Unmasking The Shadow Man. Debbie Herbert

okay, thanks.”

      “Let me help you up.”

      “No. Wait a minute.” She needed to collect her wits.

      “Of course.” Mrs. Henley nervously scanned her prone body. “Where all are you hurt?”

      Good question. “I—I think just my knees and hands and hip.” She drew a deep breath and sat up. “Okay, I think I’m ready to stand now.”

      Mrs. Henley placed her hands under Harper’s right forearm. “I’ll help.”

      She surveyed her neighbor’s somewhat frail body. “That’s okay. I’ve got this.”

      The sound of a racing motor set her heart skittering. Had the truck returned to finish her off? Harper twisted around. A Baysville Police Department sedan screeched to an abrupt halt by her fallen mailbox. Officer Andrews was halfway out of the vehicle before the motor turned off.

      “What happened? Are you injured?” he called, running toward them.

      He was beside her, his brow furrowed with concern, assessing the situation. Harper had the oddest sensation of falling into the warmth of those gray eyes. She wanted nothing more than to lean into the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders—to draw momentary comfort from his strength and kindness.

      “Some fool driver nearly ran her over,” Mrs. Henley jumped in to explain. “He nearly gave me a heart attack! And he didn’t even stop, just kept right on going.”

      “Did you get a plate number?”

      “No. Sorry, Officer. It happened so fast.”

      Andrews turned back to Harper. “What about you?”

      “All I can tell you is that it was a large black pickup truck.”

      “Catch the make and model?” he asked hopefully.

      “No.” Even if it hadn’t been for the darkness and her shattered nerves, Harper couldn’t have relayed that information. Vehicles were just vehicles, and she’d never bothered learning different manufacturers’ specifications. Not that Officer Andrews needed to know all that.

      “How bad are you hurt? Should I call an ambulance?”

      “No, don’t. I’m fine. Was just going to stand when you drove up.”

      Andrews held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation. He wouldn’t let her fall. His grasp was strong, an anchor to momentarily lean on. She winced, though, as the raw patches on her palm pressed into the hard strength of his hand. Luckily, her legs and ankles were uninjured, and she stood on her own two feet again. She gave him a nod, and he released his hold.

      “Thank God, you’re okay.” Mrs. Henley held up the stack of envelopes Harper had dropped as the truck came at her. “I believe I’ve gathered all your mail.”

      Harper took the envelopes and shook her head. How unimportant the mail seemed now.

      “Let’s go inside, and I’ll fix you something to drink while I take your statement.”

      Andrews’s deep voice washed over her scattered senses like a balm. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

      “I can do that for you,” Mrs. Henley chimed in.

      “That’s okay, ma’am. Thanks for your help.”

      Harper shot him a grateful look. Mrs. Henley meant well, but once she came in the house and settled down, she was likely to stay for hours, wanting to chitchat. While her neighbor was a perfectly lovely person, Harper didn’t feel up to that.

      Andrews guided her in the house and helped her get seated at the kitchen table.

      “Let’s get you cleaned up. Where are your first aid supplies?”

      She pointed to the hallway on their left. “Second door on the right. Should be alcohol and bandages below the sink. At least, there used to be, years ago.”

      He left momentarily, returning with an old, dusty bottle of rubbing alcohol, a washcloth and several square packages of gauze. Kneeling by her feet, he gently cleaned the abrasions on her knees and palms. At her slight, involuntary hiss as alcohol touched the wound, he bent low and blew on her skin to ease the pain.

      Holy hell. The tender intimacy of the gesture bulldozed her senses with as much impact as when she’d crashed to the ground dodging the wayward truck. After he wrapped her palms with the gauze, he moved on to her knees and she gulped hard, fighting back unexpected tears. What was wrong with her? Was she so broken that a kindly ministration reduced her to a puddled mess?

      He finished, cocking his head to the side as he regarded his handiwork. “Might want to pick up some antibiotic cream tomorrow. Just to be safe.”

      She cleared her throat, determined to keep her voice steady. “Thank you. I’ve made coffee, and there’s some cheesecake in the fridge,” she told him. “Help yourself.”

      She instructed him where to find cups and dishes. He set to work, and she watched. Andrews’s presence filled the kitchen, and she was again struck by his aura of confidence. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense like Bryce—his features were a little too sharp, his body more lean than overly muscled—but Harper was drawn to him nonetheless.

      Bet the man was sorry now he’d offered to stop by and check her house. Seemed she was one problem after another lately.

      Andrews sat across from her. “About that truck—I’ll need to file a report on the incident.”

      “Okay. Sorry Mrs. Henley and I are no help in providing anything more specific, Officer.”

      “Liam.”

      She blinked. “Huh?”

      “My name’s Liam.”

      Liam. The lovely syllables washed over her.

      “Why don’t I get started on the house search while you finish your coffee?”

      “Okay. Be warned, it’s a bit of a mess with boxes everywhere. I’m getting ready to sell the place.”

      “Understood.” He rose and regarded her with something that seemed like…interest. “So, you’ll be here, what, a couple more weeks?”

      “More or less.”

      He nodded. “I’ll start in the basement and work my way up.”

      “Sure. I’ll tag along with you. I’m fine now.”

      Her legs were still shaky, and she hoped Liam didn’t notice. He followed her to the basement, and she was conscious of his large form so close to her own. A stirring of excitement whispered through her body. How pathetic was she? The man was merely paying a kindness. Harper flipped on light switches and flushed a bit as he examined the junky, damp room.

      “Lots of Dad’s old tools are still down here. Plus, Mom always kept a large pantry of canned goods and stored holiday decorations in the basement, too. Got loads of work to do clearing it all out.”

      Liam shone a flashlight on the narrow overhead windows. “No sign of forced entry here.”

      And didn’t she feel foolish. Going to the cops over a few scratching noises and a silly email?

      “Onward and upward,” she joked. He followed her upstairs, and they made their way through each room. Liam opened all the closets and checked the windows. With each passing room, her embarrassment grew. In the attic, he walked through and inspected the cramped space filled floor to ceiling with plastic bins. “More holiday decorations,” she explained. “Mom went all out for every holiday—Valentine’s, St. Patrick’s Day, you name it, she had knickknacks to commemorate its occurrence.” An unexpected pang of nostalgia for the old days hit her in the solar plexus. Old meaning the years before Presley died. There hadn’t been much need to celebrate anything after that.

      “This