by Rita Herron
“You could have been killed....”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Copyright
“You could have been killed....”
Sydney’s voice broke. “That...was a bomb, wasn’t it?”
“Shh, don’t cry.” Collin brushed the tears from her cheeks. “C’mon, help me up.”
Sydney slid her hands under his waist, the heat from the blaze scalding her back. Relief filled her when Collin stood and leaned against her.
“This is because of me, isn’t it? Because you’re helping me ask about the murder.” The realization horrified her. She traced his jaw with her finger “I can’t believe how close you came to being kill—”
He pulled her into the doorway, away from the neighbors’ eyes, and captured her lips with his, cutting off her words, his mouth devouring hers as if he needed to feel her warmth as much as she needed to know he was alive.
The near brush with death, the flames hissing behind them, the memory of Collin hurtling through the air all culminated in a desperate need to hold him. She wanted all of him, wanted to feel his bare skin against hers....
But if Collin was in danger because of her, she would have to make him leave her....
Dear Reader,
I have been a mystery lover since I read the Trixie Belden mysteries at age twelve, and a lover of romance since I first picked up a Harlequin novel. Discovering Harlequin Intrigue combined the best of both worlds. I’m excited to be writing for this line.
One day, I saw a dip on TV about a man who’d had a corneal transplant. The wheels of my imagination started turning and I thought: What if the man who donated his eyes had been murdered, and what if the man who received his eyes actually saw visions of the murder, and what if the wife of the man who’d donated his eyes was accused of the murder....
Then I began to wonder if there was any possible scientific way this could happen. My husband is a veterinarian by profession and has worked with pharmaceutical research for years. Advances in medicine are mind-boggling, so with his ingenious help I came up with the theory for Her Eyewitness.
I hope you fall in love with Collin Cash and are as intrigued by this premise as I was. I’d love to hear from you, so please write me at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30010-1225.
Sincerely,
Rita Herron
Her Eyewitness
Rita Herron
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Special thanks to Debra Matteuci and Natashya Wilson
for their enthusiasm over this premise.
To
My wonderful husband, Lee, for his ingenious theory
and for helping me blend fact with fiction
and
to my cousin and childhood playmate,
Sheila Samples. who has undergone three
corneal transplants and willingly
shared her experiences with me.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Sydney Green— The prime suspect for her husband’s murder, her life depended on uncovering secrets she didn’t know he had.
Collin Cash—Regaining his eyesight made him an eyewitness to murder.
Doug Green—He was more trouble dead than alive.
Kelly Cook—Besides Collin, Sydney’s friend and neighbor was the only person who seemed to believe in her.
Roxy DeLong—She’d expected to marry Doug before he chose Sydney.
Spade McKenzie—The mad scientist claimed Doug cheated him out of millions.
Darlene McKenzie—She wanted her husband to succeed—at what cost?
Marla Perkins—A friend of Doug’s—how close had they really been?
Sergeant Raeburn—The policeman had no reason to look further than Sydney for the killer—and a good reason not to.
Steve Wallace—The CEO of Norvek Pharmaceuticals had suspected Doug might double-cross him.
Prologue
“Hurry up, Doctor,” Collin Cash muttered impatiently, “remove these bandages. I’m ready to see again.” The dark office seemed totally oppressive, filled with the scents of medicine and antiseptics. Smells that Collin had learned to hate over the past year. He was so nervous he could hear his own breathing rattle through the empty room. The past twelve months had been hell. First the shooting. Then the surgery. Then he’d awakened to a world of darkness. A world where he’d gone from being a fearless cop to a man full of fear.
He balled his hands into fists. A man who trusted no one, he’d been forced to accept help from strangers. To admit weakness, to admit he needed people.
The fear that he might always be dependent on others had been pure torture. Weeks of recovery and tests had dragged into months as he’d waited for the scar tissue to heal so he could have the corneal transplant. Then he’d finally gotten lucky.
Someone had died and donated their eyes.
A moment of sorrow and guilt attacked him. He shouldn’t use the word lucky. He wouldn’t be getting his sight back if someone hadn’t given up their life.
Finally the door creaked open. Footsteps clicked on the floor. He recognized the sound of Dr. Darber’s hard-soled shoes.
“How are you doing, Mr. Cash? Feeling all right?” Darber asked with his faint Northern accent. “No headaches, dizziness, nausea?”
“I feel fine,” Collin said. “A little anxious, maybe.”
Darber chuckled. “Most of my patients feel that way.” Collin heard the clink of metal as Darber worked. “Are you ready?”
Collin nodded, finally gaining the courage to voice his fear. “Will I be able to see right away?”
“Providing you haven’t rejected the new corneas, yes,” Darber said, clipping the bandages. “Although, at some point you may need glasses.”
What if the transplant hadn’t worked? Or what if he could see for a while, then his body rejected the corneas and he had to face blindness again? Could he handle the darkness forever?
