If You See Her (3 page)

“She’s tried to commit suicide before …”

“… she doesn’t want help, won’t admit she needs it.”

She’d tried to kill herself before. That knowledge left him both sick and furious.

Damn it, quit thinking about this and just do your job
.

Those words echoed through Remington Jennings’s mind as he walked down the long hallway. His shoes
rang hollowly in the brightly lit hallway, echoing around him.

It was a terribly lonely sound, he thought.

Sheriff Dwight Nielson and Sergeant Keith Jennings were with him, as well as two more deputies. But for reasons that Remy couldn’t quite explain, he felt ridiculously alone in that moment.

What in the hell was he doing?

In front of him, the sheriff moved with brisk, economic motion. The man didn’t waste any movement, and he didn’t waste any words.

Not even now.

Why should he?

Remy already knew every damn word that was going through the man’s mind.

It was nearly word for word that same spiel Law Reilly had given him over the phone twenty-four hours earlier.

Both men felt the same way—Hope Carson didn’t belong behind bars for the attack on Law, and the facts didn’t point to her killing Earl Prather, so they couldn’t put her away for that.

His gut instinct agreed—none of it fit.

It was just too fucking bad he couldn’t go with what his gut said.

He had to go with what the facts said … facts that painted a very, very disturbing picture of Hope’s past, painted an image of a very, very disturbing woman.

Those facts had her prints on the weapon that had been used to beat Reilly damn near to death, and then she’d tried to kill herself.

Again.

No … she didn’t belong behind bars, but she needed help.

“She has violent tendencies. She’s very manipulative. When she doesn’t get her way, she becomes unstable
,
unpredictable. There is no telling what she might do to somebody she perceived as being in her way.”

Remy thought of how Prather had died.

It had been ugly.

Messy.

Painful.

Had Prather gotten in her way?

He thought back to that day on the square. Some kid had bumped into her, she’d tripped—stumbled. Knocked against a plant stand and sent the half-dead ficus to the ground, then Prather had bumped into her. She’d freaked out—definitely had a problem with people in uniform, there was no denying that.

Timing-wise, he had Lena Riddle’s statement and receipts from their shopping trip. It didn’t play out. According to her, Hope had been with Lena most of the day, but still … something wasn’t right here, and he had to figure out what it was.

Curious, he glanced at the back of Nielson’s head and asked, “How does she act around you?”

“Quiet.” Nielson looked over his shoulder. “Doesn’t say much of anything. Even with the public defender around, she doesn’t want to talk. Only time she really talks much is when Lena shows up—she asks about Law a lot, but nobody other than Lena will talk about him.” The sheriff sighed.

Keith, one of Remy’s endless cousins, gave him an unhappy look. “She doesn’t much like people in uniform, I think. Won’t look me in the eye—seems the same with others. She’s quiet around King, but I think that’s just habit. I don’t think she’s as nervous around him as she is around me.”

“Nervous?” Remy asked, cocking a brow. He already knew she was freaked out about people in uniform—namely the boys in blue. Or tan, like the county boys. But he wanted the opinions from Nielson and Keith.

“Hell, Remy. You know damn well what I mean.” Keith shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve already noticed how nervous she is around people in uniform. It’s not like I’m telling you something you don’t know.”

Remy glanced down the hall. Twenty feet or so down that way, he could see the uniformed officer standing outside Hope’s room.

Hope. Hell. He couldn’t even think of her as anything
other
than Hope.

Not suspect.

Not Ms. Carson.

Just Hope … with sea-green eyes. Long, silken brown hair.

Hope.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

He couldn’t keep thinking of her as
Hope
. She was a suspect in a very brutal assault and she had a history of being mentally unbalanced. And he couldn’t think of her as a suspect.

Plus, even though the timing didn’t add up, he couldn’t entirely write off the possibility that she’d killed Earl Prather, either, or was involved in it, somehow.

She was dangerous, and he had to remember that.

Maybe
he
was the one who was unbalanced.

If he’d been alone, he might have taken a few minutes to rip himself a new asshole and remind himself of that,
again
. Remind himself,
again
, that he couldn’t think about Hope Carson, that long, silken hair, or her big, sad eyes, or how much he’d like to pull her up against him and promise her … everything. Anything …

Suspect
, he reminded himself.

