuff is digging in. Can you feel it?”

“It hurts,” she responded, her gaze on the road and the flashing lights. “I need to speak with the police.”

She headed uphill, her feet slipping, her arms useless for balance.

“How about I help?” Titus muttered, sliding his arm around her waist, careful not to jar her injured wrist.

If it had been any other day, if he’d been any other man, she’d have told him she could manage on her own, because she could manage. She hadn’t gotten where she was in her career by relying on other people to get her through the tough times. It might take more time and more effort, but if she’d had to, she’d have crawled to the road.

However, Titus was an old friend. They’d parted ways under unhappy circumstances, but she still cared about him. She’d like to believe he still cared about her. For right now, she would believe it, because as much as she hated to admit it, she felt too weak to climb the hill on her own.

They were nearly to the top when a uniformed officer stepped into sight, the beam of his light illuminating them. “Sheriff’s department! Freeze! Both of you! Hands where I can see them!”

“Her hands are cuffed,” Titus responded.

“Facedown! On your bellies. Now!”

Titus tried to help her, but the deputy shouted again. “I said get down! Now.”

Titus dropped to his stomach.

She did the same, her eyes tearing as the sudden movement jarred her injured wrist.

Seconds later, they were surrounded. She counted shoes as she was patted down. Five sets. That was a lot of manpower for a small-town sheriff’s department to send out.

“Wren Santino?” one of the men said, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet.

“That’s correct,” she said as she met Sheriff Camden Wilson’s eyes. They’d attended high school together. He knew exactly who she was.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Ryan Parker. You have the right to remain silent...”

His voice droned on, but she didn’t hear what he was saying.

All she could hear was the word murder and Ryan’s name.

Ryan was gone. Somehow, she’d been responsible for that.

She was dizzy with the truth of it, and she stumbled, dropping to her knees despite the sheriff’s grip on her arm.

“She needs medical attention,” Titus said, his voice gruff with concern. She wanted to tell him that she’d be fine, but the words seemed trapped in her head.

“She needs to be in jail for the rest of her life,” the sheriff said, but he put in a call for an ambulance. She heard that. Heard the soft murmur of voices as other law enforcement officers chatted.

The sheriff led her to his vehicle. When they reached it, he uncuffed her wrists with more gentleness than she’d expected.

“Thanks,” she managed to say.

“You’re a human being. You deserve to be treated like one. I wished you’d felt the same about my deputy. Sit.” He opened the door and motioned for her to sit in the back.

She didn’t argue, and she didn’t try to explain.

Her Miranda rights had been read.

She knew them.

“I’d like to make a phone call,” she said.

“Later,” he replied, and then he closed the door, locking her inside. She’d wait patiently. She’d do what she was told. Fighting the system could only lead to more trouble in the long run, but what she really wanted to do was shout for him to let her out, demand that she be treated like the law enforcement officer she was, give him all the details he had yet to ask for.

She had done nothing wrong.

She knew that.

The best thing she could do was the most difficult—be quiet and wait.

Six hours after he’d been cuffed and taken to the sheriff’s department, Titus finally returned home. His Jeep had been towed from the creek and was sitting in front of his house. The windows were shattered and the body damaged. He thought the front axle might be broken. It wasn’t drivable, but it wasn’t his only vehicle. Despite asking about Wren numerous times, he’d been given no information. Now that he was free, he planned to take matters into his own hands. He’d drive back into town and ask around. Someone knew something about where Wren had been taken and how she was doing.

More than likely, everyone knew everything.

That’s how it worked in Hidden Cove.

He’d moved there as a child, making the long trip from Fort Worth, Texas, because his mother had inherited property from her maternal grandfather. By all rights, the home should have been exactly what they’d been needing, but Sophia Parker had been more interested in her addictions than she had been in keeping up the pretty little house and beautiful acreage. He’d spent his tween and teen years ignoring the whispers about his home life, about his mother’s ways of making a few bucks, about his threadbare clothes and wild Afro. He hadn’t cared that he was the only dark-skinned kid in town. He’d cared that he’d had to carry his clothes to the Laundromat if he wanted them clean. He cared that he had to buy food if he wanted to eat. He cared that the entire town knew his business.

Now, though, the nosy neighbors and small-town gossips might come in handy.