“Remember what we discussed,” Darber cautioned. “You could reject one or both of the corneas at any time. If you have headaches, blurred vision, double vision, any of the other symptoms I described earlier, call me right away.”
Collin agreed, his breath tight in his chest as Darber unwound the bandages.
“Patients vary at how well they see immediately after the operation. First, you’ll probably detect some light—shades of white and gray. Things will be blurry. Remember, the muscles in your eyes and the nerve cells going to your brain haven’t worked in quite some time. They need retraining.”
“One year, one month and eleven days.” Collin exhaled loudly. The longest damn year of his life.
“It’s important you take the drug I’ve prescribed. It’s still experimental, but it should lower your chances of rejection. And don’t forget to use the eyedrops. Dark sunglasses will help in the sunlight, and you can wear the mesh patch I’ll give you for a few days. You can see through it, but it’ll protect your eyes while you heal.”
“Fine, as long as I don’t have to use that damned cane.”
“Be patient. We have every reas
on to believe the corneas are a good match.” Darber’s cold fingers touched his forehead. “Remember, your eyes and the surrounding areas will look red, puffy and swollen. Your eyes will be bloodshot at first, but that should pass in a couple of weeks.”
Collin didn’t care about his appearance. He just wanted to see again.
“Okay, now open your eyes slowly.”
Collin’s breath whooshed out. He slowly lifted his lids. A sliver at a time. Fear knotted his stomach. What if...
Think positive. He was going to see again. The worst was over.
He opened his eyes a little more. A small white spot appeared, a thread of thin light. He blinked, squinting when the light’s impact hurt his eyes. The light grew bigger.
“You’re doing fine. Let it come back to you slowly.”
The door squeaked open again. Darber’s lab coat brushed his arm as he turned.
“I need to talk to you, Doctor.”
In spite of the tension, Collin smiled at the woman’s soft Southern drawl. It would be nice to look at a pretty woman again. He loved the South. He’d been born in Charleston, South Carolina. Would probably die there. Had almost died there this past year.
“I’m busy right now,” Darber replied tersely. “Go wait in my office.”
“Who was that?” Collin squinted, hoping he could see the woman. Her face registered in his vision, fuzzy and distorted, then faded into a blur as she shut the door.
“Just a nurse. Tell me what you see.”
Collin blinked again, frowning when streaks of red replaced the dismal gray. Small bits of light. Patches of red. A blotch of dark crimson.
“Blood,” he whispered.
“What?”
The shades faded. Shadows twisted and turned into an angry blur of red. A horrible image filled his vision.
Blood. Lots of blood. The halo of someone’s silhouette shimmering in the darkness. Moonlight streaming in, casting the body in shadows. The silvery glint of a gun flickering off the bare wall. The weapon pointed at him. A hand closing around the pistol. The hand shaking. The fingers tightening around the trigger. The tremor of the hand. The gun fired.
He saw his fingers splayed across his body, blood seeping from the wound in his chest. An ugly bullet hole tattered his white shirt.
He tried to call for help, then saw himself falling, collapsing onto the hard, cold floor. More blood. Weak, in pain. he clutched his chest and moaned. His head lolled to the side. He struggled to see, to keep his eyes open, but all he could make out was the burning, fiery red of his own life flowing onto the rug. Then he closed his eyes and let himself drift into a world of nothingness.
He was going to die.
“MR. CASH, CAN YOU HEAR me? How do you feel?”
Slowly Collin awoke, his limbs languid. His eyelids ached, begging to be shaded from the glaring light.
“What happened? Where am I?”
“You passed out on me, Cash.”
“What?” Collin tried to sit, but collapsed against the bed. Exhaustion pulled at his legs, his arms. Nevertheless he could make out a face.
Dr. Darber’s face. White-haired Dr. Darber. He had leathery tanned skin. Wrinkles around his eyes. A prominent nose. My God, he could finally see again!
“I didn’t know you wore glasses, Doc,” he said in a husky whisper.
Darber laughed. “So, you can see. I was beginning to wonder...”
“It’s a miracle.” Collin looked for the nurse he’d heard earlier, but she wasn’t in the room.
Darber frowned. “What happened? You started talking about blood and then passed out on me. I could barely find your pulse. Are you still dizzy?”
“A little bit.” Collin struggled to remember the disturbing images. The gun, the vision of blood seeping from his body. “I was shot.”
“Yes,” Darber said with exaggerated patience. “Last year. The shooting caused your blindness.”
“No, this time I was shot in the chest.” Collin jammed a hand through his hair, confusion clouding his mind. At the same time, joy leaped inside him. He stared at the gray floor, stark white walls, down at his own hands, his legs, the chair—after staring into a black world for the past year, he suddenly had his eyesight back. His life back.
But what had he seen when he’d first opened his eyes? It had seemed so real. Like a murder—his own murder.
“Darber, how did the man who donated his eyes die?”
