Hearing that shooter trying to trump up charges against Rachel had vividly brought back how she’d looked stumbling into the police station, face pale, blood trickling down her neck. Fight, defiance, glittering in her eyes until she realized the bullet grazed her skin.
It was after processing the shooter and getting everything wrapped up that Grant started for home and had the genius idea to call Rachel.
Yeah. Genius.
Neck tight, Grant rolled his head as he unlocked his front door and let himself into his living room. Being home always set him at ease. He’d worked hard for this place to belong to him, for it to be bought and paid for.
The black leather couch with the matching recliner. His. The big screen TV. His. The stereo system that had taken him a year to pay off. His. Five acres of wild land to call home, which he was still paying off. His.
A far cry from his nomadic childhood.
Pride filled him. Life had treated him shabby. He’d blamed it on God.
But God had shown him another way, a better way. When Grant saw Alec forgive Katrina for keeping his only son from him, a son who had died before ever meeting his father, something changed inside. Alec’s forgiveness had done something to Grant that he still couldn’t put into words.
It made him hungry. Illuminated the emptiness inside. A few weeks ago, like a starving man, he’d sat with Alec and discovered Jesus.
Grant moved to his recliner, plopped down and relished the cool leather beneath his hands. The smoothness of it.
Yet the comfort of his stuff couldn’t compare to what he’d experienced when he became a Christian. True peace. A filling and a light that just didn’t jive with all the so-called Christians he’d met in this city. That he’d met in his foster homes.
He needed that peace to fill him right now. He still felt like punching the wall and it was all his fault. He’d spooked Rachel with his annoyance, with his past judgment.
He closed his eyes.
“Lord, help me here. I’m not arrogant enough to think every woman wants to date me but her rejection is tearing me up. I’ve got no clue why so I hope you’ll give me back that peace and drain this anger. Forgive me if I’ve broken a rule or two in asking her on a date. You know I’m new to this Christianity stuff. Please help me not to mess it up.”
His eyes popped open. It was always a little embarrassing to bare his soul like that to the Almighty. Like someone pop by and hear an officer of the law talking to thin air.
But he wasn’t, was he? Grant smiled and relaxed into his chair. Contentment loosened his limbs, filled his soul, warming him in ways he couldn’t explain.
Rachel didn’t want to date him. He’d misinterpreted her. That was fine. The refusal wouldn’t take his peace. After leaving her mom’s, he hadn’t been able to get her smile out of his mind. Meeting at the gas station hadn’t helped any. He wanted a date to clear his head. Remind him why she wasn’t right for him. Or maybe why she was.
That didn’t look like it was going to happen now. Maybe God had some other plan for him. His smile broadened. He’d never had anyone plan something for him.
Miss Rachel could just disappear, as far as he was concerned. He liked blondes, anyway. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
But when he slept, he dreamt of Rachel.
CHAPTER TEN
Sleuthing was better than a bubble bath and a good book.
Rachel traipsed across a broken sidewalk, stepping over a busted glass bottle that lay shattered on the sparse grass and concrete. She looked down at the address in her hand again. Corrine Hadley. 2801 Bay St. Apt. #2.
The apartment building was just ahead, one of three apartment complexes in Manatee Bay. They were all small buildings. Most people around this little city rented or owned houses. She walked up to the building and noted the good conditions of the paint, the shiny fixtures at the entrance. Not a bad place to live, despite the worn-down neighborhood.
If not for Florida's Bright Future scholarship, Rachel might have lived in a place like this. Life took strange turns though and while working toward a degree in accounting, she'd ended up interning at a PI practice of a college friend's father. Found her niche and though she still did some part-time accounting work, her practice provided the bulk of her income.
According to her research, Corrine worked at Wiley’s, a local sports bar. Rachel figured the waitress would be home at ten in the morning since Wiley’s didn’t open until four in the afternoon.
