Hush (10 page)

Riley suddenly felt as if she were stepping on treacherous ground. “ ‘You rat, you stole my money'? I don't
know,
okay? All I know for sure is that
someone just tried to kill me
.”

“Okay.” He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. “He say anything? While he was attacking you?” His tone was mild. The look in his eyes—was not. They were as watchful as a hawk's.

She had to fight the impulse to swallow, because giving in to it would have been too big a giveaway. That was the question she'd been hoping to avoid.
What do I say?

The truth. There's nothing as convincing as the truth. Just not
all
the truth. As little as possible, until you have a chance to think this thing through.

She was, she discovered, sick of feeling her heart pound. But there it went, pounding again.

“He said,
Hello, Riley
.”

His eyes were narrowing on her face when a brisk knock on the door, followed by a man's voice calling, “Finn? You in there?” diverted his attention.

Riley barely managed not to sigh with relief. The vibe she was
picking up from him was growing increasingly nerve-­racking. It was like he was waiting—for what? Her to slip up?

But he could only be waiting for her to slip up if he was aware that there was something for her to slip up about.

Which he couldn't be. Could he?

Oh, God, what does he know?

She tried hard to keep her expression unreadable as, lips compressing just enough to be noticeable, he said, “Excuse me a minute,” and left her to answer the door.

“You're not wearing your earwig again,” the man who walked through the door said reproachfully. He kept his voice low, like he was trying not to be overheard. “If you'd been wearing it, I could have told you this as soon as it happened: we got him.”

“You got the man who attacked me?” Not even trying to pretend she hadn't heard, Riley perked up, then clutched the bedspread closer as another long, cold shudder shook her. The news should have made her ecstatic—and it did, it absolutely did, at least she no longer had to fear having that particular bad guy return to try to kill her again—but it also brought a surge of near panic with it. Would he talk? Would he tell the authorities that she had Jeff's phone, and he'd been trying to drown its whereabouts out of her? If so, what was she going to say to that?

He's lying,
and
I have no idea what he's talking about
were the responses that came immediately to mind, but she needed to think the ramifications through before she committed to anything. To begin with, if her attacker had managed to track Jeff's phone efficiently enough to conclude that it had ended up
with her, what were the chances that the FBI hadn't done the same thing? Riley did her best to keep her eyes from widening with horror at the prospect as she added, “Oh, thank God.”

Possibly she hadn't put quite enough conviction into that, she thought as, having closed the door behind the newcomer, Bradley turned to look at her as she spoke. Whatever, it was too late now.

Once again, there was something in that calm blue gaze that she found unnerving.

He looks like he knows.
She damped down flutters of panic by telling herself that she was letting nerves get the best of her.

He shows up at almost the exact same time as a killer who was after Jeff's phone: coincidence?

It could be. He said he wanted to talk to me. He was at the cemetery earlier. The FBI's been showing up and asking questions for months.

It didn't help when her mind immediately started making its own, fear-fueled list of things he might want to talk to her about quite apart from the phone.

The newcomer was saying happily, “A bunch of patrol cars were just pulling up out front when he came running out through the lobby. Cops were on him like dogs on steak. Not so much as a shot fired.” He looked to be a few years younger than Bradley. Riley pegged him as maybe early thirties. Medium height, a little chunky, a little rumpled in his dark gray suit. Round cheeks, snub nose, rosy complexion. Short, bristly brown hair. Friendly expression.

“FBI Special Agent David Baxter.” Bradley introduced him. Maybe she was imagining the hint of dryness in his voice, but she didn't think so.

“Bax.” Baxter crossed the room to offer her his hand. Extending her own hand out of the cocooning bedspread, Riley took it and shook it, slightly bemused. Her first impression was that this guy was an FBI agent by way of the Boy Scouts. The opposite of intimidating, with about as much in common with his fellow agent, who'd followed him over, as a beagle had with a rottweiler. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cowan. Oh, and sorry for your loss.”

With that he inadvertently confirmed that he, too, knew who she was without the need for any introduction. She guessed that he was Bradley's partner, which meant he'd been on the way to talk to her, too.

She said, “Thank you,” while just managing not to narrow her eyes at the pair of them.

He gave a slightly awkward nod in response.

“They ID him?” Bradley asked, looking at his partner.

Bax shook his head. “Not yet. He didn't have anything on him, no wallet, nothing. And he wasn't talking. At least, not last I saw.”

Riley felt a glimmer of hope.
So maybe I'm getting all bent out of shape for nothing. Maybe the bastard won't say a word about Jeff's phone.

Hope sputtered.

Then again, maybe he will.

And died.
Maybe he won't have to, because maybe these guys already know I have it. Maybe they know
everything.

She battled the urge to wet her lips.

Bradley was still focused on Bax. “Where is he now?”

“Houston PD took him, and, by the way, they want
Mrs. Cowan to come down and formally identify him. I said I'd collect her, and we'd bring her.”

Bradley looked at her, and then at Bax. “She look like she's up to going down to police headquarters tonight to you?”

Bax looked at her, too. Riley had no idea what she looked like, but he frowned. “I can call them, get them to set it up for tomorrow instead. They've got plenty to hold him on overnight.”

They were talking to each other, like she wasn't right there.

Riley said, “I have to work tomorrow.” And it occurred to her that going to police headquarters to identify her attacker gave her a really good excuse to get out of the apartment and away from Bradley. Before he got a chance to get going with whatever he'd come to talk to her about. “I'd rather get it out of the way tonight. If you'll both excuse me, I'll just go and get dressed.” She looked at Bradley. “Thank you for what you did. I think you probably saved my life.”

Clutching the bedspread closer, she stood up as she spoke. She intended it to be a dismissive gesture. Unfortunately, the room immediately tilted sideways. It was all she could do not to stagger. If she hadn't felt this overwhelming need to get rid of them, she would have sat back down again, hard.