He ran to the garage and climbed in the Chevy pickup he used to haul wood. It was ancient but functional, the engine roaring to life as soon as he turned the ignition. His gun had been taken and then returned. He had it tucked into the holster, and he grabbed a jacket from his emergency pack in the back of the truck and shrugged into it. No sense wandering around town with his gun visible. People in Hidden Cove hadn’t trusted him when he was a kid. He had been an outsider with an attitude, a teenager who had no understanding of small-town life. His mother’s drug addiction had been well known, and he had been her son—a young man who had a chip on his shoulder and no reason to want to fit in.

It had taken a while, but eventually he had proven that he was more than a product of his mother’s mistakes. His job as a police officer in Boston had helped solidify the town’s impression of him as hardworking and honest. When he had returned for his high school carpentry teacher’s retirement party and had been given an opportunity to take over his restoration business, he had jumped at the opportunity. He had worked with his teacher for two years before stepping in as owner and operator. The town had seemed happy enough with the transition, but Wren had left town to go to college, and she had only returned for brief visits. Unlike Titus, she was still considered an outsider. The fact that she was an FBI agent might make people more willing to trust her, but whether or not she’d have any allies in a town that was close-knit and tight-lipped when it wanted to be remained to be seen. She did have Abigail, though, and Abigail had a lot of influence in Hidden Cove. She’d been born and raised there. She’d taught elementary and middle school. She’d fostered kids who’d had nowhere else to go. Never married, she’d devoted her life to helping others and supporting the town she loved.

The town loved her for it.

Although he hadn’t been to see her at the farm since his return, they’d spoken at church and at town meetings. She’d supported his efforts to save some of the oldest homes in town, and he’d appreciated that. She’d broken her hip a month ago, and, according to people who supposedly knew, she planned to move into a retirement home once she finished rehab.

The fact that she was giving up the property that had been in her family for three generation made his stomach churn, but it wasn’t his business, and when he’d heard that the for-sale sign had finally gone up, he’d kept his mouth shut and his opinions to himself.

Abigail would be devastated when she heard the news about Ryan. She’d loved him like a son. Her two last foster children had been her two best. That’s what she’d often said when he was visiting Wren at the farm during their high school years.

He glanced in his rearview mirror as he pulled onto Mountain Road. It had been too long since he’d been out to Abigail’s property. He should have visited before she’d broken her hip, but he’d been avoiding the memories he knew it would stir up.

He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life.

Accusing Wren of lying about his ex-wife? That had been one of the biggest. He’d known her almost as well as he knew himself. He’d known how honest she was, how much she cared about him, how deeply it had hurt her to have to tell him she had seen Meghan with another man.

Yet, he’d been more willing to believe she was lying than he had been to accept the truth.

He’d tried to apologize, but by that point it had been too late. The damage had been done.

“Water under the bridge,” he muttered, accelerating as he headed toward town. The sun had just risen, golden rays of light tipping the tree canopy with gold. The sky was pristine blue. No clouds, but he caught a whiff of something in the air.

Smoke?

He rolled down the window, inhaled fresh cool air and the unmistakable scent of a fire. He glanced in his rearview mirror, saw black smoke billowing up from the valley.

Surprised, he turned the truck around and sped toward the plume of smoke. It was too big to be coming from a trash pile. Was someone’s house burning? He called 911 but, without an address, could only be vague about the location. The road wound its way down into the valley, the forests opening into farmland. He drove several miles, his attention on the road and the smoke wafting across the sky. It took him too long to realize where it was coming from, and by the time he did, he was almost at the gates that opened onto Abigail’s two-hundred-acre property. The old farmhouse stood on a hill in the center of a lush green lawn. Gray siding. White shutters. Wraparound porch.

The smoke was coming from behind the house.

Or from the back of it.

He drove through the open gates, speeding up the gravel driveway and giving the address to the 911 operator as he parked. If he didn’t do something, the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse would be consumed by flames before help arrived.

He raced to the backyard, hoping an outbuilding or trash pile was on fire. Flames shot from the roof of the kitchen addition that had been added in the fifties. Abigail loved to tell the story of how her father had surprised her mother with the extraordinary gift of a modern kitchen. In the years since, nothing had been changed. The subway-tile backsplash, the Formica counters and glossy pink cupboards were all exactly as they had been. The oven, the refrigerator, the old icebox. They stood exactly where Abigail’s father had placed them.

