Hiding His Witness. C.J. Miller

lie she’d told him. What was her opposition to medical treatment? Reilly wouldn’t let her go home without being sure her injuries had been taken care of and she wouldn’t pass out again.

      Lou lifted her chin with his fingertips. “You’ve got some abrasions on your face.”

      She didn’t reply, but flinched when Lou dabbed her chin with another swab. He pressed his hand along her torso. “Does that hurt?”

      “No,” she said, though tears sprang to her eyes.

      If she was hurt, why not say so? The less she said the more Reilly wanted to know about her. He cursed his inquisitive nature and checked his interest. Witness. Firm boundaries.

      “Do you think you can stand?” Lou asked. “I’ll get the stretcher if you can’t. We need to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

      The flash of indignation in her eyes told Reilly she would never allow that. “I can manage without the stretcher, and I’m not going to the hospital.”

      She got to her feet, Lou on one side, him on the other. He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and every muscle in his body flexed in awareness. He ignored the heated rush of sensation. Thin women weren’t usually his thing, but as much as he tried to shut it down, an invisible force attracted him to her.

      “Are you okay? Dizzy? Woozy?” Lou asked.

      “I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

      Reilly was tired of her saying that. She was not fine and he wanted to know why she was lying. If she was in trouble, he could help her.

      “Can you tell me your name?” Lou asked.

      She ignored him.

      “Ma’am, you need to tell us your name,” Reilly said, realizing he personally wanted a name to put with this woman even more than he’d need one for his report.

      “I don’t have one,” she said.

      “Maybe she has a concussion. You really should allow us to take you to the hospital. You need a CT scan,” Lou said, furrowing his brow, stepping closer and pulling a penlight out of his pocket to check her pupils.

      Reilly’s police instincts—which were never wrong—told him she was lying. What was she hiding? “She doesn’t have a concussion. And if she refuses medical treatment and doesn’t tell us her name, then we’re going to go down to the precinct and talk that over. Maybe a night in the county jail will refresh her memory.” An empty threat. He wouldn’t put this woman in lockup. He just wanted her to come clean.

      The woman sighed and leveled a look at him. “My name is Carey.”

      Another lie. He could see it in her eyes. “Okay, Carey. Do you have a last name?”

      “Smith.”

      He’d give her credit for boldness. She didn’t even pretend she was being honest.

      “And what is your address, Ms. Smith?”

      “I don’t have one,” she said.

      Lou smirked.

      Reilly maneuvered to stand in front of her, keeping his hands on her waist. She didn’t appear quite steady on her feet and he didn’t want her passing out again and injuring herself further. “The way you’re behaving, you’re making me think you did something wrong.”

      She lifted her scraped chin proudly, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I did nothing wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. I was walking home. I stumbled on something. That’s all I know.”

      Reilly jerked his head, indicating Lou should take off. The witness might be more forthcoming with less of an audience. Lou shrugged, quiet laughter in his eyes, and trotted toward the ambulance, looking over his shoulder once at them.

      Yeah, she was a riot.

      Carey knew something and she was going to tell him what it was. Reilly closed in on her space, knowing crowding her might pressure the truth from her. “So that’s it? Just walking by?” He barely kept the disbelief from his voice, letting her know he was aware she was lying.

      “Is the man in the alley okay?” Carey asked, pushing his hands away from her and stepping back.

      His palms itched to touch her again. He wasn’t giving her another chance to run. He stepped closer. She hadn’t answered his question. “Not sure.”

      She shifted on her feet. “Can you ask someone?”

      “We can exchange all the information you want. But I tell you something, you tell me something.”

      She glared him and pressed her lips together.

      Even when she was being difficult, she appealed to him on some primal level. Best to quash those feelings, especially when he was on the job. He had to treat her like any other witness. If she didn’t want to talk here, they could talk at the precinct. “Have it your way. I’m hauling you in for questioning.”

      Sitting alone in the Denver police station in Detective Truman’s office, Carey fought the bile that roiled in her stomach. She wished she’d accepted the cola drink he’d offered when they’d first arrived. The bubbles would have settled her stomach, and the caffeine and sugar would have jump-started her brain and helped her think.

      She was cold, hungry and tired.

      Detective Truman hadn’t tossed her into the interrogation room, a small consolation. Instead, she was sitting on a metal chair, amidst his stacks of paperwork and disorganized clutter, waiting for him to return. He’d lobbed a million questions at her, then he’d been interrupted by a phone call and needed to leave for a few minutes. They were the first moments of peace and quiet she’d had to clear her head since stumbling out of that alley.

      She tucked her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt Detective Truman had given her since her own had been torn. Unfortunately, this one had DPD across the front. She’d have to ditch it and get another nondescript one later.

      Her arm throbbed, but at least it had been cleaned, butterfly stitched and bandaged better than she could have managed on her own.

      She closed her eyes, wishing she could lie down for a few minutes. A fifteen-minute nap would revive her and help her sort her thoughts. How could she convince him to let her leave? If she pretended to be insane and babble incoherently, he might set her up with a psych evaluation. Same for pitching a fit and demanding to be allowed to go home. No, she needed a ploy that didn’t get her into more trouble.

      She scanned the room, looking for clues about his personality, something she could use to play to his sympathies. He had no personal items filling the space, no pictures of a wife and children or college degrees mounted to the wall. It looked as though the place hadn’t been dusted in a decade and the trash can was filled with empty energy drink cans.

      What was the fastest way to get out of this situation? Flirt with him? Lie to him? Tell him what he wanted to hear?

      In her former life, flirting with him would have come easy, letting the fluttering feeling in her stomach dictate her actions. She wasn’t that woman anymore. Carey didn’t allow herself to get involved with anyone, much less a handsome detective who could undo the hard work she’d put into keeping herself hidden.

      If she wasn’t running, running, always running, she’d allow herself to daydream about Detective Truman. But daydreaming led to distractions and distractions left her vulnerable.

      Staying focused and alert had kept her alive for eleven months and she wasn’t about to let down her guard with anyone. She had a long list of precautions—looking behind her on her way to and from work, leaving flour at her front door entrance so she’d know if someone had been inside and never sharing personal information about her life, past or present. She couldn’t trust anyone. People could be bought. Information could be sold. And if she befriended an honest person, they might end up getting hurt. Or worse. She didn’t want that responsibility.