Falsely Accused

Only, instead of opening like it had when she was a kid, it remained closed, the lock holding.

She tried again, afraid to knock and give away her location. When it didn’t open, she searched the back porch for a spare key. The beam of a flashlight skipped across the yard near the corner of the house, and she darted down the steps, tried to run to the back of the property.

Too late.

Someone grabbed her shoulder, hard fingers digging into tense muscles. She whirled, sideswiping her attacker’s ankle. He swayed but didn’t fall. She shoved forward, using her body weight against him, trying to knock him to the ground. He muttered something, his grip loosening almost enough for her to break free.

She tried again. This time he stepped sideways, letting her tumble to the ground. She fell hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her vision blurring. She could have stayed down, but she’d been fighting hard battles most of her life, and all she really knew was how to keep going.

She managed to roll to her back and was struggling to get up when a bullet whizzed past and slammed into a deck railing. Wood splintered, a piece of it digging into her cheek. She had no time to react.

Her attacker was on her, pressing her into the cool grass. All her training flew out of her head. All the years of careful control were gone. In an instant, she was back in time, fighting off the man who had just murdered her mother. She brought her knee up. Or tried. He had her pinned. Legs pressed to legs, chest to chest, his entire body covering hers.

She twisted, the bone in her injured arm snapping. She would have passed out if adrenaline hadn’t been pouring through her. She bucked, trying to throw off his weight.

“Stop!” he growled. “Someone’s shooting at you, and we’re both in the crosshairs. I don’t know what your plans are for tonight, but I’m not planning to die.”

It was the voice rather than the words that stilled her frantic movements. She knew the gritty texture of it, the soft Southern drawl that had never left. Not even a decade after moving to Hidden Cove with his mother.

“Titus?” she managed to say, the name ringing hollowly in her ears.

He tensed, then shifted just enough so she could breathe.

“Wren?” he responded.

He was looking into her face, staring into her eyes like he had dozens of times when they were kids exploring the woods together.

“What’s going—?”

Another bullet slammed into the deck, and his weight pressed into her again. This time, though, she didn’t fight it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d headed toward his property. If she had she wouldn’t have done it. Bringing danger into someone else’s life wasn’t the way she operated. She didn’t want Titus hurt because of her, and if she could have jumped up and led the gunmen away, she would have.

“You need to get out of here,” she whispered.

“We need to get out of here,” he responded, his lips brushing her ear. “Who is it? What does he want?”

“I don’t know who he is. What he wants is me dead,” she replied.

“How about we don’t let him achieve his goal? Stay down and stay quiet. I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He rolled away, cold air replacing the warmth of his body as he moved.

She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to remind him that she was an FBI agent and knew how to take care of herself and her problems, but her thoughts were sluggish. Before the words could form, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the darkness.

Wren Santino was the last person Titus would have ever expected to show up at his house. Finding her in his backyard just after midnight on a late winter night? He couldn’t have imagined that if he’d tried.

But she was there.

Pale faced. Bleeding. Handcuffed.

And being shot at.

It had been years since they had last spoken to each other. That had been his fault. It was a fact he had acknowledged each time he had been tempted to reach for the phone to call her or make the trip to Boston to visit. Selfishly, he had wanted absolution and a return of the companionship and friendship he had lost. But, he had known Wren well enough to know that if she wanted to offer any of those things, she would have reached out to him.

She never had.

Until now.

He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he army crawled in the direction of the gunfire. He knew he had to stop the shooter, but he hated leaving Wren alone. They had been best friends. Buddies. Confidantes. She’d stood as his best man when he’d married Meghan.

He knew her almost as well as he knew himself, and he didn’t trust her to stay where he had left her. Even injured and cuffed, she would try to apprehend the shooter. He glanced back but couldn’t see her through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her, either, and he took that as a good sign.

He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck. He’d been meaning to dig them up. Now he was glad he hadn’t. He waited a few seconds, listening to the sudden silence, watching the darkness beyond the manicured yard.

“Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.

“Them?” he replied, glancing back and meeting her dark eyes. She was on her stomach, her skin pasty white in the gloom.

“Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed.”

“You’re sure they aren’t actually police?” he asked.

“They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. It’s possible that he can be saved if help arrives soon enough. I’d rather have you call for an ambulance than run into the woods looking for the shooters.”

“Your Ryan?” Titus asked, knowing that it had to be, that there was only one Ryan in town who Wren was affiliated with.

“Yes.” Her voice broke, and he had to resist the urge to hug her the way he would have before he’d ruined everything between them.

“I’ve already called 911. Help should be here soon, but letting them go? That’s not going to work for me.” He’d noticed the blood trail in his front yard as soon as he’d walked outside. He’d thought it might be an animal wounded by a hunter who was shooting out of season and on private property. That had made the most sense to him. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for four years. He’d found more than a couple poachers on his property.