He bounded up the porch stairs. The back door was open, the room beyond filled with smoke. He could see flames lapping at the floor and moving toward the dining room, which was part of the older building.

All the aged and dry wood would be kindling for the inferno. He grabbed the garden hose that Abigail used to water the flower beds and turned on the water.

It wasn’t much, but if he could wet down the wood, he might be able to slow the fire. He aimed for the interior of the kitchen, listening as the fire hissed and steamed, moving into the room as the flames diminished.

There was a trail of liquid on the floor, and the flames followed it, shooting along through the pool of what had to be accelerant.

He aimed at that, spraying water across the floor and into the dining room, skirting past smoldering floorboards and making his way deeper into the house.

He could smell it now—gasoline.

And he could see it, splattered on walls and on the floor, just waiting for the spark to get it going.

Someone had been trying to burn down the farmhouse.

Who?

Why?

And what did it have to do with Ryan’s death?

Titus didn’t believe in coincidences, and he didn’t believe the two things weren’t connected.

He sprayed the floorboards, stretching the hose as far as it could go. Once he’d reached its limits, he headed back into the kitchen. The flames were out there, smothered by the deluge of water, but the damage was massive. He doubted the addition could be saved, but the fire marshal would make that determination.

He caught movement in his periphery vision and turned as a figure lunged from the doorway that led to the back stairs. Something glanced off his head, the pain less immediate than his need to stop his attacker from escaping.

He dropped the hose and tackled what looked like a scrawny teenager. They fell into a puddle of gasoline-tainted water. Titus had the kid pinned, his forearm to the boy’s throat.

“Let me go!” the kid whined.

“Not until the police arrive.”

“Police? I was trying to put the fire out!”

“You can tell them all about it,” Titus said.

The kid’s gaze shifted. Just a little. Just enough that Titus had a millisecond of warning. He dove to the side as something whipped through the air. It hit his shoulder, the impact stealing the breath from his lungs.

Not a bullet. He rolled sideways, pulling his gun, aiming at a man who was swinging a baseball bat in the direction of his head. The shot hit its mark, but momentum kept the bat spinning through the air. It hit Titus in the temple.

He saw stars.

Then he saw nothing at all.

THREE

Black smoke rose from the back of Abigail’s farmhouse, the dark streaks of soot-filled heat drifting into the sky. No flames that Wren could see, but that didn’t make the situation better. Something was burning. The house or the porch behind it. Not an outbuilding. The smoke was too close.

“What in the world?” Annalise Rivers muttered as she pulled up in front of the house. One of the FBI’s top-notch defense attorneys, Annalise had arrived at the hospital two hours after Wren had called the field office and requested help. She’d brought Special Agent Radley Tumberg with her. A member of the Special Crimes Unit, Radley had been part of Wren’s work world for years. Determined and tough, he knew how to go after the answers he needed to solve some of the most complicated crimes.

Any other time Wren would have found comfort in having him there. Right now, all she felt was confusion, grief and anger.

“Call the fire department!” she shouted as she jumped out of the vehicle, the soft cast the hospital had set her wrist in banging against her chest as the sling bounced with her movement. She’d had the bullet wound cleaned and stitched and the bone set. Until the stitches came out, her arm would remain in the soft cast. She had been released from the hospital with instructions to keep the arm elevated and to rest.

She had planned to go to the rehab center, explain to Abigail what had happened and then return to the farmhouse. Instead, she’d received a call from a nurse at the rehab center. The sheriff had broken the news of Ryan’s death, and Abigail was distraught, begging someone to bring her the photo album that contained pictures of Ryan when he was young.

Wren had been enraged at the sheriff’s callousness. She knew he had intended to arrest her. Only Annalise’s law enforcement savvy had kept that from happening. Wren’s hands had been swabbed for gunpowder residue. When it wasn’t found, she’d been told she was free to go.

For now.

If her arm hadn’t been broken, she’d have been at the rehab center before the sheriff. Instead, she’d headed to the farmhouse to get the photo album.

The farmhouse that seemed to be on fire.

