Chapter Two
Rachel vaguely registered approaching sirens as she ducked under the bat’s arc, catching Troy’s arm on the backswing. Her right hand grabbed Troy’s wrist while the other forearm slammed into the back of his elbow, hyperextending the joint.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Troy lifted a work boot to stomp on her foot. Rachel sank her weight into the arm-bar, bending Troy hard at the waist and bringing her knee up to meet his face. Her peripheral vision caught strobe lights in the open doorway just as bone crunched and blood spurted onto the hardwood. The bat dropped to the floor with a metallic clunk. Rachel pulled her gaze off the red liquid.
“Police!” A hulking figure stepped over the threshold. The cavalry.
About freaking time.
Rachel maintained her hold on Troy and lifted her gaze to the huge cop in the doorway. Though he was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt instead of a uniform, Rachel recognized the massive shoulders and red hair of Westbury’s chief of police, Mike O’Connell. Her eyes locked on his for a second—just long enough for her to be surprised at the soft shade of baby blue—before Troy’s flailing and cursing broke the strange connection between them.
“Little help here?” Rachel adjusted her grip on Troy’s sweaty wrist.
The chief blinked. He holstered his weapon, cleared his throat, and moved toward her, calling out over his shoulder to the uniformed officer who had joined him in the doorway. Rachel recognized the young cop as the one who’d handled her vandalism complaints. She couldn’t remember his name, but his black hair and nice manners were distinctive. “Ethan, call for an ambulance.”
“Yes, sir.” Ethan turned around and disappeared. Flashing red and blue lights reflected disco-ball-style off Sarah’s freshly painted front door.
Rachel released Troy and stepped back. The chief brushed past her. They’d never met, but she’d seen him around town. Always from a distance though. He was way bigger up close. Way, way bigger. Though not particularly tall at about six-foot, his linebacker body exuded raw power. He handled skinny Troy like a toy, spinning him around and cuffing his hands behind his back in a few deft movements. “You’re under arrest.”
With Troy restrained and the police chief’s giant body as a barrier, Rachel was suddenly aware that her heart was racing and she couldn’t suck in enough oxygen. The flowered wallpaper closed in on her. She took a step back, away from the chief and Troy. Her sneaker slid a couple of inches. She glanced down at the smear of red left by her shoe. Blood. The foyer tilted. Blackness encroached on the edges of her vision, and a rushing sound echoed in her head. She averted her eyes from the spatter, planted both hands on her knees, and gulped moist air.
“You OK?” The police chief’s baby blues zeroed in on Rachel.
With no air to spare for words, she nodded. Her eyes locked onto his. With vague discomfort, her brain registered this was the first time in her life she’d been tempted to hide behind someone else instead of facing risk head-on.
She did the deep-breathing Zen-ish thing her martial arts instructor had attempted to teach her.
From behind a blood veil, Troy narrowed drunken, piggish eyes at her. “That bitch assaulted me.”
She forced another breath through her clenched teeth. Those mediation lessons never really sank in, but then no amount of training could prepare her for Troy. The Dalai Lama would lose his cool with Troy.
The chief didn’t respond, but Troy rose onto his toes as if the chief exerted force on the arm chicken-winged behind the cuffed man’s back. O’Connell passed Troy off to Ethan as soon as the younger officer poked his head through the doorway. “Read him his rights and drive him to the ER. Get them to run a blood alcohol level on him too.”
Rachel’s sight cleared as Ethan frog-marched Troy toward the front door. On the way out, her brother-in-law shot her an I’ll-get-even-with-you glare over his shoulder, and a tremor slid along Rachel’s spine. She’d always thought he was a bullying asshole, but tonight she’d seen the true dark side of Troy, the out-of-control brute buried under a boys-will-be-boys façade. She was number one on his to-screw list. Not a good place to be.
Sarah groaned and Rachel turned. Her adrenaline-loaded system was less steady than she realized. Her knees buckled as she stumbled to her sister’s side.
“Easy.” Next to her, Chief O’Connell steadied her with a firm grip on her elbow. His hand was warm, solid, and strong as he dropped to a knee, lowering her down to the floor with him. Side by side, his telephone pole of a thigh made hers look like a matchstick. When his hand left her arm, she felt the acute lack of support.
