Collecting Evidence. Rita Herron

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СКАЧАТЬ the gray night sky casting the center in dark shadows. He glanced around the outside but saw nothing amiss, so rang the buzzer at the gate entrance.

      A second later, a woman’s voice echoed through the speaker. “Yes?”

      He produced his badge, then identified himself. “Special Agent Ryan spoke with you about the photo you faxed to the Bureau, about the woman you have staying here. Aspen Meadows.”

      “Yes, just a minute.” A buzz sounded, and the gate swung open, a nun appearing in the doorway to the building. She checked his identification before letting him enter, then led him to a small office to the right.

      “I need to see her,” he said without preamble.

      Her eyes seemed to be assessing him. “First, we need to talk. My name is Sister Margaret.”

      He gave a clipped nod, noting the modest furnishings, a battered wooden desk and desk chair, two wooden Windsor chairs and a ratty plaid sofa that had seen better days. She gestured for him to take a seat, so he claimed one of the Windsor chairs, and she settled onto the sofa. But the pinched look on her face and the way she fidgeted with her habit spoke volumes about her mental state.

      His gut churned with anxiety. “Is something wrong, Sister? Is Aspen all right?”

      She pursed her lips and sighed, a sound that disturbed him even more.

      “Did you personally know Aspen?” Sister Margaret asked.

      He was accustomed to asking the questions. But this woman was as protective as a mother hen, so he knew he had to answer. “Yes. A while back. I’ve been investigating her disappearance for weeks. Her cousin is worried sick about her.”

      “Yes, about that…”

      Dylan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Just cut to it, Sister. Is Aspen all right?”

      “Yes, and no,” the sister said. “When she first came to us, she was suffering from hypothermia, and multiple bruises and lacerations covered her body and face. Along with that, she had a couple of broken ribs, a fractured wrist, concussion and it appeared as if someone had tried to strangle her.” She shuddered, and Dylan’s mind raced with the visual image she’d painted.

      “Can you tell me what happened to her?” Sister Margaret asked. “Who hurt her?”

      Sweat beaded on Dylan’s neck, and he took a deep breath, struggling to control his anger. “We don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet. We believe she may have witnessed a murder. Either that or she saw the killer dumping a woman’s body. When the killer realized Aspen had witnessed his criminal actions, he came after her. We found her car crashed along the San Juan River. Her son was inside.”

      “Oh, my.” A horror stricken look passed over Sister Margaret’s face. “Aspen has a son?”

      “Yes, a baby boy named Jack. He’s fifteen weeks old now.” And he might be mine.

      Sister Margaret pressed a hand to her pale face. “We thought she might be running from an abusive boyfriend or husband, but she never mentioned a child, so we had no idea. If we had, we would have reported her missing right away.”

      Dylan arched a brow, confusion clogging his head. “I don’t understand. Didn’t Aspen tell you what happened?”

      “That’s the reason I wanted to talk to you,” Sister Margaret said softly. “Aspen was unconscious when she was brought in. And when she regained consciousness…well, she didn’t remember anything.”

      Dylan’s chest pounded. “You mean, she didn’t remember the car crash or attack?”

      Sister Margaret shook her head sadly. “I mean, she didn’t remember anything. Not about what happened to her, not even her name or that she has family.”

      Dylan sat back in the chair, trying to absorb the missing piece the woman had just revealed. Amnesia would explain why Aspen hadn’t contacted Emma or returned home for Jack.

      Or called him for help.

      “What did the doctor say about the amnesia?”

      Sister Margaret looked shaken. “That the head injury could have caused her memory loss, but that the trauma could have been a factor, as well.”

      “Basically, she blocked out the events because they were too painful,” Dylan said.

      “Yes.”

      “Will she regain her memory?” Dylan asked.

      The sister shrugged, her hands twisting together in her habit. “Probably. But that may take time. And Dr. Bennigan advised us not to push her, that doing so might traumatize her even more.”

      Dylan stewed over that revelation, bracing himself to meet an Aspen who had no idea who he was. “So what prompted you to finally report her appearance to the police?” Dylan finally asked.

      The sister shifted nervously. “Someone broke into the center earlier, into the room where Aspen was sleeping and attacked her. She told us to call the police.”

      Dylan fisted his hands by his sides. Dammit, had Perkins and Watts tracked down Aspen and broken into the shelter to finish the job?

      ASPEN SAT ON THE FLOOR with the children surrounding her, her voice low as she recanted the legend of the Sky People. “Manitou is the Great Spirit—he lived all alone in the sky. But he was lonely so he made a big hole in the sky and built the mountains, then sent snow and rain down to make the world more beautiful.”

      “Did he make the animals, too?” a curly red-haired four-year-old asked.

      “Yes,” Aspen said with a smile. “He made all the animals and the birds. But soon, like children and grown-ups do sometimes, the animals began to fight. So Manitou decided he needed a king to rule them all.”

      “Was it a lion?” a little boy asked.

      “A dinosaur?” another suggested.

      Aspen shook her head. “No, a grizzly bear.” She reached up her arms and held them wide. “Now give me a big bear hug and say night-night.”

      The kids giggled and hugged her, and as they parted, she looked up to see Sister Margaret standing with a man in the doorway.

      Her breath lodged in her chest in a painful surge. He was broad-shouldered and tall, so masculine with his wide jaw and chiseled features that her stomach fluttered with nerves. Thick black hair brushed his ears and forehead, long black lashes framing the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, eyes like the sky on a clear Colorado day.

      Yet he looked dangerous and imposing, anger radiating off him in waves. And those startling eyes were intense, haunted, seemed to be trying to see deep into her soul, and made a chill skitter up her arms.

      So did the scar that slashed his chin.

      Although even that scar didn’t detract from his good looks.

      One of the mothers herded the children to the back rooms for bed, and Aspen stood slowly, her ankle still slightly weak from her tumble with СКАЧАТЬ