She shouted for Annalise to stay back and raced to the side of the house, feet pounding the packed earth and soft grass. She’d planned to pull up the shrubs that were edging too close to the siding this week. The Realtor Abigail had hired had suggested it.

Now her only concern was keeping the old house from burning to the ground.

“Wren!” Radley yelled, grabbing her good arm and dragging her backward. “Go back to the car. I’ll handle this.”

“In what world would that ever happen?” she replied, her voice tauter and sharper than she’d intended.

“In my perfect world,” he muttered, letting go of her arm and running around the back of the house with her.

He knew she wouldn’t back down, and he wasn’t going to waste time trying to convince her to. That was one of Radley’s strengths. He knew how to take charge and how to concede leadership to someone else if necessary.

“In my perfect world, there wouldn’t be smoke billowing out from the back of my foster mother’s house,” she replied, sprinting up the porch stairs.

The back door was cracked open, the threshold singed black.

She slammed her good hand against the door, and it flew open, banging into the wall behind it. If Abigail had been there, she’d have chastised Wren. She wasn’t, and neither was Ryan. The closest thing to a kid brother she’d ever had, he’d been living with Abigail after divorcing his wife of five years. Darla had moved to Boston after the divorce was final, and Ryan hadn’t been able to afford the house they’d bought together. The property had gone into foreclosure.

Wren knew that had been a blow to his ego.

He’d prided himself on doing better than his biological family had, of making his way in a world that wasn’t always fair or equitable. He’d been almost too prideful about his accomplishments, something she’d never had the heart to tell him. He was Ryan—bighearted and bigheaded.

Now he was gone.

She crossed the threshold, barreling into the kitchen.

A room that had always been Abigail’s favorite, it had once had fifties vintage charm that permeated all Wren’s best memories. Now it was a disaster, water flooding the floor, smoke billowing up from curtains that were smoldering.

“You have a sprinkler system here?” Radley asked, stepping into the kitchen behind her, his gaze darting from one corner of the room to the other. She knew he wasn’t looking for a sprinkler system. He was looking for danger.

“No,” she responded, toeing an old green garden hose that was snaking through the kitchen and into the dining room. “Someone turned on the garden hose.”

“To put out the fire?”

“I can’t think of any other reason.” She inhaled, the harsh scent of smoke stinging her nose. “I think I smell gasoline.”

“I was thinking the same. Someone set the fire, and then tried to put it out?” Radley grabbed the hose and tugged it back into the room, turning the nozzle to shut off the water that had still been flowing out of it.

“That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Does any of this?” he asked, following her as she moved cautiously into the dining room.

Unlike the kitchen, it had no deep char marks on the walls. She was so busy noting the condition of the room that she almost didn’t see the man splayed out on the sopping area rug near the table. His face was turned away, his hair wet, his clothes soaked. Her heart jumped.

“Titus?” she murmured, rushing to his side, every thought of the hose, the water and the fire gone. Even now, even after so many years apart, she would have known him anywhere.

Seeing him like this—unconscious and vulnerable—tore at her heart.

She touched his neck, feeling for a pulse and praying she would find one. She’d already lost Ryan. She didn’t want to lose Titus, too.

His eyes flew open. Not green or blue. A shade of teal that reminded her of the sky at dusk.

“Wren?” He snagged her hand.

“What happened?” she replied. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Is this our perp?” Radley asked, his hand hovering near the holster that was nearly hidden by his suit jacket.

“This is Titus. A friend of mine,” she responded.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not the perp,” Radley pointed out reasonably.

“I’m not,” Titus bit out, his eyes blazing. “Your perps are gone.” He got to his feet, Wren’s hand still in his.

She could have pulled away.

She probably should have.

Their friendship had ended years ago.

She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day she’d told him she’d seen his wife with another man. She had thought she was being true to their friendship, honoring the honest and caring relationship they had.

He hadn’t taken it that way.

He’d called her jealous and petty, and had accused her of lying.

And she had stepped out of his life.

Just like that.

The hurt had felt like the worst kind of betrayal. That he hadn’t known her well enough to have discovered the truth about who she was and what she was capable of had nearly broken her heart.

She’d survived by walking away and cutting herself off from him the same way she cut herself off from anyone who didn’t respect her boundaries. She had learned plenty of hard lessons watching her mother, and she had vowed to never repeat the mistakes she’d witnessed. She wanted mutual kindness in her friendships, mutual care and respect and affection in all the relationships in her life.