“Can you find a blanket?” he asked without taking his gaze off Sarah. The chief put two fingers to the wrist of her sister’s unbroken arm. With his other hand, he lifted the hair from Sarah’s temple and winced at her injuries. The bruises on Sarah’s pretty face were the deep red of raw meat.
Rachel’s eyes misted as she watched him treat Sarah with the gentleness she deserved. Sarah was the kind one, the considerate one, the polite one. And what did her sister get for being such a damned nice person? A fist in the face.
Rachel swallowed hard and ducked into the living room to whip an afghan from the back of the sofa. She used those few seconds, and the white-hot surge of anger, to tighten the rein on her emotions. With the need to put some distance between her and the cop, she knelt on the opposite side of her sister.
Her voice barely cracked. “How is she?”
“Her pulse and respiration are steady. Who are you?”
“Rachel Parker. I’m Sarah’s sister.”
He nodded and helped her spread the blanket over Sarah. He glanced up at Rachel, his eyes locking on her hers again. An invisible frequency, like a Bluetooth link, hovered in the air between them. He opened his mouth to say something, but the movement of Sarah’s head distracted him. “Don’t move, Mrs. Mitchell.”
Sarah’s eyes opened, passed over the chief, and focused on Rachel. Her voice was a tight rasp forced through a split lip. “Rachel, please take care of the kids. They’re hiding…”
Rachel jumped up, her feet already heading toward the steps. “I’ll find them.”
“Wait,” the chief called.
Rachel turned back. The police chief frowned. “You’re bleeding.” He pointed to his own cheekbone. “You might want to clean that cut first so you don’t scare them.”
Cut? Rachel probed the corresponding spot on her face. The wet, sticky film and underlying gash were a surprise, as was the lick of pain when she prodded it. Troy’s high school ring must have caught her skin on that first punch.
“There’s a first aid kit—”
Rachel barely heard him as she used her sleeve to wipe her face. “Better?”
He grimaced and shook his head. “I guess. Not quite what I had in mind.”
Rachel jogged up the stairs. She stepped into the girls’ room, wall-to-wall Hello Kitty and pink ruffles. “It’s OK, girls. It’s Aunt Rachel.”
A sniff drew Rachel to the closet. She slowly folded the louvered door. Both girls, ages three and five, huddled in the dark.
“It’s safe. Come on out.”
They hurled their tiny bodies at her. Rachel caught them, lowered them all onto the floor, and gathered the sobbing children into her arms.
“Shhh. I’ve got you now.”
“Mommy told us to hide,” Emma whispered into Rachel’s breast. “We didn’t hide very good. Next time we’ll do better.”
“You did just fine.” She held them, she rocked them, she stroked their hair, but she didn’t promise them everything would be all right.
Mike entered the hospital through the big sliding doors of the ER. The glaring overhead lights stabbed his eyeballs. Disinfectant stung his nostrils and camouflaged other, nastier odors. God, he hated this place. Sweat dampened his forehead, and the fire in his gut flared as he scanned the waiting area.
At the end of the hall, just past the nurses’ station, Troy Mitchell slumped in a
plastic chair. Troy had been the star of the baseball team in high school, but now his once lean body was just scrawny. Dried blood caked his face and stained the front of his white undershirt. In the last hour, his nose had swelled to twice its normal size. “I need a doctor. I’ve been waiting a long time.”
Next to Troy, Ethan stood ramrod straight, clenching and unclenching his square jaw as if he were chewing gravel. “Be. Quiet.”
Troy’s beady, bloodshot eyes locked on Mike, and his chest inflated with the self-righteous belligerence only a drunk could muster. “I want to file a complaint against Sarah’s sister.”
Ethan tensed. Before he could respond, Mike caught his eye and silently signaled him to relax. Troy’s daddy was a town councilman. Vince Mitchell owned Mitchell’s Sporting Goods, one of the largest and most successful businesses in town. The mayor lived to kiss Vince’s rich butt. “Calm down, Troy. You’ll get to make your statement. Where’s Mrs. Mitchell?”
