Stone Cold Heart (Tracers #13)(58)

“Yes, but this particular white Tahoe ran me off the highway.”

“You were tailgating him, so he could have been responding to that.”

“If that’s all it was, he could have flipped me off. Instead, he tried to end my life. Clearly, he didn’t like someone following him. Maybe he didn’t want someone to see where he was going. Or maybe he didn’t want me getting his license plate—which was conveniently unreadable, by the way. I snapped a few photos, but they all turned out blurry.”

Nolan didn’t comment.

“He stopped to watch me after the crash. Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”

He looked at her. “You said you didn’t see him.”

“I didn’t.”

“How do you know he stopped to watch?”

“I don’t, for sure. I just . . .”

“What?”

“I had a feeling about it. When I stumbled away from the wreck. It felt like someone was watching me.”

Felt like. Listen to her. She sounded paranoid.

Sara stared out the window at the dark landscape punctuated by the occasional glow of houses. They were still on the outskirts of Springville.

Nolan didn’t talk. Neither did she. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the faint murmur of the radio.

Nolan reached Main Street but kept going. The shops were closed, and most still had all their red-white-and-blue decorations on proud display. They passed the Baptist church and turned left into a neighborhood. Sara’s pulse picked up as she looked around. It was a tree-lined street of clapboard houses with wide front porches.

Nolan swung into a driveway and parked.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“You said you wanted a first-aid kit. You can use mine.”

She stared at him in the dimness. Then she looked at the porch. A yellow light glowed beside the door. Curiosity sparked inside her. And something else she didn’t want to put a label on.

Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her purse off the floor and slid from the SUV. Nolan locked it with a chirp, and Sara joined him on the stone path leading to his front door.

She looked around, taking in the oak trees, the porch swings, the neatly kept lawns. Everything had a sort of storybook feel to it, and the street could have been a movie set in Anytown, USA.

Sara followed him up the front steps. A red-lidded Tupperware container sat on the doormat. Nolan picked it up, then opened the screen door with a squeak.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Not sure.” He unlocked the door. “M&M cookies, if I had to guess.”

“Nice. Your mother drop by?”

With a small smile, he ushered her inside and flipped on a light. “My elderly neighbor across the street. I changed some light bulbs for her the other day.”

Nolan’s house smelled like him—something subtle and masculine that made Sara picture him stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his lean hips. She ignored the cascade of nerves as she glanced around. Two big brown sofas dominated the living room. He had an old-looking area rug and a coffee table, as well as the obligatory wall-mounted TV, but that was about it for the furnishings.

He led her into the kitchen, where he set the Tupperware on a granite bar. Much like hers, the bar was piled with junk mail and paperwork. Sara scanned the room. Beside the back door were several pairs of Nikes that clearly had some miles on them.

“I was wondering about that.”

He glanced up from a drawer he was rummaging through. “About what?”

“You’re a runner.”

He opened the freezer and filled a baggie with ice cubes. “I do it when I can. Which isn’t as much as I should.” He pulled open another drawer and took out a hammer. “You run?”

She snorted. “No.”

He set the bag of ice on the counter and gave it a few quick taps. He stepped over and handed her the ice pack. “For your head.”

“Thank you.”

She couldn’t explain the sudden lump in her throat as he gazed down at her with those expressive brown eyes.

“I’ll be right back. Help yourself to anything.”

He walked out, leaving her alone in his kitchen. She leaned back against the counter and pressed the bag to the side of her head.

What was she doing here? Her nerves started up again, and she stepped over to the sink to wash her hands. She found some paper towels in the cabinet and was dabbing the cuts on her palms when he returned with a tackle box. He’d gotten rid of his leather jacket, and his badge and holster had disappeared.

“I still think you should get checked out.”

She didn’t reply as he opened the box.

“That’s a serious first-aid kit,” she said.

“Never hurts to be prepared.”

He took out an antiseptic wipe and tore it open, and her pulse picked up as he gently took her head in his hands.

“I can do it.”

“Let me.” He smiled slightly. “Gives me an excuse to touch you.” He tipped her head back with one hand and used the other to dab the cut. “Does it sting?”

“No.”

“You’re a really bad liar, you know that?” He dropped the antiseptic wipe on the counter and dug a Band-Aid from the box. Nolan peeled it open and carefully applied it to her forehead.