Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(49)

Jackson squinted at Conor. “Did you set this up?”

Conor leaned against the brick and crossed his arms over his chest. Following the warm trail of scotch, anger was burning a path through his chest.

“You know that isn’t true,” Damian said. “Mr. Sullivan has been under police surveillance 24/7 since Monday night.”

Jackson frowned. “I’m not convinced. Maybe you hired someone else to do it. You’re a smart guy. There are ways.”

Terry was right. Jackson was one determined motherf*cker.

“This is ridiculous. Conor, don’t answer any more questions,” Damian retorted. His phone chirped. “Excuse me.” He stepped away and glanced at the screen. “Louisa?” He stilled. “What’s wrong?” Concern sharpened his voice. “I’ll be right there.”

Conor pushed off the wall. “What?”

“There’s been an accident.” Damian raised a hand. “She’s OK. She just needs a ride home from the ER.”

“What the—?” Conor was already moving.

“Conor, she didn’t call you. She called me.” Damian’s palm hit him square in the chest. “I’ll take her home. She said it was all scrapes and bruises. You need to stay here until they’re done with you.” He nodded toward Conor’s apartment, where a couple of cops were taking photos and detailing the damage. “I’ll call you. Or better yet, come to Louisa’s when you’re done.”

Damian and Jackson went to their cars, leaving Conor to watch over his ruined apartment and think about Louisa injured, hurt, frightened, and choosing to call Damian instead of him.

Tonight, Louisa was in an accident, and Conor’s place was trashed. How could either or both of these events be tied to Zoe’s disappearance?

He looked down at his cell. Zoe had been missing for nearly four entire days.





19


Horns blared and tires squealed. Louisa’s knees skidded on the pavement. A loud bang and crash sounded close by. Then another. She lay in the street, her face burning. The smells of burnt rubber, tar, and diesel exhaust filled her nose.

“Miss?” She blinked hard. Her vision sharpened. She rolled onto her back. A circle of faces looked down at her.

A cop knelt next to her. “Don’t move. An ambulance is on the way.”

But his eyes were scanning the crowd, not Louisa.

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

“You took a pretty hard tumble.” The cop loomed over her. “I want you to get checked out.”

Another policeman cleared the crowd. “All right, everyone. Move along. Show’s over. Give the lady some room to breathe.”

Beyond him, the bus that nearly hit her had swerved up over the curb and hit a streetlight. In the street lane next to her, a Tastykake delivery truck had rear-ended a taxi. Both southbound lanes of Broad Street were effectively blocked.

“Was anyone else hurt?” She struggled to sit up, bringing her splayed legs into a more ladylike position. Her dress was hiked up nearly to her crotch. She tugged at her hem as dizziness whirled in her head.

“Except for your fall, I don’t think so. We got lucky.”

“I didn’t fall.”

The cop frowned.

Her head settled, and Louisa surveyed the damage. The skin of both knees was torn, bleeding, and coated with dirt. She raised her hands. Abrasions on her palms didn’t match the size of those on her knees, but they were just as filthy. As if seeing the injuries prompted her brain to recognize them, the first echoes of pain pulsed through her legs and hands. Her face throbbed. She touched her chin. Her fingers came away covered in blood. All in all, her wounds appeared superficial, messy but not serious.

“I doubt anything is broken.” She stirred, absorbing the humiliating stares of onlookers. “I should get up.”

Her purse and cell phone had skittered across the street. The cop handed both items to her. He put a hand on her forearm. “Here comes the ambulance. Better safe than sorry.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

An ambulance pulled up. With a surge of whole-body ache that suggested her brain hadn’t yet processed all her physical damage, Louisa was transferred to a gurney and loaded into the back.

Two hours later, the ER physician confirmed her injuries were minor. Distracted and hurried, he scribbled on her chart. “The nurse will be in with discharge papers in a few minutes. Do you have a ride home?”

“I called a friend.” Damian was on his way. She’d also called the hotel and asked Gerome to walk Kirra.

“Keep the abrasions clean. Ice will help any swelling. You can take ibuprofen for pain.” And he was gone.

Sitting on the gurney, she ran a finger over a scratch on the silver case of her cell phone. The night didn’t seem real.

“Dr. Hancock.”

She startled at the familiar voice. “Yes.”

Detective Jackson parted the privacy curtain.

Why was he here?

“I heard about your nosedive into Broad Street. Traffic was backed up for an hour.” He took a few steps to stand next to the bed. Instead of a suit, he was dressed in jeans and a loose blue sweater that didn’t quite conceal the bulge of his weapon at his hip. Was he off duty? The mocha tint of his skin didn’t completely camouflage dark smudges under his eyes. Perhaps he didn’t take much time off in the middle of an urgent case.