“The stupid cow’s in there,” Troy interrupted, cocking his head toward one of the closed exam room doors. A smug look crossed his face. “Clumsy bitch fell down the stairs.”
The vein in Ethan’s temple throbbed, bulging out like a kinked hose with the water on full. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Dr. Wilson’s in there with her.”
The ER doors behind Mike whooshed open. Miss Parker, still clad in ripped, blood-stained jeans and a T-shirt, stalked through the opening and hesitated. She scanned the cramped space. Mike lifted his gaze to her face, getting his first good look at her in bright light and without a medical emergency in front of him. Five-three, one-fifteen, trim athletic build. She was older than he’d thought, somewhere just past thirty. Brown didn’t do justice to the color of her eyes, which were the color of polished amber. Long, brown hair was scooped up in a messy ponytail. Damp tendrils clung to her face and neck. Blood still oozed from the cut on her cheekbone. Her face was more interesting than beautiful. But the determined set to her jaw and the fire in her eyes were captivating. Mike couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Her upper lip curled as she glared at Troy.
“There’s the bitch! Why isn’t she under arrest? She assaulted me,” Troy whined as she drew closer. “This is all your fault. Things were fine until you moved here, you interfering whore.”
The lines around her eyes deepened. Her body vibrated with barely contained energy as she shifted her gaze to Mike. “How’s Sarah?”
“This way, please.” Mike gestured down the hall. There was a small, private waiting room at the end where he could interview Miss Parker—and let her calm down.
But Troy just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “I knew this was gonna happen when you moved back. You turned your sister into a lying bitch.”
She catapulted herself across the gray linoleum toward him.
Holy—! Mike sprang forward. He planted his bulk in her path and caught her around the middle with one arm. Absorbing the impact of her small body, he swung her around and braced her back against his chest. She twisted. Her feet kicked as they stretched toward the floor. He wrapped his other arm around her squirming body. Ow. A sharp pain radiated up his leg as one sneakered heel connected with his shin.
Hefting her a few inches higher, Mike walked quickly down the hall and ducked into the lounge. He shouldered the door open and tapped it closed with his foot. Though half his size, she was difficult to restrain. Her feet dangled and kicked around his ankles. “Take it easy, Miss Parker. Don’t let him set you off like this. That’s what he wants.”
She stopped struggling abruptly, as if he’d pulled her plug, but Mike didn’t set her down until he felt her body go limp. Even then he loosened his grip slowly, letting her slide to the floor. He ignored the faint flicker of physical awareness as her body rubbed against his, and he stayed between the woman and the door just in case she went ballistic again.
She faced him. The scattering of freckles across her nose didn’t fit the hard-ass attitude. Since Mike had seen her wrapped around the little Mitchell girls, he suspected the tough act was just a veneer. Up close, her face was even more striking. Florescent lights paled her already fair skin, highlighting the cut and darkening bruise on her cheek. Her hair was a rich sable, and her eyes were flecked with every warm shade from gold to brown. And staring into them was probably rude.
“I’m Police Chief Mike O’Connell, Miss Parker.” He held out a hand. “We were never formally introduced.”
Her grip was strong, but her fingers were cold. Though heavily callused, her hand was small and fine boned, nearly disappearing in his big palm. He’d seen her take on a man with a fifty-pound advantage, yet the only word that ran through Mike’s head was fragile.
“I know who you are.” She scowled down at their joined hands as if the awareness that buzzed between them annoyed her. Her cheek was swelling, making the cut gape.
The prospect of a scar on her smooth skin gave him a dull ache in the middle of his chest. “That needs to be stitched.”
“It’s not that bad. It can wait. How’s Sarah?” She shrugged off his concern—and his hand—which bugged him more than it should.
“I don’t know. She’s still with the doctor. Why don’t you tell me what happened while we wait for Dr. Wilson to finish examining your sister?” Mike took a notebook and pen from his pocket and waited as she began to pace.
She took a deep breath and shoved a few straggling pieces of damp hair off her forehead. “Sarah called me a little after midnight…” Her strides steadied as she reconstructed the events in a logical sequence, but her body remained in constant motion, propelling itself back and forth across the small space like the Energizer Bunny strung out on amphetamines. “Then you were there.”