Bad timing
, his dick interjected—and something else … some part of him that he couldn’t examine too closely.

She wasn’t in town when Prather died, remember? She’s got an alibi
.

It wasn’t the most solid alibi, true, but it was definitely enough to shed some doubt.

And do you really think she would have hurt Reilly? She looks at him like he’s some kind of god
.

Common sense, the lawyer in him, and other assorted and sundry control-freak-related issues pointed out,
So the fuck what? Even if she didn’t kill Prather, it’s all too likely she
did
attack Reilly. She looks at him like a god, so what happens when she realizes he isn’t a god—when he screws up? She’s going to be pissed
.

Get over it, man. You can’t go getting a hard-on for a woman who is messed up in the head
.

Damn it.

Common sense was being a serious pain in the ass here.

Remy was a big believer in common sense. He liked it. He listened to it. If more people listened to common sense versus things like lust, greed, stupidity … well, he might not be as busy as he was. That was his lot in life. Lawyers had jobs because people didn’t always listen to their common sense.

His told him he needed to forget that Hope Carson was a pretty woman with sad, green eyes. He needed to remember only that she’d been found in a building with a dead man and one who’d been hovering near death.

And it wouldn’t hurt to remember that she had a lot of weird shit in her past, too—that kind of stuff he really didn’t need to mess with. Big green eyes and that long brown hair, a sad smile, being pretty as hell, none of that was worth the trouble she would come with.

The fact that something about her made him just want to pull her close and protect her and fuck her all at the same time … no, he needed to forget that and listen to reason.

Yeah. That’s what he needed to do.

For some weird reason, though, his common sense and his gut had decided to veer off into different directions here. Common sense was doing what it should, insisting Remy take the safe road, be the lawyer. Hope was a suspect, after all.

But his gut …

It was his gut that had him studying the other two men more closely—particularly Nielson. Although he hadn’t said anything, Nielson’s disgust at the entire situation was almost palpable.

“Why do you think she’s innocent?” he asked softly.

Nielson lifted a brow. “Who said I thought she was innocent?”

“Maybe I’m just a bright kid.”

A smirk twisted the sheriff’s mouth, and although the man didn’t say a damn thing, the message came through loud and clear.
You’re the one making us arrest her …

Fuck. What choice did he have?

She might not have killed Prather, but he couldn’t ignore the evidence pointing to her involvement in the attack on Reilly.

She had a history of mental imbalance going back for years, and as much as he’d like to think those sad green eyes of hers were the real deal, he knew people with mental imbalances could be pretty damn persuasive. He wasn’t going to be played.

“Jennings.”

Remy glanced over his shoulder, not quite recognizing the low, rough raspy voice.

Then he blinked. Slowly, he turned, watched as Law Reilly took one slow step, then another off the elevator. The doors closed at his back.

The man was whiter than death—hell, he was lucky to be alive. Less than seventy-two hours ago, he’d
been in a coma and the doctors weren’t sure he’d ever wake up.

He shouldn’t be standing, and that was made pretty damn clear by the fact that he almost collapsed before one hand managed to grasp the railing on the wall, gripping it as though he knew he’d hit the ground hard and fast if he didn’t have something to hold on to.

Hazel eyes glittered too brightly in his face, and his skin had that ugly, pasty gray tinge.

But his mouth was grim and determined, and Remy suspected if Law actually made it down the hallway to him, the man just might try to deck him.

Blowing out a heavy breath, Remy said, “Damn it, Reilly, you’re supposed to be flat on your back in bed.”

“If you’d returned a couple of fucking phone calls, I would be,” Law bit off, his face tight, his mouth pinched.

“We spoke yesterday.”

“Yeah, and then I get the call that you were heading down here today.” Law sneered at him. “And gee, what in the hell are you here for?”

“You don’t need to be worrying about this mess right now. You need to rest up. Heal. I was going to speak with you tomorrow,” Remy said.
After
he’d done what he needed to do.

Shit, the guy had only been awake for two days. He didn’t need to be worrying about this right now. He needed to be concentrating on getting better.

“Tomorrow.” Law’s lip curled. “Tomorrow.
After
you’d arrested my best friend. For beating the shit out of me. Which she did
not
do. Which strikes me as kind of pointless. Maybe even a waste of taxpayer money.”