Usually he let them go with a warning.

Tonight, he had been in the mood to press charges.

He had called 911 and then he’d gone out to look for the perpetrator. He hadn’t expected to be shot at, but he had been prepared for almost anything.

“Don’t make yourself a target, Titus,” Wren said. “Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

“Where is he?”

“Near his cruiser. About five miles outside of town. On Mountain Road. My SUV is there. The police shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”

The faint sound of sirens drifted on the breeze. “It sounds like help is almost here,” she said.

“Wait for them here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, crawling away, army-style.

“You’re not going to find the shooters. They’re heading back to their vehicle. There’s no way they’re going to wait around for the police to arrive,” she said, shifting into a sitting position.

“Get down,” he barked, fear making his tone harsher than he’d intended.

“I need to get these cuffs off, and I need to get back to my SUV. My cell phone is there. I want to call the FBI Boston Field Office and get some of my colleagues up here.”

“Wren, get down,” he repeated, crossing the distance between them.

“You don’t have any handcuff keys, do you?” she asked, dark strands of hair sliding across her cheek as she tried to get to her feet.

“I stopped carrying those when I quit the Boston Police Department,” he responded.

“I have some in my SUV.”

“I guess you have a good reason for that?”

“Yeah. You never know when you might need them.” She didn’t smile, but there was some life in her eyes again. “I want these guys. Sitting in cuffs while they escape isn’t helping me get them. You have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.” She strode toward the two-story garage as if she knew he would only ever park his Jeep there. Because, of course, he did. Jeep in the garage. Coats in the closet. Keys on the hook by the front door. Everything in its place. All of it in order and neat.

She knew that. She knew him. More than most people.

His hang-ups and his habits.

And she had loved him anyway. The way one friend loves another. That had meant the world to him.

It still did.

He followed, making another call to 911 as he unlocked the garage and flicked on the light. He had the keys and his cell phone in his pocket. He unlocked the Jeep, helped Wren into the passenger seat, his hand curved around her biceps.

She’d always been muscular and fit. Now she felt fragile, her tendons and ligaments drawn tight over small bones. He reached for the seat belt.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said.

He shook his head. “Safety first.”

She didn’t argue. He had known she wouldn’t.

He knew her. Just like she knew him.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling out of the garage and onto the dirt driveway that led to Mountain Road. They bounced over the deep ruts that he planned to fill when the weather warmed up and then turned onto the paved road that led to town.

She’d said Ryan was there.

Ambushed by the men who’d been trying to kill her.

He was thinking about that, watching the road in front of him more than he was the road behind. He expected to see emergency vehicles speeding toward his place. When he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind him, it took him by surprise. No headlights. Just white paint gleaming in the moonlight.

“What’s wrong?” Wren asked, shifting to look out the back window. “That’s them,” she murmured, her voice cold with anger or fear.

“Good. Let’s see if we can lead them to the police.”

“They’ll run us off the road before then.”

Probably, but the closer they were to help when it happened, the better off they’d be. He sped around a curve in the road, the white car closing the gap between them. It tapped his bumper, knocking the Jeep sideways. He straightened, steering the Jeep back onto the road, and tried to accelerate into the next curve as he was rear-ended again.

This time, the force of the impact sent him spinning out of control. The Jeep glanced off a guardrail, bounced back onto the road and then off it, tumbling down into a creek and landing nose down in the soft creek bed.

He didn’t have time to think about damage, to ask if Wren was okay or to make another call to 911. He knew the men in the car were going to come for them.

Come for Wren.

And he was going to make certain they didn’t get her.

He unsnapped his seat belt and jumped out of the vehicle.

“What are you doing?” Wren asked, her hands behind her, unable to do anything to free herself. He reached across the seat and unsnapped her belt.

“I’m going to discourage them from coming down here to find you,” he said, backing out of the Jeep.

“It will be easier and less dangerous to let them come to us,” she replied, scooting across the center console and climbing out.

“Only if you stay out of sight and let me handle it,” he replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, they’re after you. If you walk to them, they’re going to get exactly what they’re hoping for.”

“I’m not going to wait here while you fight my battles,” she argued.

“You have no idea whose battle this is. Neither do I. But right now? We’re both in danger. Since I’m currently the only one capable of fighting, I’ll do it for both of us. You can have your turn next time. Get back in the Jeep. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

She raised a dark brow, but did as he asked, sitting in the driver’s seat as he turned toward the road. He pulled his gun from the holster, keeping it ready as he began the steep ascent. He had quit law enforcement a few years after he had found out the truth about Meghan. It wasn’t something he had planned or, even, contemplated. Being a Boston cop had been his life goal. He had achieved it and had enjoyed moving up in ranks, becoming a homicide detective and following the path he had planned for himself.