Mike nodded and appraised her again with respect. He’d seen her arm-bar Troy, but he’d missed the toe-to-toe action. She was a lot stronger than she looked. There was a lean, lithe body—which he shouldn’t be thinking about—under that oversized clothing. She’d had some martial arts training somewhere along the line too. But even with all that, she’d put herself at great risk. Troy could’ve killed her with that bat. The ache in Mike’s gut amplified. She should have waited for the police—for him.
She rubbed her side absently.
“Did I hurt you?” Guilt flooded Mike. His arms were almost as big around as her waist. After her brawl with Troy, she was probably sprouting quite a few bruises under those ragged clothes. She could have cracked ribs or internal injuries if Troy had hit her hard enough. Adrenaline could mask pain for a short time.
“No. I’m OK. He was too close and too drunk to do any real damage.” Distracted by his question, she stopped moving. Without her vigorous pacing, she suddenly looked tired and vulnerable. The creamy white, utterly feminine shoulder that poked out of the neck opening of her shirt stirred up protective instincts in Mike that had nothing to do with his badge. They were primitive, Neanderthal-like feelings that came from deep inside and made him want to teach Troy what it was like to be beaten to a pulp by someone much larger. He herded her toward the door.
“Let’s see if Dr. Wilson’s finished with your sister.” Though he knew there would certainly be a resident available to examine her, he would feel better if the head of the ER, Dr. Quinn Wilson, looked her over personally. Quinn would make sure she was really OK. Mike suspected Miss Parker would be a difficult patient. He suspected Miss Parker would be difficult, period.
Relief filled him as he caught sight of Quinn’s green-scrubbed form at the nurses’ station. Mike caught his eye and nodded toward Rachel. After one glance at her face, Quinn steered them toward the main triage area. Three patient bays were divided by sliding curtains. The first was empty and open.
“How’s Mrs. Mitchell?” Mike followed them in and introduced Rachel to Quinn.
The doctor gestured toward the exam table and washed his hands, the overhead lights glinting off the silver threads in his blond hair.
“Mrs. Mitchell’s in X-ray. She has a broken arm and a concussi
on. I don’t think her cheekbone’s fractured, but we’ll make sure.” Quinn snapped on a pair of gloves and probed the cut on Rachel’s left cheek, while she stared over the doctor’s shoulder at the opposite wall. She didn’t flinch as the antiseptic passed over the wound, but the hand that gripped the edge of the table went white at the knuckles. “I’d like to get the plastic surgeon down here to stitch this. Anything else hurt?” Quinn handed her a cold pack.
“No.” She raised the ice to her cheek.
“She was holding her side a few minutes ago, Quinn.” The gaze she turned on Mike could’ve melted steel. He avoided direct eye contact and backed toward the door. “I’ll just wait outside.”
It was for her own good. He could tell she was hurting much more than she wanted to admit. Someone had to make sure her injuries weren’t serious. Thankfully, that was Quinn’s job, not Mike’s.
Quinn exited a couple of minutes later. Mike fell into step beside him.
The doctor talked while he walked, his running shoes squeaking on the waxed linoleum. “She refused X-rays, but I don’t think anything is broken, just a couple of bruised ribs. Miss Parker can go as soon as she’s stitched up. I’m keeping her sister overnight. Mrs. Mitchell’s sedated, so if you want a coherent statement, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” He paused with one hand on a closed door. “And Mike? Get some sleep. You look like shit.”
Mike found Ethan and his prisoner in an exam cubicle. Ethan had removed the cuffs from one of Troy’s wrists and snapped the metallic bracelet onto the bedrail. Troy’s swollen nose was bandaged over the bridge. Wads of cotton protruded from his nostrils walrus-style. The sockets of both eyes were rapidly blackening as he glared at Mike.
Nice shot, Miss Parker.
A young resident scribbled on a chart. “He’ll live. Nose is broken. He doesn’t need to stay, just make sure he has ice.”
Mike turned to Ethan. “You get his statement?”
“Yes, sir.” Ethan’s disgusted eye roll told Mike what the officer thought of Troy’s statement.
She Can Tell Page 2