Rancher's Hostage Rescue. Beth Cornelison

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СКАЧАТЬ reflected a moment of realization, then sadness. “Oh, right. She did mention it. In all this confusion, I just...” She waved her hand vaguely and didn’t finish the thought.

      The memory of Helen hovering at his side after he’d broken his leg made his heart squeeze, and he tore his gaze from Lilly’s before she read too much in his eyes.

      A sound at the front door and new voices drew his attention as deputies from the sheriff’s department entered the building. Within minutes, the tense process of questioning and evidence-gathering began.

      * * *

      Lilly twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt, trying her best to answer the deputy’s questions. The loan office and the branch manager’s office had been commandeered for interviews, and after two tedious hours of waiting, she’d been called in to give her statement.

      She’d finished recounting the events, up to the point where the robber was making his getaway and Dave had returned fire.

      “Where did Mr. Giblan get the gun?” the officer asked.

      She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. I assume he used the security guard’s gun.”

      “Did you see a weapon on Mr. Giblan when you spoke to him before the robbery?”

      Lilly shook her head. “No. But I wasn’t looking for one.”

      “How many shots did Mr. Giblan fire?” the deputy asked.

      “I don’t—” Remembering the deputy’s previous request to think hard when she’d voiced her uncertainty, she closed her eyes and let the terrifying moments replay in her head, working to recall specifics of something she’d rather blank from her mind. One bang. Two. The robber jerking, then his arm going limp.

      “Maybe two? I think at least one shot hit the guy. He hunched forward, and his gun arm seemed to go slack.” She reviewed the scene again, and a chill raced down her back. “I think he fired again as the robber ran out. The glass by the main door shattered.” What she knew for certain was that Dave had stopped the gunman from firing any more random shots at the bank customers. His actions had probably saved lives.

      “Dave made the right call. He’s a hero,” she said, more voicing her thoughts than answering the deputy’s questions. “He stopped the guy from hurting anyone else.” She surprised herself, defending Dave’s actions even before anyone criticized.

      The deputy frowned. “Officially speaking, our office cannot condone or encourage vigilantism.”

      Vigilantism? The word conjured images in her brain of old Westerns with cowboys hunting down bad guys and taking revenge on all degree of criminals and cretins. She pictured Dave on his knee beside the older teller, his hand clutching hers as he comforted her and joked about her bucket list. The word vigilante didn’t mesh with the gentle man she’d witnessed in those moments.

      “And then what happened?” the deputy asked.

      She retold the robber’s escape, Dave’s pursuit, how she’d checked on the guard and found him dead, before following Dave outside.

      “Did you see the suspect after you left the building?”

      She shook her head. “He was gone by then. Dave said he’d driven off in a hurry in a—”

      “I can’t use hearsay, ma’am. Only what you saw or heard, firsthand.”

      She flipped up her palm. “Then that’s all I have. Dave and I went back inside and checked on Mrs. Charmand and the other patients’ conditions until—”

      “Patients?” the deputy said, interrupting her again.

      She blinked, thinking about what she’d said. “Oh, well, I guess that’s how I think of them. I’m a nurse, and my focus was treating injuries. Sort of triage. Checking everyone’s physical and mental condition. There was another customer there who also has medical training—as a veterinarian—who was helping out, as well. He was keeping an eye on the man with the injured hand while I surveyed the rest of the group.”

      The deputy nodded and glanced down at his clipboard. He handed her a business card. “If you remember anything else that could be helpful, please contact us.”

      Out of habit, she reached behind her for her purse. Stopped. Her shoulder gave a small twinge as she remembered the violent tug when the robber had ripped the bag from her. The thief had her wallet, her keys, her phone and a dozen other things she’d miss. Her favorite hairbrush. That perfect shade of plum lipstick she’d just bought. The Dior sunglasses, a splurge she’d bought on her last vacation with Helen. The butterfly key chain her mother had bought her when they’d gone to Dollywood when she was nine years old. Every lily needs a butterfly, and you are the prettiest flower of all. Her sentimental fondness for and collection of butterfly-themed items began that day. A hollow ache filled her heart for the lost memento.

      Sighing, she stood and exited the small office. Now what? She had no car keys to get home. The thief had... Another realization slammed her like a gut punch. The bank robber had everything she’d just taken from Helen’s lockbox. The jewelry pieces that had been their mother’s, Helen’s passport and birth certificate and God knows what else that had been in those little boxes and envelopes she’d scooped into her purse to examine later. Irreplaceable things that Helen had treasured.

      Anger, grief and residual fear flashed through her in an overwhelming flood. Her knees buckled as she walked into the lobby of the bank, and she sank—crumpled, really—into a chair near the front door. Tears filled her eyes, and she pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the scream she wanted to let loose. Instead, she cried, shoulders shaking and her chest aching as she struggled for a breath between sobs. Other than the day she’d learned about Helen’s murder, she’d been strong, she’d held it together. But the loss of the things from Helen’s lockbox felt like losing her sister all over again.

      “Lilly?”

      She jerked her head up. Dave stood beside her, his eyes narrowed with concern. She dashed her hand under her eyes, swiping at the tears. “What do you want?”

      He lowered himself awkwardly onto an adjacent chair, favoring his right leg, which he extended stiffly in front of him. He leaned toward her and pitched his voice low. “Are you all right?”

      She dismissed him with a snort. “Peachy.”

      “Can I do anything?” he asked, his voice a soft rumble. Compassionate. Soothing. The way it had been when he’d spoken with the older teller. To continue to rebuff him with sarcasm in light of his kindness would only make her look bitchy, so she modulated her expression and simply shook her head.

      “Okay,” he said after a brief pause in which he studied her with an unnerving scrutiny. He pushed back to his feet with a soft grunt of pain as he put weight on his bad leg. “Goodbye, Lilly. I’ll be by the house later this week to get my things.”

      The house...

      “Dave, wait.” She dabbed at her runny nose and drew a cleansing breath. “Could you...drive me home? The robber took my purse...with my keys. You could get your things now, and I could get the spare keys for my car and come back up to retrieve it.” She hated asking anything of the man who’d failed her sister in so many ways, but her proposal was the most logical solution to two issues.

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