But, when the opportunity to quit and change careers had presented itself, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d dived in headfirst and prayed it would work out. Four years after he’d returned to Hidden Cove and taken over his old carpentry teacher’s restoration business, he finally felt like he’d found his niche, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a police officer. He knew how to pursue suspects and apprehend perpetrators. He wasn’t going to allow the men who had run him off the road to escape. There was too much riding on their being apprehended. Justice. The safety of the community.

And, most importantly, Wren’s safety.

It may have been years since they’d last spoken, but he still cared about her, and he wasn’t going to step back and allow her to be hurt by an unknown enemy.

A door slammed, and he stopped, crouching behind thick undergrowth as he waited for the perps to make their move.

TWO

Nine years was a long time to not speak to the best of friends, the staunchest supporter, the most enthusiastic encourager.

Nine years should have changed everything, but the rhythm of her friendship with Titus? It was the same. The verbal sparring. The quick exchanges of ideas and plans. The compromising and the challenging. It all felt as natural as breathing.

That was the only excuse Wren could find for allowing him to walk toward the perpetrators while she sat in the Jeep and waited.

His plan had made sense.

He’d presented his argument, and she’d agreed because he’d been right. She wasn’t in the position to win a skirmish let alone the battle she thought might be coming.

But sitting idle?

It wasn’t something she did well.

She scooted closer to the door, legs out of the Jeep, feet on the muddy ground. Her tennis shoes were already soaked through, the cuffs of her jeans damp. If she’d had use of her hands, she’d have rolled them up, removed her shoes and climbed the steep hill that led to the road. She’d done it dozens of times as a teen, returning home with dirty feet and mud-caked clothes and listening to Abigail’s good-humored grumbling about her tomboyish ways.

Sirens screamed, the sound echoing through the forest and pulsing behind her eyes. She’d been exhausted before this, pulled in too many directions by too many people. Work. Friends. Abigail. She’d hoped that the two weeks she’d taken off to help her foster mother move her belongings into the retirement home she planned to move into when she was released from rehab would clear her mind and renew her flagging spirit. She hadn’t expected this kind of trouble. Not in a place like Hidden Cove.

But she should have been prepared for it.

A year ago, she would have been.

Life had been wearing her down. Fatigue had caused her to make a rookie mistake. Instead of carrying her service revolver, she’d left it in the gun safe at Abigail’s. Ryan might have paid for her mistake with his life.

Might have?

No matter how much she kept trying to deny it, she knew the truth.

She blinked back hot tears. Crying did no good. What she needed was razor-sharp focus because she planned to catch his killers, and she planned to throw them in jail and toss away the key.

An engine revved. A door slammed.

She expected a volley of shots to be fired.

Expected to have to duck for cover and worry that Titus was in the line of fire. He’d quit the Boston Police Department several years after she’d joined the FBI. She’d heard it through the law enforcement grapevine. She’d wanted to call and ask him why. He’d been a great cop and a fantastic homicide detective. He’d been on his way to a great and fulfilling career.

But by the time she’d heard he’d quit, the silence between them had seemed too deep, the distance too great to overcome.

She wondered what he’d been doing since he’d left the force. He still acted like a cop. Still moved like one. She could see him crouched behind brush halfway up the hill, gun in hand and at the ready.

She wanted to call out and tell him to be careful, but that would bring bullets flying in her direction.

Or maybe not.

The car sped away. Lights still off.

She stepped out of the Jeep.

“Stay where you are!” Titus shouted, and she realized she’d made another mistake. She’d assumed both perps had left the area. One might have stayed behind.

She froze, waiting for gunshots.

All she heard was the pulsing siren of the approaching emergency vehicle and the rapid beat of her heart.

“It’s clear, I think,” she finally responded, stepping out of the muddy creek bed.

“I’d rather we both know,” he muttered, jogging toward her.

Strobe lights flashed on the street above them.

Help had finally arrived.

She wanted to feel relieved and victorious, but all she felt was grief. Ryan was gone. They hadn’t ever been close, but they’d always had each other’s backs. She’d bailed him out of jail when he was a young punk kid with more attitude than brains. She’d helped him with college expenses, encouraged him to keep his nose clean and lectured him when he’d needed it.

He’d always called her on her birthday and on holidays. Always sent funny cards reminding her not to take life too seriously. Always called her “sis.”

“You okay?” Titus asked as he reached her side.

“Do I look it?” she responded.

His gaze dropped from her face to her blood-splattered T-shirt.

“No.” He shrugged out of his flannel shirt and dropped it around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find the person who did this.”

“People,” she corrected. “Two men.”

“We’ll find the people who did this. But, first, I need to get you out of these cuffs.” He touched her uninjured wrist. “This one is fine, but the other one is so swollen, the cuff is digging in. Can you feel it?”

