LITMIR.BIZ

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the hard way.”

      Backup? That’s all he needed, people in uniform taking sides. They’d probably arrest him for extortion. Ian figured he could play the victim to the little slip of a woman they called chief. The fact that she was the chief stumped him.

      She shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of.

      Ian opened the door ajar. “I’m fine, Officer, really. I can take care—”

      The door banged in on him with a force that sent him backward. She jammed a thumb over her shoulder as she pushed past him. Dark blotches of blood drops lay stark against the snow behind her. “You’re dripping. You are not fine. Now take a seat,” she commanded, pointing to the stool at the breakfast bar.

      The cop washed her hands, ignoring the fact that Ian remained standing. She removed a pair of latex gloves from a compartment on her belt. “Sit,” she said and slapped them on.

      He obeyed and she quickly cleaned his wound and prodded around for the bullet.

      Her ministrations killed, but Ian wasn’t about to let on in the presence of this small, but tough, woman. While on the stool, their eye levels matched.

      Green.

      He smiled.

      “I’m sorry I’m hurting you,” she said without glancing up from his wound.

      “Hurting? Nah, not at all. I could stay here all day.” He leaned closer to her face, zeroing in on her almond-shaped eyes. “They’ve got to be jade.”

      “What does?” she asked absently.

      “Your eyes. They’re the inspiration of epic poems. Marlowe, Yeats, Ovid. I’m not sure any of the greats would do them justice. When I saw you at the track, I thought it was a trick of the sun, but it wasn’t. Has anyone ever told you how beautiful they are?”

      A startled look from under long curved lashes came his way. Her eyes narrowed. “Has anyone ever told you, you are a glutton for pain?” She pushed her finger through his wound.

      Ian yelled out and bit down under her digging. He moaned and gagged and stopped breathing as she continued, succumbing under her thumb to being a puddle of feebleness.

      Her gloved fingers removed the bullet and she held it up to him with a brilliant smile of victory. “Got it.”

      The slug blurred in front of him and he gagged again. “I think I’m going to pass out.” He’d still yet to breathe.

      “It’s possible. You also need stitches to stop the bleeding.” She put the bullet in a small plastic bag she took from another belt compartment and reached for the bandages. “I need to take you to the hospital.”

      “No.” Ian straightened, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. “You obviously know what you’re doing. Just do what you have to do and stitch me up.”

      She applied butterfly bandages to pull the holes closed, but shook her head. “Sir, these won’t hold. You need to let me take you.”

      “You gonna pay for it?”

      She stilled her hand. “You don’t want help because of finances?”

      “More like lack of them.”

      “You don’t need to worry about that.”

      “You obviously never had to enter a hospital without a way to pay for your visit.”

      The chief frowned.

      He’d upset her. The idea of hurting her made him feel like a creep. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

      “We all have our stories, but I can tell you the hospital will not turn you away, no matter what yours is. Trust me. Let me bring you. It’s only about a thirty-minute ride.”

      “Thanks, but you can save the gas.”

      “I have to go there anyway. That crash at the track? My son was in it. He’s probably already flipping out that I’m not there.”

      Ian studied the officer’s face for what she wasn’t saying. He detected a glimpse of fear, and suddenly she wasn’t just a cop. She was a mom. “Was he badly hurt?” Ian asked.

      Her eyelids closed on a sigh. “No, I thank the Lord that he walked away. Barely, but he walked.” She reopened them and got back to work on his arm. “So you see, I do need to get over there. We’re all each of us has.”

      “No dad in the picture?” He felt odd asking, as if it was any of his business.

      “Not needed.” Her answer was even stranger.

      But then Ian thought of his own old man, and understood her statement perfectly. “The man who raised me died recently. I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not needed. I get it.”

      “So, you’ll let me take you?”

      “I have a feeling that’s not really a question.”

      “It’s not, and every second that goes by is making my son feel abandoned.”

      “Way to tack on the guilt. Fine. For your son’s sake. Let me grab another shirt, then my coat...what’s left of it.”

      Sylvie taped the gauze in place and he reached for his duffel bag, his clothes still jammed inside, unpacked.

      “Did you just arrive in Norcastle?” she asked pointedly, obviously fishing.

      “I came in on the bus yesterday.”

      “Were people shooting at you before you came to town?”

      “Nope. Is this how your town welcomes newcomers?”

      “Hardly. I’d lose my job for sure. Any idea who did this?”

      “Yup.” He grunted as he slipped his arms into a chambray shirt, stained with dirt from many hours on the job.

      “Well, do tell. I can’t help you if you’re withholding information.”

      “The Spencers.”

      Sylvie let out a laugh. Such a loud, robust sound for one so small. Ian pictured the chief of police issuing orders in the same tone. People would take notice of her, although she’d had his attention long before she opened her mouth to speak. Still, he didn’t like her laughing at him, and that’s what her reaction felt like.

      “What’s so funny, Chief?”

      “You are. Roni and her brother Wade are not trying to kill you. You’re completely wrong about that. Why would you think they want you dead?”

      He snatched his MP3 player and headphones from the bag and stuffed them in his front blue jeans pocket. “Because they have something that belongs to me, and they don’t want to give it up.”

      “Well, I don’t believe they’d put a bullet in your arm, no matter what they have of yours, but I do plan to find who did pull the trigger. There hasn’t been a premeditated murder in Norcastle in thirty years, and I want to keep it that way.” She opened the door and scanned the area before telling Ian to follow her to her cruiser.

      “Who was the unfortunate victim, then?” Ian asked—as if he didn’t know.

      Sylvie opened the passenger-side door for him, then came around the front of the car. Once behind the wheel, she replied, “Actually, it was Bobby and Meredith Spencer. Wade and Roni’s parents.”

      And mine.

      Ian faced front, revealing nothing to the local PD. He couldn’t be sure the police could be trusted. After all, his parents were murdered, pushed over the side of that mountain in their car, and the police thirty years ago called the crash an accident.

      Had the police been a part of the crime?

      Did they know why he had been taken from the scene?

      Ian peered out from the

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