She Can Hide (She Can #4)(34)

Following a command from the GPS, Ethan turned left. He drove in silence for a few minutes. “Did I tell you I live with my mother?”

She lifted her head and looked at him. Was this a you-showed-me-yours-so-now-I’ll-show-you-mine thing? And why did the mutual sharing bother her even more than her own too-much-information slip? It was as if they were bonding. “No.”

A wry, close-lipped smile crossed his face. “I do. My father had a heart attack and died at fifty. I was a New York City cop at the time. My younger twin brothers were still in high school, and my mom has rheumatoid arthritis. It was either move home or make her sell the farm. She loves that farm.”

“You gave up your career for your family?”

“Not really. I’m still a cop.” Ethan squirmed.

“New York City and Westbury are barely on the same planet.”

“True.” Ethan laughed. “But it turned out all right in the end. Cam and Bryce had a hard time accepting Dad’s death. We all did. Grieving together was the best therapy.”

“How are your brothers now?” Abby asked. The loss of her mother was still a hard lump in the center of her chest. She’d done her grieving alone.

“They’re doing great. They go back to college tomorrow.” Ethan followed another directional prompt from his cell phone, turned into the municipal complex, and parked in front of the prosecutor’s office. “Are you ready?”

No. The unexpected intimacy formed between them during the long drive had left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Their tenuous bond felt fragile and tender. A connection so sweet shouldn’t be soured by the news that waited for her in the prosecutor’s office.

But such was her life. Beautiful sunny days were always followed by a storm.

“Yes.” Abby opened her door and stepped out onto the asphalt. A freezing wind whipped across the open space. So much for the temperature being milder near the coast. She zipped her down jacket. At least there wasn’t any snow on the ground.

Ethan walked at her side. His busy blue eyes scanned the parking lot as he steered her toward the building. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather bomber jacket as black as his hair, his casual attire didn’t camouflage his cop nature.

Inside, Abby gave her name to the receptionist. She rubbed her hands together to warm them and dropped into a chair. Despite the cold, nervous sweat dripped between her shoulder blades. She took off her jacket and draped it over her arm. Ethan took the upholstered chair next to her. He took her hands between his, which were absurdly hot considering how cold it was outside.

“Ms. Foster, Mr. Whitaker will see you now.” In addition to the prosecutor being replaced, the leggy brunette receptionist was new. She crossed the room and opened her boss’s door. Porcelain skin, even white teeth, and dark red lips lent her a vampire-like sexuality. Where was the older woman who ran the office for the last prosecutor?

Abby stood. Next to her, Ethan put his hand on the small of her back. Warmth seeped through her blouse and steadied her as they entered the office. Behind a scarred desk, a tall blond man in his late forties smoothed his tie and stood as they approached.

“Dan Whitaker.” He held out a hand.

Abby shook it and introduced Ethan.

From his shined shoes to his GQ hair, the new chief prosecutor was way too perfect to be honest.

At Whitaker’s gesture, Abby sank into the worn leather wing chair opposite his desk. Ethan dropped his hand from her back and took the other chair. She instantly missed the contact. Her hand drifted to her collarbone as she waited for Whitaker to explain his lack of communication. Three years ago she’d spent hours sitting in this same seat being prepared to give testimony, but this afternoon the once-familiar space felt like foreign territory.

And Whitaker felt like the enemy.

Which was ridiculous. The man hadn’t spoken yet, and even though they’d never met, they were on the same side.

Determined to conceal the panic crawling up her throat, she set her hands on her lap and intertwined her fingers to anchor them. No amount of willpower could stop the sweat that seeped through her pores.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Ms. Foster?” At Abby’s mute nod, the receptionist pivoted on a narrow heel and withdrew.

Whitaker rounded his desk and posed on its edge, looking down at the seated Abby and Ethan. Superior body positioning. Well done. Score one for the new prosecutor.

Whitaker gave Abby a solemn stare. “I’d like to offer my apologies. You should have been informed about Faulkner’s release. We’ve had quite a bit of staff turnover. I looked into the matter. Your new telephone number wasn’t in our records.”

“What about the VINE system?” Ethan asked. “The whole purpose of automating the victim notification system was to eliminate human error.”

Whitaker shrugged. “Any system that size can have an occasional glitch.”

Glitch? That’s all she was to this man? An unfortunate computer error?

Anger locked Abby’s breath in her chest. She struggled to inhale enough air to respond. “I don’t understand. Faulkner wasn’t supposed to be eligible for parole yet. What happened?”

Whitaker crossed his arms in front of his chest. Silver cufflinks shimmered. “A few months ago, a state lab technician was convicted of tampering with evidence. A clerk from this office was also implicated. Every defendant whose evidence one of those two individuals handled filed a challenge to his conviction. Unfortunately, this included your case.”