“It hurts,” she responded, her gaze on the road and the flashing lights. “I need to speak with the police.”

She headed uphill, her feet slipping, her arms useless for balance.

“How about I help?” Titus muttered, sliding his arm around her waist, careful not to jar her injured wrist.

If it had been any other day, if he’d been any other man, she’d have told him she could manage on her own, because she could manage. She hadn’t gotten where she was in her career by relying on other people to get her through the tough times. It might take more time and more effort, but if she’d had to, she’d have crawled to the road.

However, Titus was an old friend. They’d parted ways under unhappy circumstances, but she still cared about him. She’d like to believe he still cared about her. For right now, she would believe it, because as much as she hated to admit it, she felt too weak to climb the hill on her own.

They were nearly to the top when a uniformed officer stepped into sight, the beam of his light illuminating them. “Sheriff’s department! Freeze! Both of you! Hands where I can see them!”

“Her hands are cuffed,” Titus responded.

“Facedown! On your bellies. Now!”

Titus tried to help her, but the deputy shouted again. “I said get down! Now.”

Titus dropped to his stomach.

She did the same, her eyes tearing as the sudden movement jarred her injured wrist.

Seconds later, they were surrounded. She counted shoes as she was patted down. Five sets. That was a lot of manpower for a small-town sheriff’s department to send out.

“Wren Santino?” one of the men said, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet.

“That’s correct,” she said as she met Sheriff Camden Wilson’s eyes. They’d attended high school together. He knew exactly who she was.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Ryan Parker. You have the right to remain silent...”

His voice droned on, but she didn’t hear what he was saying.

All she could hear was the word murder and Ryan’s name.

Ryan was gone. Somehow, she’d been responsible for that.

She was dizzy with the truth of it, and she stumbled, dropping to her knees despite the sheriff’s grip on her arm.

“She needs medical attention,” Titus said, his voice gruff with concern. She wanted to tell him that she’d be fine, but the words seemed trapped in her head.

“She needs to be in jail for the rest of her life,” the sheriff said, but he put in a call for an ambulance. She heard that. Heard the soft murmur of voices as other law enforcement officers chatted.

The sheriff led her to his vehicle. When they reached it, he uncuffed her wrists with more gentleness than she’d expected.

“Thanks,” she managed to say.

“You’re a human being. You deserve to be treated like one. I wished you’d felt the same about my deputy. Sit.” He opened the door and motioned for her to sit in the back.

She didn’t argue, and she didn’t try to explain.

Her Miranda rights had been read.

She knew them.

“I’d like to make a phone call,” she said.

“Later,” he replied, and then he closed the door, locking her inside. She’d wait patiently. She’d do what she was told. Fighting the system could only lead to more trouble in the long run, but what she really wanted to do was shout for him to let her out, demand that she be treated like the law enforcement officer she was, give him all the details he had yet to ask for.

She had done nothing wrong.

She knew that.

The best thing she could do was the most difficult—be quiet and wait.

Six hours after he’d been cuffed and taken to the sheriff’s department, Titus finally returned home. His Jeep had been towed from the creek and was sitting in front of his house. The windows were shattered and the body damaged. He thought the front axle might be broken. It wasn’t drivable, but it wasn’t his only vehicle. Despite asking about Wren numerous times, he’d been given no information. Now that he was free, he planned to take matters into his own hands. He’d drive back into town and ask around. Someone knew something about where Wren had been taken and how she was doing.

More than likely, everyone knew everything.

That’s how it worked in Hidden Cove.

He’d moved there as a child, making the long trip from Fort Worth, Texas, because his mother had inherited property from her maternal grandfather. By all rights, the home should have been exactly what they’d been needing, but Sophia Parker had been more interested in her addictions than she had been in keeping up the pretty little house and beautiful acreage. He’d spent his tween and teen years ignoring the whispers about his home life, about his mother’s ways of making a few bucks, about his threadbare clothes and wild Afro. He hadn’t cared that he was the only dark-skinned kid in town. He’d cared that he’d had to carry his clothes to the Laundromat if he wanted them clean. He cared that he had to buy food if he wanted to eat. He cared that the entire town knew his business.

Now, though, the nosy neighbors and small-town gossips might come in handy.

He ran to the garage and climbed in the Chevy pickup he used to haul wood. It was ancient but functional, the engine roaring to life as soon as he turned the ignition. His gun had been taken and then returned. He had it tucked into the holster, and he grabbed a jacket from his emergency pack in the back of the truck and shrugged into it. No sense wandering around town with his gun visible. People in Hidden Cove hadn’t trusted him when he was a kid. He had been an outsider with an attitude, a teenager who had no understanding of small-town life. His mother’s drug addiction had been well known, and he had been her son—a young man who had a chip on his shoulder and no reason to want to fit in.