His mouth thinned, hardened. He spun around, yanked a gun from the back of his pants, and fired.
The explosion blasted in the small room like cannon fire. Cordite hovered in the air like a noxious thundercloud. Pat’s body spasmed as if shocked by an electric current. A small cry pierced the sudden silence.
“Pat!” she screamed. The hammer forgotten, she dove for him. The prowler froze, staring down at the older man. “Oh, God, Pat.”
A scream from downstairs seemed to shatter the burglar’s paralysis and galvanize him into action. Reeling around, he leaped over Danielle and charged out of the apartment. His heavy footsteps thundered on the staircase.
Danielle lunged forward, crawling across the distance to her friend.
“Oh, Jesus. Jesus, please,” she pleaded, pressing her palm over the bullet’s entrance wound. “Pat, stay with me. Please.”
But she heard the telltale wheeze and rattle in his lungs. Saw the widening crimson circle on his chest. Smelled the metallic scent of wet copper. Felt the hot, sticky fluid spurt between her fingertips, pool under her palms and over her hands.
“Dani,” Pat croaked, trying to lift his head, to speak past the blood filling his lungs and trickling from the corner of his mouth. He clutched her wrists, and this time, she didn’t mind his touch. Now, while he lay dying under her hands, she didn’t mind at all. Sorrow surged inside her, strong, bruising, and terrible.
“Don’t talk, Pat,” she urged.
Pounding echoed outside the apartment, and seconds later Julie burst into the door.
“Pat!” she screamed, dropping to her knees on the other side of him. “Patrick!” His wife cupped his face between her palms, bending over him. “Pat, baby, speak to me.”
“Julie,” Danielle said. “Hold your hands over his wound.” Not waiting for the other woman to comply, Danielle encircled Julie’s wrists and dragged her hands to her husband’s chest where blood continued to pump from the ragged hole.
“Okay, okay,” Julie murmured, stacking her palms in an effort to stem the hot flood. “Pat, baby. Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you. Please, stay with me.”
Her hoarse, agonized whispers followed Danielle as she raced to her purse. She yanked the bag open and pulled her cell phone free. Punched in a number.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Please, help,” she stammered. “Please. I live at,” she rambled off the address. “It’s the apartment above Pat’s Diner. Please,” she begged, voice cracking. She battled back the despair threatening to haul her under its dark, powerful tow. “My friend has been shot. Hurry. I think he’s dying.”
Chapter Thirteen
Malachim rushed through the emergency entrance, almost smacking into the glass when the door didn’t slide open quickly enough. The scent unique to hospitals—a combination of bleach, floor wax, ammonia, and sickness—greeted him when he passed the security guard and entered the crowded waiting area.
Panic gripped him in its talon-tipped grasp, digging its claws into his chest so he could barely breathe. He hadn’t been able to draw an easy gust of air since receiving the phone call a little after ten o’clock, nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Danielle, her voice heavy with tears and grief. Asking him to come to the hospital because Pat Duncan had been shot. He’d immediately dressed and left, especially given the plea had come from someone whom he suspected didn’t request help from others often.
And it had been Danielle.
He’d thrown on jeans, a shirt, and boots before remembering his car was still parked at the brownstone. Every minute waiting for a taxi to arrive had gnawed at his patience and presented his imagination time to conjure too many nightmarish images.
He scanned the sterile room, skimming over the many people planted in uncomfortable, orange plastic seats. Where was she, damn it?
“Malachim.”
He spun around, his arms already outstretched, hands open, prepared to drag her close. Then he stopped. And even though every instinct in him railed at him to pull her to him, press her to his body, and shield her from whatever horrors she’d witnessed that night, he slowly lowered his arms. But it didn’t prevent him from studying every disheveled curl, the way weariness turned down the corners of her lush mouth. His scrutiny traveled lower to the clothes he’d last seen her in. Only then the ivory shirt hadn’t been splattered with rust-colored stains.
The panic that’d been riding his ass for forty-five minutes spiked to full-out fear. It crawled up his throat, choked him like a garrote.
“Jesus, baby,” he ground out. He flexed his fingers, wanting—needing—to touch her. Hold her. Assure himself she was safe. “What happened? Are you okay?”
She glanced down at her clothes. “It’s not my blood. It’s,” she closed her eyes, “Pat’s.” Her lashes lifted, and he stared down into such pain. “There was so much of it, Malachim.”
Relief. Relief so strong it shuddered through him. She wasn’t hurt—at least not physically.
“I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed,” she whispered. “I-I didn’t have anyone else to call. And I…”
“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m glad you did.”
She nodded. “Thanks. Thank you for coming.”
He stared at the top of her bowed head, his senses so attuned to her he easily caught the soft sob. Shit. No matter how much he craved drawing her into his embrace, he had to respect her boundaries. Some man hadn’t, and Malachim refused to be another one who violated her wishes. But it was hell. Her anguish and grief called out to him like a haunting melody, and he was desperate to ease it.
