One Night Standoff. Delores Fossen

boots thudding on the scarred hardwood floors of the old church.

      Lenora backed up, and she pulled the sides of the coat closer, hugging it against her body. “You’re accusing me of lying.”

      “Yeah,” he readily admitted, and he held out his phone so she could see the video that he’d loaded. “The diner where I was shot doesn’t have a security camera, but there were plenty of them on the Marshals building across the street.”

      And thanks to one of those cameras, he could show her the footage of them sitting down in the booth directly in front of the window.

      “I understand we sat in that particular spot so I could watch for the black truck that I thought had been following you,” he explained.

      She nodded but didn’t say anything. Lenora just watched. There was no audio, but it was clear that Lenora and he were talking in the diner. Clayton waited until the feed got to the first stopping point, then paused the video. He zoomed into his expression.

      “I don’t need a body-language expert to tell me that I’m surprised there. Shocked, actually.” He dipped his head down slightly, forcing eye contact. “What did you say to me to put that look on my face?”

      She didn’t glance away this time. He was watching her closely. It seemed as if she was having a serious debate with herself—a debate that didn’t turn out well for Clayton, because he saw the exact moment when she decided to lie.

      “I can’t remember specifically what I said, but we were talking about the break-ins at the place where I used to live.”

      He didn’t doubt that had come up in conversation—Clayton had read the reports of both break-ins—but since he’d already known about them before Lenora showed up at his office that morning, there probably wasn’t much she could have told him that would have shocked him.

      So why was she lying?

      This was one area where Harlan hadn’t been able to help. His brother had been in the office the morning of the visit, but he hadn’t been privy to what Lenora and he had discussed. Too bad. Because Clayton had the feeling that it was more than important, and he wasn’t letting her out of his sight until he had answers.

      Clayton hit Play on the video, and they watched in silence. Well, verbal silence anyway. Lenora was glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He was doing the same, trying to remember anything and everything about her. She certainly didn’t feel like a stranger. And her scent...

      That was familiar, too.

      Maybe it was his imagination, but that scent seemed to trigger other things. Like the memory of her taste. But that couldn’t have happened. According to every report he’d read, the first time he met Lenora and her friend Jill was when they’d been placed in his protective custody. He wouldn’t have kissed a woman on the job.

      Maybe afterward.

      After Jill had been murdered. After her shooter had been arrested and put behind bars. Yeah, he could maybe see it happening then, if Lenora had landed in his arms so he could comfort her.

      But had they done that?

      And if so, why hadn’t Lenora admitted it?

      He heard the slight shiver of her breath and looked down at the screen. Their recorded conversation was over, and both had noticed the approaching black truck. Though it was damn hard to watch, Clayton did. And he saw the impact of the bullet as it slammed into his head.

      Lenora turned away, or rather started to do that, but Clayton caught her arm, keeping her in place. “Watch,” he insisted.

      She did, but from the corner of her eye, and it seemed as if she was genuinely horrified by what she was seeing. Him, slumped against the table, and her, grabbing his gun to return fire.

      Clayton hit Pause again the second she pulled the trigger.

      It was a clear image of not just the truck but of Lenora. The way she was holding the gun. The expression on her face. The precision with which she returned fire.

      “There are only two types of people who react that way in a life-or-death situation,” he said. “Law enforcement and criminals.”

      She didn’t ask which he thought she was and didn’t deny his conclusion. Lenora mumbled something, shook her head and walked away from him.

      “I need some air,” she said. Before he could stop her, she went to the side door just a few feet away and threw it open.

      The hot July sunlight speared through the tiny church.

      Clayton couldn’t quite choke back a groan, and he shoved on his glasses. Too late, though. The pain came.

      “What’s wrong?” Lenora immediately asked.

      He turned away, fought back the throbbing in his head. Maybe it wouldn’t turn into a full-blown migraine.

      “The sunlight,” he managed to say. “I get headaches.”

      She jerked the door closed and hurried back to him. “From the gunshot?”

      He nodded and forced out some hard breaths. Sometimes it helped.

      “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. That wasn’t in any of the reports I read about you.”

      Even through the blinding pain that got his attention, and he stared at her.

      “Yes, I read reports about you,” she verified. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

      “You could have just asked. Or stayed at the hospital until I came out of surgery. Instead, Harlan said you bolted from the ambulance the second it stopped.”

      “I did.” She looked away, repeated it. Lenora turned again, as if looking for a way out, and the movement caused her coat to shift to the side.

      Despite the pain, Clayton pulled off his glasses so he could make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. They weren’t. He saw her belly.

      Or rather, the baby bump.

      It wasn’t huge, but it was there. And even more, Lenora followed his stunned gaze and pulled the coat back over her. The little gasping sound she made didn’t help steady his nerves, either.

      “You’re pregnant,” Clayton said.

      She nodded.

      “How far along are you?” he asked when she didn’t volunteer anything else.

      Lenora didn’t jump to answer that, either. “Second trimester.”

      He stared at her. “That’s what—four or five months?”

      Another hesitation. “Nearly five.”

      The brain injury might have robbed him of some of his memories, but he could still do basic math. Nearly five months ago put it just about the time she’d been in his protective custody.

      The time frame that was a blank spot in his mind.

      “How much do you remember about me?” she asked before he could say anything.

      “Not much. Nothing,” he amended. “Everything I know about you I learned from the reports and surveillance videos. And from Adam Riggs.”

      Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting that last part, because she sucked in a quick breath. “What did Riggs tell you about me?”

      Not as much as Clayton had wanted. And while Clayton would answer her questions about Riggs, he wasn’t forgetting about that baby bump. He would get answers about that before this conversation was over.

      “I went to visit Riggs in jail,” Clayton explained, “to try to figure out if he was responsible for shooting me. Of course, he said he wasn’t.”

      “Of course.” She huffed. “Anything that comes out of his mouth is a lie, because he’s a cold-blooded killer.”

      Clayton