Remy absently tapped his finger against his briefcase. This was not how he’d wanted to start off his day. He wanted this over. Done.

Wanted to get to the point where he didn’t need to think about Hope, all the problems she had behind
her … or ahead of her. About her history with Law. Hell, he’d be happier just to forget about her.

“Look, Reilly, I realize you’ve got yourself worked up, you’re ready to be pissed off … but I’ve got a job to do. There’s evidence—”

“You don’t have
shit
as evidence,” Law snarled. “Not
shit
. I was
looking
at her, damn it. Do you hear me? Looking at her when somebody hit me from behind. I saw Prather lying dead ten feet behind
her
and right after I saw his
dead
body, somebody hit me from behind. She’s a smart woman and I’ve always known she was special, Jennings, but she can’t be in two places at once.”

His hand closed into a fist, a brutal, tight fist, and he glared at Remy like he wanted nothing more than to pound that fist into Remy’s face. If he hadn’t been about to collapse, Remy suspected he might have tried to do just that.

What Law had told him was strange and yeah, it definitely had him wondering a few things, but Law Reilly would do damn near anything to keep Hope safe, Remy suspected. Anything.

Sighing, he said, “Look, Law. I know you’re fond of Ms. Carson and I know you just want to protect her, but the facts are the facts, and all the facts point to her …”

His phone rang. Absently, he pulled it out, ready to put it on silent, but the number caught his eye.

It was the lab.

Frowning, he held up a hand and answered it.

She heard their voices, faint and indistinct, but she recognized them all the same.

Remy’s and Nielson’s, they were pretty easy to place.

A shiver ran down her spine. Hope drew her knees to her chest and reminded herself
—don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry …

The door to her room swung open and she couldn’t keep from flinching at the sound, even as she braced herself. She’d known this was coming. Had known—

The sheriff.

It would be the sheriff.

There to arrest her, even though she had the weirdest feeling he believed her.

But it wasn’t him.

It was somebody else—a very unsteady somebody else, with unkempt hair, a heavy growth of whiskers on his face, and eyes that looked far too old. The lower half of his right arm was wrapped in a cast, one that would keep his arm immobilized—and Hope had no doubt that he’d be pissed off about that once he wasn’t hurting so bad.
If
he wasn’t already pissed off about it.

His arm wasn’t the worst part, though.

It was his face, his battered, bruised face. That familiar face …

“Oh, God,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her mouth.

Law.

She started to scramble out of the bed, but the cuff at her ankle stopped her. Swearing, she just stared at him. “Law,” she whispered.

He gave her a shaky smile and made his way over to her bed, collapsing on it. “Hey, sweetie,” he said, out of breath.

She reached for him and as his uninjured left arm came around her, she started to sob. Shit. She’d been so scared. So scared.

The sobs came harder and harder, until they almost choked her.

“Shhh …” He cradled the back of her head and murmured to her, his voice soft and low. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s all going to be okay.”

She didn’t entirely believe that, but at least now she could believe that
he
was okay.

For now, for her, that was enough.

“Are you sure?”

Dotti Coltrane peered up at him over the half lenses of her glasses, a mildly irritated look in her eyes. “Handsome, would
I
have called you if I wasn’t sure?” She sighed—a patented sigh that clearly said,
I’m surrounded by idiots
, and then she pushed the lab work toward him.

Tapping it with a fingernail painted an unreal shade of neon green, she said, “Type AB. That’s Hope Carson’s blood. That’s the majority of what we found in the blood samples.
But
not all. There was also Type O. That wasn’t all that easy to find, and it’s not like we’re the FBI or anything. If it wasn’t for how weird this mess was, I don’t know that we would have even looked. Everything seems pretty clear-cut—she slits her wrists, falls down, hits her head. Seems pretty normal that she’d get blood in her hair. But it wasn’t just blood we found.” She produced a slide. “There was body tissue. I just don’t see how she could have hit her head and managed to get somebody else’s body tissue matted in her hair, Remy. I’m not buying it. Not unless she somehow managed to hit herself in the back of the head with the same bat she used to beat on her friend with—just doesn’t add up.”