Bradley stepped close, caught her arm. She couldn't help it: she swayed as the room whirled, then as he stepped closer still she leaned into him, grabbing his waist, melting against him, allowing him as the nearest solid object to take her weight.

“You're welcome,” he said dryly as her forehead came to rest on his chest and she closed her eyes to stop the spinning. His arm came around her to steady her. She registered the sheer size of
him, along with the taut muscularity of his waist and the solidness of his chest and the hardness of his arm and could only be thankful he was there. Then as she continued to lean against him because the room was still whirling and there was just nothing else she could do, he picked her up again as if it were the most natural thing in the world and started walking with her.

“Call an ambulance,” he said over his shoulder as he carried her into her bedroom. “We need to get her checked out.”

“I'm fine,” Riley protested, although it was beginning to occur to her that maybe she wasn't.

“There's already an ambulance here.” From the sound of his voice, Bax was right behind them. “The crew's down the hall, checking out this old guy who started having chest pains when he heard gunshots. Cops are here, too, taking statements. Building's crawling with them. They'll probably be knocking on the door wanting to take Mrs. Cowan's statement soon.”

“Go get a paramedic. Wait, pull these covers back first.”

“What do you think's wrong with her?” Bax sounded anxious as he did as he was told.

“Don't know.” Bradley laid her down on the bed. Riley was surprisingly glad of the solid surface beneath her. Her surroundings, including the large man looming over her, were still moving, and keeping perfectly still seemed like her best bet. “Maybe shock. Maybe something else. We'll see.” He looked over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

Bax went.

Leaving her still wrapped up in his jacket and the bedspread, Bradley pulled the top sheet and satiny blanket over her, tucking them around her as efficiently as any nurse. He was leaning close,
and she was able to focus on his face—his mouth was grim, his jaw tight—and that made her realize that the room's shimmying had stopped.

“I got a little dizzy, that's all,” Riley said as he straightened away from her. As the pillow embraced the back of her skull, the tender spot from her fall made itself felt once again. She winced. Moving cautiously, she turned onto her side, pillowing her cheek on her hand as she waited to see if the vertigo would recur. It didn't. For a moment she thought about trying to get up, but under the circumstances that didn't seem like the smartest idea.

“Twice now,” he observed.

“I'm fine as long as I don't stand up. It's probably because he banged my head into the back of the tub.”

“That would do it.”

Standing over her, Bradley looked . . . formidable. He was frowning down at her, and once again Riley found herself wondering exactly what he knew. Her gut twisted.

He said, “You seem to be remarkably hard to kill.”

“What do you mean?”

“Drowning somebody should take about three minutes tops. Hold 'em underwater until they pass out, keep 'em there until you're sure they're dead. For a man of his size dealing with a woman of yours, especially since you were already in a bathtub full of water, it should have been a piece of cake. But he had to bang your head into the back of the tub, and you managed to get his ski mask off and then stab him. With a comb. And you got away.” His eyes met hers. “Most forced drowning victims panic and spaz out for less than a minute before they go limp. Sounds
like you were able to keep it together a lot longer than that. Long enough to put up an ultimately successful fight. Pretty impressive.”

Riley tried to keep her face from revealing the damning truth that the reason she had survived long enough to put up a successful fight was that her attacker had been trying to extract something from her before killing her.

She chose to take the battle to the enemy. “
You
seem to know a lot about forced drownings.”

Again that slight uptick at the corner of his mouth that appeared to be what for him passed as a smile. “I know a lot about a lot of things.”

Holy hell, she had to stop reading unspoken meaning into everything he said. She was afraid he would be able to see the guilt that surged through her in her eyes.

Forget about taking the battle to the enemy. She just wanted the conversation to end.

“I was fighting for my life,” she said with dignity.

“Yeah.”

There was absolutely no inflection to that, which of course made her start to read all kinds of nerve-racking things into it. Fortunately, he was no longer looking at her. Instead, he was glancing around the room. Riley felt a tingle of alarm as she tried to work out what he could see. Not Jeff's phone, which was tucked away inside a shoe in her closet,
not
concealed in a locked drawer in her desk as she had told her attacker.

She'd put it there right after discovering Jeff's body, before she'd gotten the call that officially informed her of the terrible tragedy and sent her speeding to Margaret's house.

“You going somewhere?” Bradley's eyes were on her small suitcase, which rested on the carpet near the bed.

“I came home to pack some clothes so I could spend a few more days with my mother and sister-in-law.” Reminded of what she'd left Margaret's house to do, Riley did a lightning calculation: she hadn't yet been gone long enough for Margaret to start to worry, but that time was rapidly approaching. She needed to give Margaret a call . . . It was then that a horrifying thought occurred to her. “Oh, no, I'm going to have to tell Margaret what just happened. She's already been through so much. She's going to go insane.”

“Margaret's your
ex
-mother-in-law, right? I'm surprised you've stayed on such good terms.” There was absolutely no discernible emotion in his voice. His eyes as she met them were that same calm, unreadable blue.

He wasn't doing anything at all that could be even vaguely construed as threatening, yet he was giving her the heebie-­jeebies.

Riley abruptly realized that she was being interrogated by an expert.

This man was even more dangerous than she'd thought.

“She's always been very kind to me.” This time Riley didn't resist the urge to wet her lips. She had every (legitimate) reason in the world to be anxious about Margaret. “Jeff's death has just about destroyed her. I hate to have to tell her about this.”

Before he could reply, the sound of someone entering her apartment distracted them both. The indistinct murmur of approaching voices presaged Bax's arrival in the room by just a few seconds. Behind him came a pair of blue-uniformed paramedics.