Darber folded his arms across his chest. “You know I’m not at liberty to discuss the donor.”
“Just tell me how he died.”
“He was shot, Mr. Cash.” Darber regarded him through veiled eyes. “In the chest.”
Collin forced air into his lungs. “He was murdered?”
A shudder coursed through Collin when Darber nodded in confirmation. The image tore through his mind again with vivid clarity.
No, it was impossible. Completely impossible.
Chapter One
“Sergeant Raeburn, I didn’t kill my husband.”
Sydney Green wiped at the perspiration dotting her forehead, wishing she could forget the image of Doug lying facedown in a pool of blood.
The detective’s bold look of disbelief unnerved her. “And you have no idea who’d want him dead?”
“No.” The wooden chair squeaked as she shifted her weight. Even two weeks later, the scent of death and the coppery taste of fear she’d experienced as she’d knelt beside Doug rushed back.
The paunchy, near-bald policeman paced, his heavy boots thudding against the wood floor. His incessant motion intensified the tension radiating through the small office. The stained, yellowed walls felt as if they were closing in on her.
Raeburn finally paused, planted one beefy arm on the scarred table and bent over so his face was only inches from hers. His breath smelled of cigarettes, his body of sweat. “You put on a good innocent act, Mrs. Green, but I’m not buying it.”
The condemning look in his expression almost shattered her self-control.
“You said you came home around 11:00 p.m. and found your husband immediately, but you didn’t report it until almost an hour later. And no fingerprints other than yours and your husband’s were found in your house.”
“Just what are you implying?” Sydney asked bitterly, unable to believe anyone could think she was a killer. Raeburn had read her her rights the first time he’d questioned her, but she’d been in such a state of shock she hadn’t realized the implications of answering his questions. Perhaps she should call a lawyer.
“I’m just trying to get to the truth.”
“I told you the truth.” Her stomach clenched into a knot. “I came in and found Doug on the floor. He was pale, chalky-looking.” She hesitated, twisting her hands in her lap. “I rushed to him and saw the blood. So much blood. He didn’t respond to me. I jumped up to call for help...then someone knocked me over the head.” She hesitated again, wondering if she could have done something different. Something that would have saved Doug. She tucked away the guilt, but not before she saw suspicion in the detective’s feral eyes. “As soon as I regained consciousness, I called 911. You have to believe me! Why aren’t you looking for the killer?”
Raeburn dug a toothpick out of his plaid-shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully as he continued to stare at her. Sydney fought the urge to close her eyes. Every time she did, she saw the awful bloodstain that had soaked the carpet.
“What if I think I’ve got the killer right here?” Raeburn asked in a deceptively calm voice as if he’d already tried and convicted her.
“Sergeant, I photograph babies and children for a living,” she replied softly, swiping at her tears. “I believe in family and home and all that sappy stuff. I’m not a murderer. I had no reason to hurt Doug. I loved him.” She stood, ready to leave. “And if you continue to harass me, I will call an attorney.”
His eyes didn’t soften. “So you’re telling me you and your husband had a good marriage?�
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Sydney prayed her voice didn’t give her away. “Yes. Now I wish you’d leave me alone and let me grieve.”
“Are you sure your marriage was stable? No problems? Arguments, money trouble?” The sardonic edge in his tone sent a chill slithering up her spine. “Everything okay in the bedroom, Mrs. Green?”
Sydney refused to let him coerce her into discussing the more intimate details of her marriage. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and met his gaze, praying her voice sounded steady. “Not that our personal life is any of your business, but that was fine, too.” She took a deep breath. “In fact, we were trying to have a baby.”
For a fraction of a second, the steely glint in his eyes slipped. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” Sydney looked away, picking at a piece of lint on her dress. “I wanted a baby more than anything in the world.”
Raeburn leaned so close Sydney unconsciously retreated as far as possible against the table, ignoring the pain when the wood pressed into her hip. “Then why did your husband have a vasectomy?”
The breath whooshed from her lungs. “What?”
“You want me to believe you didn’t know?”
Hurt, shock, then anger rippled through her. The tears she’d tried to keep at bay tracked down her face, unchecked, as she shook her head. “You’re lying. That’s not true. We were trying to have a baby. Doug wanted one as badly as I did. He said so.”
“It is true, Mrs. Green,” Raeburn said in a quiet voice. “I saw the autopsy report. He’d had a vasectomy.”
Sydney pressed her fist against her mouth to hold back a sob as the detective’s words sliced through her. Any hope she’d had that Doug had really loved her died immediately. She’d known her husband had secrets, had suspected an affair, maybe something illegal going on. But this...
Raeburn laid his hand beside the tape recorder and leaned forward. “You know what I think? I think you killed your husband, and you needed that extra time to get rid of the gun before you called 911.” His voice lowered to a menacing pitch. “And I’ll give you credit—you were good, even made a real lump on your head to throw suspicion off yourself. And now I know why.”