Page 11 of Mountain Hero

What if the police don’t catch him? What if they don’t believe me? Will I be thrown in jail as an accessory? Or if there’s no evidence against Thomas—he had the mask and gloves, while I was found right at the scene—they could blame it all on me.

My fingerprints are on the crowbar. Could the proof be any more damning?

Is there any way for me to convince them I was being held hostage? Something at Thomas’s house? Will they let me explain how I wasn’t at the store willingly, and I only went inside in an attempt to help?

How can I feel relieved when there’s so much uncertainty? So much fear?

And it’s hard to think past the incessant throbbing in my head. My forehead is hot and tight from the swelling, every movement sends a sickening wave of pain rushing through me, and even the slight light from the bedside lamp hurts my eyes. But I don’t want to turn it off because then I’ll be in the dark, and I’m not strong enough to handle that right now.

I’m on the verge of tears as a hurricane of emotions keeps slamming into me. The ever-present fear. Shame that I let myself get in this situation to begin with. Guilt that I didn’t stop Thomas sooner. And a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

Maybe the police will believe me, and they’ll catch Thomas, and I can get back to rebuilding the life I started when I moved here eight months ago. I’ll get back to fixing up my house, installing a much better security system this time around. I’ll find new clients for my graphic design business, since my old ones most likely gave up on me.

Maybe I can still get a kitten. Not the calico one—I’m sure she’s been adopted by now—but there have to be plenty more looking for a home.

Maybe, one day, I’ll even feel safe again.

Or maybe I’ll end up in jail, Thomas will go free, my aunt will have to go into hiding, and this nightmare will never end.

Crap. Now I’m crying, which makes my head ache even more.

I’m brushing away the tears as a light rap sounds on the hospital room door. It’s not a threatening sound, but I’m so on edge I let out a scared yelp and hunch into myself defensively.

“Miss Clarke?” A uniformed woman stands in the doorway, a male police officer flanking her on the left. She gives me a small, sympathetic smile, and the tight band of fear around my chest eases just the slightest bit.

She doesn’t sound accusatory as she says gently, “I’m Officer Nelson. And this is my partner, Officer Quillian. We’d like to talk to you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

The idea of talking about everything that happened—the robbery and the terrifying events that led up to it—makes me feel like throwing up. But I know I have to. It’s the only chance I have of putting an end to all this.

And I’ve seen enough police shows and docuseries to know this is the nice part of the interrogation. They aren’t treating me like a criminal yet, despite the fact I was found practically red-handed at the scene of a break-in and robbery.

Honestly, when they brought me to this room, I was half expecting to be handcuffed to the bed.

By the time the police arrived at the store, I was crying and dizzy and so terrified I don’t think anything I said made sense. I was dimly aware of repeating the same things over and over—Thomas did it, he held me hostage, I’m sorry, I just wanted to stop him.

One of the police officers kept firing questions at me until Enzo finally snapped at him. With a dark glare, he bit out, “She’s hurt and probably concussed and scared out of her mind. Obviously, Winter isn’t going anywhere. This can wait.”

Enzo. He should have treated me like a criminal, but instead, he was kind and gentle. He held my hand. Stayed with me until I was loaded into the ambulance. Reassured me that everything was going to be okay.

His store—his uncle’s store—had just been broken into and damaged, but he was more concerned about me.

No matter what else happens to me, I’ll never regret sneaking inside and calling 911. There may be damage and some loss at the store, but at least it’s still standing. Thomas didn’t get a chance to burn it down and destroy Enzo’s uncle’s legacy.

“Miss Clarke?” The female officer—Officer Nelson?—takes a step into the room. Her features are creased with concern. “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”

Crap. I need to stay focused instead of drifting off. “I’m okay,” I reply, but it comes out more like a croak. Swallowing, I try again. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just… I can talk. I… I want to.”

She gives me a quick nod and glances at her partner before coming the rest of the way into the room. Once they get a few feet from my bed, they stop and stare at me for a second, their gazes sharp and assessing.

Even though I didn’t do anything wrong, at least, I don’t think I did, I still feel myself wilting. My chest goes tight and my skin feels all hot and prickly. My heart rockets to double speed, which makes the monitor I’m hooked up to beep faster, and now I’m panicking, convinced they’re going to immediately think I’m guilty.

My breath is coming in quick, uneven gasps, and those persistent tears are threatening again.

“Hey, it’s okay.” It’s the male officer this time; his voice low and reassuring. His expression softens as he looks at me, his eyes lingering on my forehead and arm before meeting my gaze. “We’re just here to talk to you. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Officer Nelson. She pats my hand before continuing. “We just want to hear from you exactly what happened. From what you were saying at the scene, it sounds like a very complicated situation. And obviously, we know you weren’t alone there.”

“You said something about being held captive,” prompts Officer Quinlan? Quinton? Quillian? “And you tried to stop someone? Can you take us through everything?”

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