Titus had once ticked all those boxes.

And, then, he hadn’t.

They were strangers now, and she had no business holding on to him as if they were more. But he looked unsteady, and she told herself she was offering him support he obviously needed. The truth was more complicated. It was about friendship and loyalty and years when they had been each other’s staunchest supporters. It was about time passing, about all the days and nights when she shouldn’t have been missing him but had.

It was about that same heart-jolting feeling she had always gotten when she’d stared into his eyes. It was about the kind of love that didn’t stop because of hurt feelings and broken trusts. Not romantic love. Real and deep and abiding friendship.

“Perps? As in more than one?” Radley asked, inhaling deeply. “I smell gasoline in here, too.”

“Because two men were trying to burn the place down,” Titus said. “I walked in on them before they could get the blaze going enough.”

“Did you see them?” Wren asked, pulling her hand from his because she needed to—she was a professional, and he was the possible victim of a crime.

“Yes. One looked like a kid. Maybe late teens, early twenties. Skinny. The other was older. Heavier. I didn’t get a good look at him. I was too busy dodging the baseball bat he was swinging at my head.” He touched the back of his skull, pulling his hand away and looking at it as if he expected to see blood on his fingers.

“I take it you weren’t successful?” Wren probed the area he’d just touched and found an egg-sized lump. No broken skin. No blood. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a serious injury.

He winced away. “How’d you guess?”

“That huge bump on your head clued me in,” she replied. “Can you call an ambulance, Radley?”

“Sure.”

“That’s not necessary,” Titus cut in.

“You could have a fractured skull. Or a concussion.”

“I’m not seeing two of everything. I don’t feel sick. I’m not disoriented. I have a headache to beat all headaches, but I think I’ll be just fine. What we need are the police.”

“Based on the number of sirens I hear, I’d say they’re on the way,” Radley said.

Wren could hear the sirens, too, their warning muted by walls and glass. Once the police arrived, she might not have a chance to retrieve the photo album. The sheriff’s department was small and had limited resources. It could be days before the house was processed and cleared.

She didn’t want to wait days.

Not when Abigail was so upset.

“I’m running upstairs for something. Meet me out front.” She tossed the word over her shoulder as she sprinted into the wide hallway that led to the front staircase. Functional rather than ornate, it had thick newel posts and dark wooden stair treads. None of it seemed to have been touched by the fire.

“Wren!” Radley called, rushing after her. “You know better. This is a crime scene.”

“And my prints are already all over it,” she replied, jogging up the stairs, her wrist throbbing dully with each movement.

“It’s not about your prints. It’s about contaminating evidence and disturbing the scene.”

“From what I can see, the perps didn’t go upstairs.” She hit the landing at a near run. She couldn’t bring Ryan back for Abigail, but she could at least do this.

“You may not be seeing everything.”

“She’s seeing enough. No gasoline trail up here. No burned carpet. No sign that they were trying to set it on fire.” Titus cut in, following right on Radley’s heels.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t here,” Radley reiterated.

“No, but I’m fairly certain the sheriff’s office isn’t going to have their investigation ruined by an FBI agent walking through the house she spent half her childhood in.” Titus reached the landing and bounded up the stairs after Wren.

She could have joined the conversation, reminded them that she could handle herself and the situation. Under normal circumstances, she would have. These were not normal circumstances. Ryan’s murder had pulled the rug out from under her, and she was still trying to regain her footing.

She walked into Abigail’s room, trying not to notice the layer of dust on the once-immaculate dresser. She’d known that Abigail was getting older. She’d seen small changes in her at every visit. Less energy and verve. Less concern for keeping the house as spotless as it had once been. Overgrown lawn and weed-choked flower beds. Wren had told herself Abigail was busy with her church friends, her clubs and her volunteer work.

She had worried that it wasn’t true.

But she hadn’t visited more. She hadn’t extended her stays. She hadn’t asked Abigail flat out if she was able to handle the farm on her own.

She should have.

Just like she should have kept her mouth shut about Titus’s wife. It was too late now. She couldn’t change the past, but she could make certain that Abigail’s future was secure, and that she had everything she wanted and needed.