“Malachim,” she murmured and then stepped into his space. Shock punched the wind from him. Paralyzed, he didn’t move when she rested her forehead on his collarbone. Held his breath when she slid her palms over his hips and settled them on the small of his back. Hesitantly, and so unlike himself, he lifted his arms, his palms hovering next to her shoulders. Jesus, what did he do in this situation? He’d never been so unsure in his life; he observed a problem, analyzed it, planned out a course, and resolved the issue. For the first time, he didn’t know which step to take, what direction to choose, how fast or slow to proceed… Damn it, he just didn’t know.
Finally, he cupped the nape of her neck with one hand and cradled the back of her head with the other. When she didn’t stiffen or jerk out of his embrace, the steel bands squeezing his chest relaxed, loosened, and his soul sighed. He lowered his head, brushed his lips over the crown of her head. Her thick, apple-scented curls brushed his chin and mouth.
“Excuse me. Ms. Warren?”
Malachim glanced up. A tall man with short dark hair and hard eyes stood next to them. Having spent his fair share of time around a police station, Malachim identified him as a detective even before the other man flashed his badge. Danielle lifted her head, eased out of Malachim’s arms, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to pull her back. Especially when tension invaded her petite frame at the sight of the man’s gold shield.
“Ms. Warren, I’m Detective Rider with the Boston Police Department. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, but I need to ask you several questions about tonight.”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded.
“Can you take me through what happened?” The detective removed a small, spiral pad from the inner pocket of his gray suit jacket.
Again, she nodded and relayed the events that occurred after Malachim had dropped her off. Horror coiled around him like a boa, constricting, immobilizing him, cutting off his air. Too easily he could envision the events she described with straightforward, vivid detail. God. That could’ve been her on the floor bleeding out. Her behind the pressurized emergency room doors fighting for her life.
“Were you able to get a look at the perp? Can you describe him?”
“He wore black pants and a jacket with the hood pulled down low over his face. I could only see his chin, lips, and nose. He was white or maybe Hispa
nic.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can tell you.”
“It’s a start,” Detective Rider assured her, furiously jotting down notes. He glanced up. “Did you recognize the model of the gun?”
Again, she shook her head, holding her palms up in apology. “I know absolutely nothing about guns.”
“Do you remember if it had a cylinder, like a round barrel, on the side of it? Did you hear a clicking sound before the perp fired?”
Danielle frowned and briefly closed her eyes. “No cylinder or clicking sound. He just yanked it out and fired.”
The detective nodded. “Sounds like a semiautomatic. If so, the gun would have ejected a shell casing. The crime scene unit should be able to determine the model and caliber from the casing, if the intruder didn’t pick it up.” He cocked his head to the side, his pen still over the notepad. “Mrs. Duncan mentioned a recent robbery at the diner?”
Surprise jolted through him. This was news; Danielle hadn’t mentioned previous violence at the diner.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “Over a week ago. I wasn’t there, though. When I arrived, the police were already at the scene.” She paused. “You think the break-in tonight might be related?”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe. We’re considering all angles at this time. The perps from the robbery could have decided to hit the same place again, especially since, according to Mrs. Duncan, they didn’t get a take the first time.”
Malachim churned this revelation over. Something didn’t seem…right.
“But how would a random thief know about her apartment or what time she wouldn’t be there. Or would be there?”
The other man’s pale green gaze settled on Malachim, and he endured the piercing scrutiny with gritted teeth.
“And you are?” Detective Rider asked.
“Malachim Jerrod.” He extended his hand, which the cop firmly shook. Recognition flared in the other man’s eyes before going carefully blank. “I’m a friend of Ms. Warren’s as well as her new employer.”
“I see.” Rider’s eyes narrowed, flicking in Danielle’s direction before returning to Malachim. “Well, to answer your question, Mr. Jerrod, we’re also considering this may have been an inside job. Maybe a regular customer familiar with the restaurant’s layout, the night deposit schedule, and the employees’ habits.”
She gasped. “No,” she objected. “That’s not possible. No one would betray Pat like that. No one would hurt him…”
“It’s just a theory, Ms. Warren,” Rider said, voice gentling. “One of several we must consider. We’re going to do everything we can to find this guy, and that includes following all the avenues and possibilities.” Detective Rider stretched an arm toward her, as if to pat her in assurance. But before he could make contact, she shied away, quickly dropping her hands to her sides. Malachim’s gut clenched, and he shifted closer. Surprise glinted in the cop’s gaze before swift understanding dawned. Malachim wasn’t surprised. To have made detective, Rider must have witnessed many scenes over the years—scenes where the victims were silent, traumatized, and refused to be touched.
“One last question, Ms. Warren,” he said softly. “Did the intruder say anything to you or Mr. Duncan?”
It was the barest hesitation, so small that if Malachim hadn’t been tuned to her every breath, he would’ve missed it. But the slight gap of silence didn’t escape him.
“No,” Danielle whispered. “He didn’t say anything.”
She lied.
Malachim knew it.
And from the sudden sharpening in his eyes and the tightening of his mouth, so did Detective Rider.
Chapter Fourteen
She’d lied to a police officer.
Not a first for Danielle.
There’d been the time a client had come into the law office requesting her specifically instead of Alex, and his fury had boiled over in the parking deck. An anonymous “someone” had called 911, and the police had responded.