She squared her shoulders, glad she’d worn a tank and shorts with flip-flops since the storm front had passed and left humidity so cloying that her clothes felt pasted to her body. She slipped the paper with Corrine’s name in her pocket and stepped into the entrance of the apartment building. Corrine's door was on her left, a simple brown door with a numerical two in its center.
Rachel rapped three times and waited.
To her disappointment, no one answered. She knocked again, and then pressed her ear against the door. Faint explosions reached her, followed by a low moaning noise. Was someone hurt? Feeling a ripple of concern, Rachel jiggled the knob.
“Is anyone home?” She mashed her ear against the door again and knocked harder. A low moaning reverberated through the thin wood.
She weighed her options. Call 911 and wait for them to arrive, or bust in and face the possible repercussions of entering someone’s residence uninvited.
Pulse drumming in her throat, she turned the doorknob. The door opened into a dim apartment. Stale cigarette smoke coated the air and made her feel like she was entering a dank bar on some mission for a customer.
Rachel edged through the narrow hall, her back against the wall, stopping to peer into a small living room. A few pictures hung on the walls. Landscapes, mostly. Someone had eaten bacon recently; the scent clogged the air. The television was on, tuned to an action show.
Palms sweating and skin prickled by the knowledge that something was going on here, something bad, Rachel stayed by the wall and willed her breathing to stay calm. If no one was home, if the moaning she’d heard had only been the TV, then she needed to get out quick. She could only do so much law-breaking before she’d get caught and jailed. The thought forced a shudder, reminding her of that childhood birthday party she wanted to forget.
A low moan shattered her thoughts. Immediately on the offensive, Rachel sucked in a quiet breath and stepped out of the hall, into the living room. From this vantage point, things looked different. Bacon and eggs had been flung across the floor. Figurines knocked to their sides. Papers ripped and laying haphazardly across shoddy carpeting. But no body.
She stepped over the mess and headed toward another door, a bedroom probably. She peeked through the cracked door. One window allowed faint light to dust the bedroom. Near the wall, opposite the window, a person lay huddled on a bed. A woman, based on the shape. Sick or hurt, Rachel couldn’t tell.
She gnawed her lower lip.
If the lady called the cops, how fast could she run? At least she’d put her hair in a ball cap. But there was no hiding red eyebrows, dark though they may be. She almost turned around but suddenly her nose picked up the odor of rust. Or something bitter.
Like blood.
She stifled a groan as she pushed the door wide before stepping into the bedroom. Crossing quietly to the bed, she almost caught a glimpse before the woman in the bed heard her, looked and gasped.
Rachel held back the urge to retch. Beneath the woman’s short pajama shorts and tank, the bed was soaked with blood. Hair matted the woman’s cheeks, rust-colored strings that filled Rachel with a horrible dread. “Are you okay? Have you called 911?”
The lady shook her head, moaning again and curling into a fetal position. Rachel pulled out her phone and called, giving directions and then hanging up even though the operator instructed her to stay on.
She reached over and felt the woman’s forehead, careful to avoid smears of blood. No fever. That was good. With her forefinger she touched her neck and was rel
ieved to feel a steady pulse. Things could’ve been much worse.
Taking her hand away, she glanced at the time on her phone. Maybe two minutes and then she’d need to bolt. “Paramedics are on the way.”
No answer, only a moan that filled Rachel with empathy. Blinking quickly, she moved to the other side of the bed and grasped the lady’s hands, which had been curled into fists against her chest. “Are you Corrine?”
Through cracked and swollen lips, the woman mouthed a yes. Her lips rounded with another word but Rachel couldn’t catch it. She leaned forward and braced her hand against the headrest, trying desperately to hear Corrine’s words, needing to give the hurting woman some type of comfort. The barest brush of a breath passed her ear. It sounded almost like the word help.
Rachel was close now, close enough to inhale that particular tang of dried blood, close enough to hear Corrine’s shallow breaths and feel the fear radiating from the mangled woman.
Whoever had done this to her knew what they were doing. From the amount of blood on the bed, the attacker had cut Corrine in places that would induce a slow, life-draining bleed. They’d beat her too, bad enough that she hadn’t even tried to crawl to a phone. They’d left her in this bed to bleed out.
