She Can Hide (She Can #4)(50)

A little old lady sat behind the wheel, complete with a puffy white hairdo and thick trifocals. Ethan tapped on her window and flashed his badge. When she lowered it, he glanced in the backseat. “We’re chasing a fugitive. Would you please open the trunk, ma’am.”

“Of course.” She complied. The trunk bounced up. Gun at the ready, Ethan peered inside.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” He tipped his head.

“It’s no problem, Officer.” She gave him a serious nod. “I hope you catch him.”

Ethan moved out of the street. She drove away, bumping over the curb and scraping the undercarriage of the sedan on the concrete.

“I thought out-of-state cops didn’t have jurisdiction.” Abby joined him on the sidewalk.

“We don’t, but her glasses were so thick, I doubt she could see my badge at all.”

“Tricky.”

“Desperate.” Ethan bent double and wheezed. “Did you get the make or model of the car?”

“No.” Abby shook her head. “Dark blue four-door. That’s all I saw. At least that’s what I thought I saw. Maybe that wasn’t even him. Maybe that was her.”

Ethan scrubbed his face with both hands. He coughed and squinted at her with suspicion. “You’re barely winded.”

“I shouldn’t be winded at all. I’ve missed my last few runs.” Abby leaned forward and stretched her hamstrings. He was still staring at her. “I can run a marathon in under three hours.”

“You run marathons?” Walking in a circle, Ethan holstered his gun. He pulled out his phone, called 911, and reported the incident. “The car was a four-door, dark blue. No, I don’t know the make or model.”

He ended the call and turned to Abby. “So, you handle a gun like a trained law enforcement officer. You run sub-three-hour marathons. What else don’t I know about you?”

“I don’t know.” Abby followed him as he turned back toward Roy Abrams’s house. “A lot of things, I guess.”

His question was a reminder that they barely knew each other. Though the familiarity between them was hard to ignore.

“We have to work on that.” He broke into a loose jog.

Oh.

Abby’s heartbeat sped up when it should have been slowing down.

As they hustled back to Abrams’s house, Ethan scanned their surroundings and stayed just ahead of her. Crossing the rear yard, Ethan went to the back door. He knocked. No answer.

“Did he already break in, or did we stop him?” she asked. But the little hairs on the back of her neck were tingling. Something was wrong here. She could feel it. Despite the heat generated by her body from the run, goose bumps rose on her arms.

Ethan walked up to the back window. He cupped his hand over his eyes. “He was already inside.”

“Shouldn’t we see if he’s still alive?” Abby stepped toward the window.

Ethan caught her by the upper arms. “Don’t.”

But she’d already caught sight of the body on the floor. She barely recognized the retired detective with a discolored face, bulging eyeballs, and a swollen, protruding tongue. Her thigh muscles trembled. Her stomach heaved.

Ethan grabbed her elbow and lowered her to the concrete step. “Is that him?”

“Yes.” Sirens sounded in the distance. Abby rested her forehead on her bent knees. Nothing would remove that image from her head.

There was no question. Roy Abrams was dead.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ryland’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Equal parts apprehension and irritation washed through him. All he wanted to do was watch his grandson’s school concert. Was that too much to ask? He checked the screen. Kenneth.

Apparently it was.

“Excuse me,” Ryland whispered in Marlene’s ear.

Sitting in the folding metal chair next to him, she frowned at his vibrating cell. Her hair was a soft brown, and except for the lines of disapproval currently creasing her face, her skin was remarkably smooth for her age. He patted her toned thigh. Outfitted in a slim skirt and matching jacket, her body put younger women to shame. Of course, he paid for the best in personal training and a few well-timed surgical enhancements to keep her looking her best. Nothing drastic, just a few touch-ups, regular injections, and beauty treatments.

“Only a moment. I promise,” he whispered. “It’s ten in the morning on a workday.” Her flashing eyes said she knew this but didn’t have to like it.

He appreciated her temper. Marlene was no pushover, a contributing factor to the length of their marriage and one of the reasons Ryland had given up his extramarital indulgences. His young-blonde habit was over. He regretted many of the decisions he’d made as a younger man. His business wasn’t the only part of his life getting a remodel.

She turned back to the stage, where a grade-schooler played a poignant classical piece on the piano. Their seven-year-old grandson waited in the wings. The private school his grandchildren attended cultivated the entire student, from math to the arts, a far cry from the urban Catholic school Ryland had attended, where more emphasis was placed on rules and rulers than academics.

Ryland stepped into the hall. A bulletin board of gap-toothed smiles faced him. He turned away from the innocent faces and answered the call. His gaze paused on construction paper snowflakes, decorated with glitter and pasted at random intervals on the pale blue cinder-block wall.