keeping herself hidden.
If she wasn’t running, running, always running, she’d allow herself to daydream about Detective Truman. But daydreaming led to distractions and distractions left her vulnerable.
Staying focused and alert had kept her alive for eleven months and she wasn’t about to let down her guard with anyone. She had a long list of precautions—looking behind her on her way to and from work, leaving flour at her front door entrance so she’d know if someone had been inside and never sharing personal information about her life, past or present. She couldn’t trust anyone. People could be bought. Information could be sold. And if she befriended an honest person, they might end up getting hurt. Or worse. She didn’t want that responsibility.
She begrudgingly admitted Detective Truman wasn’t pure evil. After securing her in the back of his unmarked squad car, he’d taken control of the scene, giving orders and direction. For nearly two hours, she’d watched him with rapt fascination, the way he moved, the way he spoke. The medics, EMTs and other officers on the scene had looked at him with respect and listened to him out of deference, not fear.
He was confident and sure of himself. She was lonely and he made her feel protected. It was an unsafe combination.
Detective Truman had a disarming quality about him, a “come confide in me” face, and a strong, yet gentle nature. He didn’t slam her around or handle her roughly getting her in and out of the car. Giving her the sweatshirt and offering something to drink was nice, but she wouldn’t let that break down her defenses.
If she felt anything, it was the basic need for companionship, the loneliness festering in her chest that craved human contact and conversation. She didn’t own a phone and no one bothered to check on her in her apartment. How long had it been since someone asked how she was doing and truly cared to hear the answer?
She shook her head, throwing the brakes on that train of thought. She had more important things to think about. Like how she was going to get out of this situation.
Detective Reilly entered his office, closing the door behind him with a soft snick. He’d unbuttoned the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolled them to the elbow. It made for a casual, stylish look. She doubted he’d been going for that. He didn’t seem like the type to worry about fashion. Then again, she didn’t know anything about him except that he was a detective. She’d be smart to remember that.
Should she ask for a lawyer? Was this the scene where he played good cop with her, giving her a chance to come clean before he and his partner shook her down? Maybe she’d been watching too many crime dramas on television, but without a social life to speak of, her nights were spent alone with the paperbacks she bought for a quarter at the secondhand store or the shows she managed to watch on the old ten-inch television with rabbit ears and a converter she’d salvaged from the Dumpster.
“Just you again?” she asked.
He rubbed his hand across his stubbly jaw. “Would you prefer an audience?”
His sarcasm made her lips nearly twitch into a smile. Laughter. Smiling. She missed those things, too. She forced her face to remain stoic. The important part was never getting emotionally involved. “I need to go home.”
“You can go home. I’ll take you myself right after we talk. Just tell me your address.”
Carey clamped her mouth shut. If she lied, he might try to verify her address before releasing her. And she couldn’t tell him the truth. She didn’t want her information to go on record and create another thread for Mark to find her. Mark didn’t forget about ugly, unfinished business, and he definitely considered her ugly, unfinished business.
Detective Reilly sat down at his desk. “Ms. Smith, may I call you Carey?
Her first name wasn’t Carey and her last name wasn’t Smith. She didn’t care what he called her. None of the last seven aliases she had used for seven different jobs in seven different cities meant anything.
Detective Truman folded his hands and leaned forward. “Ms. Smith, at this time we’re not holding you as a suspect.”
Magic words. She stood. “I know my rights. I’m leaving.”
The warning look on his face froze her in place. “I said, at this time. If you want to change that, I can make arrangements for charges to be brought against you.”
Outrage flared in her gut. “I did nothing wrong.” Being a Good Samaritan had been a mistake. While she was glad to know that her humanity and compassion hadn’t been stripped away by the last eleven months, it had been a mistake to get involved.
“The man in the alley was stabbed in the chest.” He spoke with clinical detachment, no hint of emotion.
Carey’s stomach twisted. “Is he going to be okay?” An image of the attacker flashed in her mind’s eye and she shuddered, a chill running along her spine. She’d see his face every time she closed her eyes for months. Just what she needed—another living nightmare.
Detective Truman stood and circled the desk, leaning his hip on the edge, staring directly at her. A nonthreatening posture, but one that showed interest, closing in on her. Nice psych trick. But she knew those little mind games. She’d played some of them. She wouldn’t believe Detective Truman gave a rat’s tail about her as anything but a witness.
“The victim’s in critical condition at St. Luke’s Medical Center. It’s important you share everything you remember.”
“I didn’t see anything,” she said, feeling as though she’d spoken those words a hundred times in the past few hours. She’d told Reilly the same thing at the scene and again on the drive to the police station.
He ignored her and pressed on. “The M.O. matches the pattern of several other cases we’re working.”
A tremor of fear coursed over her and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “What other cases?”
“I’m not permitted to discuss specifics at this time,” he said, his eyes holding a cold, distant expression.
Pieces and clips fell into place in a rush. The news programs warning the city. The knife and the alley. The time of night. He was talking about the case that had captured the attention of the police force, the mayor and the entire city. She had trouble taking a full breath as the impact of the realization socked her in the gut. “You’re talking about the Vagabond Killer. You think I fought the Vagabond Killer.”
Chapter 2
The Vagabond Killer had held the city of Denver and the surrounding towns in his grip of terror for months. No one had survived his attacks and no witnesses had come forward. People traveled in groups or stayed off the streets when they could, especially at night, his preferred time to attack.
Carey struggled for composure. If the attacker in the alley was the Vagabond Killer, was she in danger? Had he seen her face? She’d blasted him point-blank with pepper spray, but she wasn’t certain how long it impaired someone’s vision.
“At this time, we haven’t determined if the cases are related,” Detective Truman said.
Carey absently rubbed her finger over the bandage on her arm. If the Vagabond Killer had seen her, she was as good as dead. Staying off the grid was a struggle before the incident in the alley. Now she had two killers after her. She fought the urge to either laugh or cry, to release some of the terror mounting in her chest.
“You saw his face,” Detective Truman said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation. He spoke it as fact.
“I, um, I sprayed him with pepper spray.” She didn’t want to admit she’d seen his face. If it leaked to the media that a witness had survived and could identify him, it was the same as painting a bull’s-eye over her heart. “Did the man in the alley see him?”
“We don’t know. He isn’t up to talking. Why were you there?”
She