“Who did this to you?” she asked. When she bent down to hear Corrine, her ball cap shifted and she felt her hair falling. She caught the cap and pressed it to her head. Sirens started to blare.
Only a minute left. Somehow she had to get out of here or there’d be too many questions. She didn’t want to be in the spotlight. Even more, she didn’t want the mayor to know she’d been visiting his former lover.
“Corrine, look at me.”
Rachel waited for the woman to turn her head, to open her eyes. But she didn’t. Her chest rose and fell in non-rhythmic movements. Blood seeped from her wounds and belatedly Rachel realized she should’ve tried to stop the bleeding.
She grabbed the quilt bundled at the base of the bed. Too thick. She scanned the room and spotted a t-shirt flung over a dresser. She grabbed it and ran back to Corrine. The cut on her thigh seemed to be bleeding the most. The femoral artery, nicked with cold precision. Swallowing the distaste rising in her throat, she stretched the shirt and pulled one end under Corrine’s leg so that she could wrap it around, a self-made tourniquet. She tightened it over the wound and hoped the pressure would ease the blood loss.
The sirens came closer, so loud the sound seemed to fill the entire room. Rachel cast a quick look at the window. It faced the street she’d parked on, exactly where the paramedics might park.
It was now or never. Dash out the front door and find a hiding spot. There’d been stairs in the entryway. She could run up to the next level.
She turned for the door and then heard a whispered, “Wait.”
She bent toward Corrine. “They’re almost here. Hold on, okay?”
“I need—” Her words faltered.
“Help is coming.” Unable to stop herself, Rachel rested a hand on Corrine’s arm. “Just hold on.”
Corrine didn’t open her eyes but her lips formed soundless words.
Someone pounded on the door. Dread buckled Rachel’s knees. Sagging against the edge of the bed, she brought her head closer to Corrine.
“Tell me, quick,” she said.
The words came out this time in a feathery exhale. “I’m dead.”
***
The hospital was cold.
Goosebumps pimpled Rachel’s arms as she paced the waiting room. Although it was morning, sick people filled the chairs, ranging from a congested looking little boy to a frail old man who wore an oxygen tube and sat in a wheelchair.
She’d spent the night at the police station, repeatedly questioned until she felt like hurling a chair at someone. Chief Weathers had been annoyingly nice while some other cop tried playing the bad guy routine on her. Or maybe he was just a jerk. Either way, she almost wished she could see Charlie or Grant, but neither showed up. They probably spent the night at the crime scene.
Did they know about her involvement? Briskly she rubbed her arms and glanced at the clock. As far as she knew, Corrine had made it through the night and now rested somewhere in the hospital.
When she inquired about Corrine, the nurses at the station told her she couldn’t see her until visiting hours. And then she’d need to be cleared because Corrine had requested a police presence and no visitors. Rachel explained she’d been the one to find Corrine and after a few calls, the nurse informed her she could visit at nine.
Finally the clock’s hour hand reached the appointed time. Rachel scooped up her purse and the flowers she’d bought at a local flower shop and then scooted over to the nurse’s station. The lady she’d been talking to, a middle-aged woman with deep wrinkles and kind eyes, handed her a printed sticker that showed Rachel’s face and name. She stuck it to her shirt and waited for the door to buzz.
When it did, she marched through and searched for Corrine’s room. She found it at the end of the hall, past a nurse’s station and on the left. Knocking quietly, she heard a timid “come in.”
Pushing the door open, Rachel slipped into the quiet, darkened room. Corrine lay propped on the bed, blankets pulled to her chin and tubes wired to her arms.
She didn’t look well.
Smothering the unexpected urge to cry, Rachel forced a smile and brought the flowers to the table wheeled next to Corrine’s bed. “These are for you. Is this okay to put here?” She set the flowers down anyway, even as Corrine nodded.