No, officer, that wasn’t me screaming. My husband would never hurt me. My knee? Oh, I’m so clumsy. I tripped as I stepped out of the elevator. I’m sure I cried out as I fell. Maybe that’s what the caller heard. Thank you, I will have a great night.
Alex’s gaze had burned a hole in her forehead the entire time, promising swift and terrible retribution. But then, maybe because of his reputation, and his social and financial status in their city, the cops had believed her story.
This officer—Detective Rider—did not.
And as Malachim stiffened beside her, she knew he didn’t, either.
God, which was worse? Having a detective suspicious about why she’d lied about a detail that could lead to her and Pat’s attacker? Or the truth? That the invasion hadn’t been coincidental or a robbery attempt gone horribly wrong.
Spend time together.
Maybe the detective would have chalked the phrase up to his “inside job” theory, but she knew better. She’d recognize her husband’s voice in a wind tunnel. He hadn’t been her attacker, but her ex had more money than God and maybe as much influence. And the intruder had used Alex’s favorite term for teaching her a lesson. For punishment. For beating the hell out of her.
She could no longer deny what a niggling voice in her head had been insisting since the botched “mugging.”
Alex had found her.
God, she wanted to trust this detective. Wanted to pour out everything to him—all the sordid details of her past, of her identity, about who she believed was behind the home invasion and shooting. The stream of words was a knot lodged in her throat, waiting to be loosened and unraveled. But terrible, stark fear and the raw, primal instinct to survive imprisoned the truth. They—the terror, the animal impulse—were branded into her psyche. That mental scar limited the stretch and give of her ability to trust. If she revealed what the intruder had whispered to her, she would have to explain the significance of the words. She’d have to expose her true identity. Did that make her weak? Selfish?
Cowardly, a soft voice whispered. Pat had been so good to her, so kind, accepting. Her first friend after her return to Boston. She owed it to him and Julie to tell the police what she knew, which was an unknown man she believed was sent by her ex-husband had broken into her apartment and shot her employer. But who did she send them after? The intruder hadn’t been Alex, and knowing her ex, he would ensure any evidence of connection or accountability was far from him. And then what?
She shivered.
Then she might as well roll out the red carpet for Alex and invite him in to finish the strangulation her neighbor had interrupted after she’d first reported Alex to the police. In the apartment, she’d frozen; for a horrifying second, she’d been back in that Birmingham bedroom. She was scared. There. She admitted it. She was fucking terrified of facing him again. Of having his hands on her again.
Bile scaled the back of her throat, its sour taste spilling onto her tongue. She swallowed convulsively. 3-D memories flashed in front of her mind’s eye like soap opera dream montages, reminding her why she couldn’t go back. The humiliations. The beatings. The rapes. Jesus. She couldn’t go back. Wouldn’t.
No. She’d leave first; she’d disappear again so no one else would be hurt because of association with her.
“Well, if you recall anything else, no matter how small a detail, please give me a call.” He removed a business card from the interior pocket of his jacket, and she reluctantly accepted the card. She’d get rid of it as soon as she left the hospital. Desperation inspired temptation. And she couldn’t be lured into having faith in the police again. It’d almost killed her once. Never again.
Detective Rider dipped his head in acknowledgment then strode toward the emergency room exit.
“You lied to him.”
She crossed her arms at the harsh whisper. Why had she called Malachim? In a moment of vulnerability, she’d reached out to him. Why? Because of a connection she’d already accepted was dangerous?
Because of his words ear
lier in his office earlier that afternoon.
You needed me.
Damn it, she had. Standing, uncontrollably shivering in the waiting room, she’d needed him. His strength. His warmth. His…touch.
Now the piper had come to collect his due for her stupid moment of weakness.
She tried not to shy from the accusation hardening his amethyst stare. “Malachim, I—”
“Excuse me? Is the family of Patrick Duncan here?”
Her head jerked in the direction of the pressurized doors that Pat had disappeared behind a couple of hours earlier. Pulse thundering, Danielle rushed toward the doctor in the white lab coat and blue scrubs. She drew to a halt behind Julie, who had beaten her to the physician’s side. Danielle’s heart stuttered. Her breath whistled in and out of her lips.
Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.
“I’m his wife. Is he going to be…?”
Even before the doctor responded, Danielle’s heart plummeted. She recognized that look. The tired lines creasing the forehead. The sympathetic eyes. The mouth turned down at the corners. Different face, same expression. Aunt Flor’s doctor had appeared the same when he’d delivered the news of her death to Danielle and Carmen. The EMT who’d pronounced their mother dead at the scene had worn it.
The moan worked its way up her throat as the doctor reached for Julie.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Duncan. We did everything we could. But the damage was too extensive…”
Julie’s wail ripped through the waiting room, ricocheting off the white walls. Though Danielle had been expecting the words, they still eviscerated her. Sliced into her with the precision of a scalpel. The pain engulfed her and sapped what little strength she’d managed to retain.
She sank to the floor, arms wrapped around her stomach.
Dead. Pat was dead.
And it’s my fault.
…
“I can’t stay here,” Danielle murmured.
Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) Page 12