She opened the closet, expecting to have to search the shelves for the album Abigail wanted. To her surprise, it was sitting on the floor near Abigail’s shoes, Ryan’s school pictures filling little oval slots on the cover. She tucked it under her arm and turned to leave the room, nearly bumping into Titus.

Surprised, she stumbled back.

“Careful,” he said, grabbing her arm to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She shrugged away, determined to keep distance between them. She didn’t want to fall back into the trap of caring. She didn’t want to be hurt like she’d been before.

“Is that the album?” Radley asked.

“Yes.”

“Album?” Titus eyed the thick book.

“Abigail heard about Ryan’s death. She wanted me to bring this to her.”

“Heard about it?”

“The sheriff broke the news to her.”

“He couldn’t have waited for you to do it?”

“Considering I’m his prime suspect, I’d say he probably wanted to ask questions about our relationship.”

“You and Ryan got along well most of the time.”

“We did, but he was encouraging Abigail to sell the farm. I wasn’t as excited about it.”

“That doesn’t make you a killer,” Radley intoned.

“No, but it could be motive.” It’s certainly a motive she’d be considering if she were the investigating officer.

The first responders had arrived, firefighters banging on the front door asking if anyone was inside. She ran to open it, bracing herself for the chaos she knew was coming.

Wren hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said that she was the prime suspect in Ryan’s murder. Once the sheriff had arrived, he’d questioned Titus, put out a BOLO for the perps and then begun questioning Wren. He didn’t come out and accuse her of setting fire to the house to cover up evidence, but he hinted that it might be a possibility. Titus listened silently, leaning against the mailbox at the end of the driveway as Sheriff Camden Wilson volleyed one question after another in Wren’s direction.

“Sheriff, my client has already answered these questions,” the FBI lawyer Wren had introduced Titus to cut in. She’d exited a black SUV as soon as the sheriff had arrived, her blond hair and fair skin contrasting sharply with her black suit. He should remember her name, but his mind was still foggy from the hit he’d taken.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

“You have three witnesses who can all testify that Agent Santino was not here at the time the fire began—”

“She could have hired someone.”

“Before or after you questioned her? During or after her wrist was set? At what point do you think she had access to a phone and the ability to make a call without being noticed.” She crossed lean arms over her waist and eyed the sheriff dispassionately. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, fine lines near the corners of her eyes and a few strands of white mixed with her dark blond hair. She wore minimal makeup, a conservative suit and a half smile that Titus knew was getting under the sheriff’s skin.

“What I’m saying is that she could easily have set all this up ahead of time.” He glanced toward the house, frowning as he spotted the fire marshal moving toward them. “We can take up the conversation later. I need to speak with the fire marshal.”

“I’m assuming my client is free to go?” the lawyer said.

“For now. Are you planning to leave the scene, Titus?” he asked. They knew each other from church but didn’t run in the same circles. On a first-name basis but not friends.

“Yes.” He hadn’t put any thought to it. He’d been too busy trying to figure out why the sheriff would think Wren had murdered her foster brother. Now he was certain he wasn’t sticking around. Not if Wren was leaving.

Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good, and she seemed to be right at the center of it.

“Can you come to my office tomorrow to make a statement?” the sheriff asked.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he pointed out.

“Crime has no favorite day of the week, and my office stays open 24/7 all year long. If you’d prefer to wait until Monday, that’s fine, but we can move the case along more quickly if we have all the information we need.”

“I’ll be there after church. Maybe noon?”

“Whatever time suits you. You’re not a suspect. You’re free to come and go as you please.” He shot a dark look in Wren’s directions but didn’t lob accusations at her.

He knew the limit of the law.

He seemed willing to bide his time.

He also seemed convinced she was responsible for the two crimes he was investigating.

“You’re heading to the rehab facility?” Titus asked, stepping into place beside Wren as she walked to a black SUV.

“Yes.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“Why?”

“Because I should have visited Abigail a long time ago and didn’t.”

“Now is probably not the time.” She opened the back door of the SUV and slid in. She would have closed it, but he grabbed the top of the window and held it open.

“I’m going. If I have to drive myself, that’s fine, but with the headache I’ve currently got, it’s probably not the wisest choice.”

She frowned, her forehead creased, her usually perfectly styled hair falling around her shoulder in wild waves. She had smudges of dirt on her cheek and shadows under her eyes, and she looked...