She had to stop the grimace that crept through her at Corrine’s battered face. If the woman had been beautiful before, which no doubt she had been in order to catch Mayor Owens’ eye, any trace of beauty no longer remained.
“He broke my nose,” Corrine rasped, catching Rachel’s stare. “Cracked my cheekbone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Water.” The woman pointed and Rachel dutifully retrieved the water sitting near where she’d put the flowers. She handed the cup to Corrine and watched as her shaky hands barely held it.
A movement at the door grabbed their attention.
“Only five minutes to visit,” a nurse said. She left, and Rachel reached for the empty water cup. She set it back on the table.
Corrine moved restlessly. “You called 911.”
“Who told you?” Rachel rounded the bed and snagged a chair. She pulled it to the bed and sat.
“I remember your hair.” Corrine rested her head against the pillow, visibly exhausted.
Rachel worried her lip. Was it wrong to ask about the mayor when Corrine was so obviously hurt? And yet, hadn’t that been a part of her reason for visiting? Not all of it, but there’d been a hope buried beneath concern that Corrine would shed some light on the mayor and Slasher’s relationship. Feeling guilty, she tapped the wooden arms of her uncomfortable chair. “Are you strong enough to talk?”
A hoarse laugh erupted from Corrine, followed by a grimace of pain. “No, but I’ve told the cops everything I know, which isn’t much, and I’m sure I have a death warrant on my head.”
“No, you won’t.”
“My cousin knows I told.”
“Slasher did this to you, didn’t he?”
“He was a nice kid once.” Corrine’s mouth set in an unflattering, crooked line because of the swelling. She met Rachel’s gaze. She had hazel eyes, close to the color of Maggie’s.
A shudder ripped through Rachel. “They’ll find him. He’s going down.”
Corrine shook her head. “I think….I think he has friends in high places.”
Like the mayor. Rachel wanted to blurt the thought out but if there was the tiniest chance she was wrong and he was just a normal politician, then her entire career could go down the drain over unsubstantiated accusations. If he was guilty, she didn’t want him getting wind of all her questions. Especially considering that she'd already been shot at once.
Instead she asked, “Do you have any ideas who it might be?”
�
��No. None.”
“Why did he do this to you?”
“Didn’t sell enough. Embarrassed him.”
“You’re a dealer?” Rachel sat back, stunned. It never occurred to her that Corrine was anything other than what she’d appeared; a hard-working waitress who’d had a fling with the mayor. So much for her powers of perception.
“If he doesn’t find me after this and finish things, the cops’ll get me.” Corrine fiddled with her tubing and exhaled loudly. “So who are you? Why were you at my place?”
Did she risk anything by asking questions now? However nice Corrine appeared, this was a dealer. For the right price, anything Rachel said might be up for grabs. It could get around to the wrong people. Suddenly leery, she stood.
“Just a concerned citizen. I was passing your door and heard something strange.”
Exhaustion lined Corrine’s face. She nodded and closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed.
“You’re welcome.” Rachel studied her one more second, an indefinable sadness passing through her. She spun around and left, shutting the door firmly behind her.
As she turned toward the exit, movement to her right startled her and she squeaked.
“You’ve been busy.” Grant pushed off the wall and came toward her, the black lines of his uniform crisp and unyielding beneath the luminescence of the hospital lights.
“Are you on duty?”
“Just got off.”
She looked past him. Nurses hurried up and down the halls, hustling to different rooms and looking harried. “Is someone going to guard Corrine?”
“First name basis?”
“You said you weren’t working,” she reminded him as her flip-flops smacked against the floor. She brushed past him, unsure, the conversation from last night’s phone call replaying in her head. An acute consciousness of the lack of make-up on her face, the threadbare state of her shorts and t-shirt, spread through her.
She hadn’t expected to run into him here. Although he was a sergeant, if she remembered right, he was the only uniform with homicide experience, and the only one who’d been a detective. With an attempted murder on the books, she’d assumed he’d be out on the streets interviewing suspects.
Undercover Love (The Women of Manatee Bay, Book 2) Page 8