Christmas Crime in Colorado. Cassie Miles

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      She watched as the truck that had been behind her swept past. Just that quickly, the other vehicle was gone.

      The truck hadn’t been following her. She was safe. Throwing off her seat belt, she took a deep breath and waited for the panic to subside. Now all she had to do was deal with a flat, find a place to stay and hang on to her sanity.

      The shortcut to Glenwood Springs wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere—but close enough. The nearest house lights appeared to be at least a mile away. She could hike there, but she hesitated to leave the safety of her car. Walking through the night, she’d be vulnerable.

      Another set of headlights shone through the windshield. Was he coming back? She squinted through the night. The lights were too low to be a truck. It was a different vehicle, maybe someone who could help her. People who lived in the mountains tended to be understanding about car problems. She might be able to flag them down.

      The headlights came closer. Her fingers closed around the door handle. If she jumped out and waved, the other car would surely stop. Ask for help. Get yourself out of this mess.

      She withdrew her hand, unwilling to play the role of a helpless Southern belle. In her experience, it wasn’t smart to depend on the kindness of strangers.

      The car zoomed past without slowing.

      Being alone was good. She could take care of herself. She could change the tire…or at least call someone who could. Handling the situation by herself would help her reclaim control of her life. A false claim, for sure. She had no control. Zero.

      She pounded her fist on the steering wheel. Her house was a crime scene. Her roommate was dead. And she was the target of a serial killer. No reason to fall apart, right? Be rational. Focus on the present.

      Her first consideration was the flat tire. She’d bought these tires only a few weeks ago because they were guaranteed to do well in snow, and she’d been driving on them long enough that she didn’t think they were defective. How had she gotten a flat? Had someone sabotaged her tire?

      Another car approached. Instead of passing, it slowed and parked behind her. Coming to help? Or coming to hurt her?

      Frantically, she cranked the ignition. Even if it meant driving on the rim, she had to escape.

      Someone tapped on the glass. She looked up and saw Michael outside her window. “Let’s go, Brooke.”

      She didn’t want his help. She rolled down her window. “I have a flat.”

      His hand rested on the butt of his gun as he stared down the road. Then he leaned down to her level. “Somebody disabled your vehicle. They wanted you stranded. Get out of the car, and come with me.”

      Only seconds ago, she’d considered the same conclusion. Her flat tire wasn’t a coincidence. Neither was the fact that Michael was here. “Did you follow me?”

      “Damn right.”

      She hated to have him hovering around like some sort of aggravating guardian angel, but it would be silly not to take advantage of his presence. She opened the car door and grabbed her backpack. “I’d appreciate a ride into town. I can get one of the guys from the gas station to come fix the flat.”

      “Sure.” He grasped her arm and guided her toward his sedan.

      “I can walk on my own, Michael.”

      “Then you’d best walk fast,” he said. “No point in standing here like a target.”

      “No point at all,” she agreed.

      She ran to the passenger side of his SUV and climbed inside. Michael hit the gas, and they zoomed away. He kept checking his mirrors, alert to any approaching threat.

      In spite of the snow and icy spots, they shot down the road, fast but controlled. She liked the way he drove, his hands strong and confident on the wheel. With satisfaction, she noticed that he was wearing the black leather gloves he’d bought on her recommendation. Like everything in the boutique, the gloves were very expensive, and she’d been a bit surprised that a cop from Birmingham could afford the exorbitant price.

      “My best guess,” he said, “is that the killer punched a hole in your tire, causing a slow leak.”

      “When could he have done that?”

      “Right after you arrived at your house. Or maybe he waited until later and shot a bullet into the tire. There was a lot of confusion.”

      “I didn’t hear gunfire.”

      “Silencer,” he said. “He could have done it when you pulled up at the stop sign. You sat there for a good, long while. I could see your tail lights when I was trying to get out of the driveway.”

      Though he was talking about a serial killer with a gun, she felt the band of tension squeezing her lungs begin to loosen. Breathing came more easily. In the warm interior of his car, she relaxed. The questions she should have been asking about why he’d come after her and what he wanted from her seemed unimportant. For the moment, she felt safe.

      He stopped at an intersection. No headlights were visible in any direction. “I think we’re good,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.

      She gazed at him, taking in his high forehead, deep-set eyes and firm jaw. He had that deceptively lazy look that she thought of as Southern and sultry.

      She leaned back against the seat, aware of the bonedeep weariness that came in the aftermath of danger. What she needed right now was to sleep, to curl up in a ball and go completely unconscious. But there was more to do tonight, and she needed to get organized. “If you take a right here and drive for a couple of miles to Lander’s Crossing, then another right, we’ll be headed back toward Aspen.”

      “Got it.” He drove for a moment in silence, then he said, “We need to talk about a few things, Brooke.”

      She held up her hand, forestalling any more warnings. “Not about your serial killer. I’ve had enough for today.”

      “You need to know what to expect. I’m not just whistling Dixie. This killer is real.”

      “Then why didn’t the FBI contact me?”

      “Good question. And I have a real good explanation,” he drawled. “It all started about a month ago, at the end of October. I got word from Atlanta that Grant Rawlins had been killed. It was an execution-style murder with one bullet through the forehead and another in his heart.”

      Grant Rawlins. His name brought back memories of the trial. Locked up in a bland room in the Atlanta courthouse, their deliberations lasted a whole day. She remembered being tired, watching the afternoon sun pouring through the windows and fading to dusk, knowing that they would have to return the next day to finalize their verdict.

      At that time, three years ago, her marriage had already sprung a leak. Thomas had been with another woman, but he’d broken off the affair. She’d forgiven him, confident that they could get their marriage back on course. His career was beginning to take off, and she’d been proud to be his wife.

      Back then she’d been a solidly married woman who would never СКАЧАТЬ