Tired?

Worried?

Sad?

Maybe all those things. Years ago he could easily have read the expression on her face and in her eyes.

Now he wasn’t sure what she was feeling or thinking.

“We could give you a ride to the hospital,” she suggested. “Or back home.”

“I’d really like to visit Abigail and offer my condolences. I know how much Ryan meant to her.”

Mentioning Ryan seemed to loosen something inside Wren. She sighed, her shoulders bowing as she pulled her injured wrist closer to her chest. “All right. We’ll give you a ride. When we return, I’ll have Radley take you home.”

“So, that’s the kind of job a guy gets when he travels from Boston to help you? Chauffeur?” Radley asked as he got into the front passenger seat.

“There are worse gigs,” the attorney said. “Go ahead and get in, Mr. Anderson.”

“Titus,” he corrected as he rounded the SUV and did as she asked.

“And you can call me Annalise.” She started the engine and pulled away from the house.

Annalise.

Right.

He’d remember that.

Hopefully.

The throbbing ache in his head wasn’t doing much to motivate him. All he really wanted was to take a nap. Not a good choice with a head injury.

“You’re not falling asleep, are you?” Wren’s voice speared into his conscious, and he realized he’d closed his eyes and was drifting off.

“I was thinking about it,” he admitted.

“Don’t,” she commanded, her gaze focused on the window and the world outside. She was doing her best to ignore him. He couldn’t blame her, but he didn’t like it.

“You’re getting bossy in your old age, Wren.”

That got her attention.

She whirled to face him, her dark eyes flashing. “Old? You’re a year older.”

“Ten months,” he corrected, as if she didn’t know or couldn’t remember.

She did.

Wren had an uncanny memory and a keen intellect that had made her stand out in middle and high school. Based on how far she’d come since her years at the university, he’d say she hadn’t changed.

“I know.” She sighed. “You need to stay awake for a while. Closed head wounds can be just as dangerous as open ones.”

“I know.”

“So...” She glanced toward the front of the vehicle and lowered her voice. “Why are you here instead of at the hospital?”

“I already told you, I want to see Abigail.”

“That’s not the only reason.” It was a statement rather than a comment.

“You’re right. It’s not,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t like what’s gone down. You seem to be at the center of it, and that worries me.”

“I see. You want to play knight in shining armor and rush to my rescue?”

“I want to be the friend I should have been nine years ago,” he replied.

Her eyes widened just enough to show that he’d hit a nerve.

“The past is the past, Titus. How about we not bring it up?”

“I owe you an apology.”

“And this is your way of giving it? Riding to the rehab facility with me?”

“Offering you support.”

“I have support.” She waved her hand at her coworkers.

“Now you have more,” he replied.

She frowned. “This isn’t the time or the place to discuss what I think about that.”

“Good.”

“But we will discuss it,” she continued, turning away again.

He studied her profile, tracking the angle of her chin and the smooth plane of her cheeks. She was an older, more stunning version of the teen he’d spent so much time with. More polished. More streamlined. Even with her hair falling in tangles and her clothes ripped and stained, she looked sophisticated and professional. Everything she’d once told him she wanted to be.

I’ll never be like her.

How many times had she said that? When they were teens and young adults, it had been a constant theme in her life. She worked hard to assure herself that she would never be like her mother.

“If there is a choice between you staring at me and you sleeping,” she murmured, “I’d prefer you to sleep.”

“Even with a head injury?” he asked, curious to hear her response.

She glanced his way, the frown still in place. “No,” she replied. “So how about we discuss what isn’t going to happen.”

“Between us?”

“There is no us. There is a volatile situation that I don’t want you involved in,” she replied.

“Unfortunately, you’re not going to get what you want, because I’m already involved.”

“No—”

“This got personal the second someone trespassed on my property and began shooting. I’m not going home and forgetting that happened.”

And he wasn’t going to forget that they had once been good friends who would never have turned their backs on the other’s troubles.

If Wren thought that he was going to turn his back on her now, she was wrong. Despite the past, despite the hurt that was between them, he still cared, and he was still willing to do whatever it took to make certain she stayed safe. If that meant accompanying her wherever she went until the perpetrators were behind bars, then that was exactly what he planned to do.

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