Page 3 of Silent Threat
He had some Pacific Islander heritage: wide jaw, flat nose. He was thirtyish. Not that much older than she.Just a man, not a homicidal maniac.This was Broslin, small-town Pennsylvania. They had maybe one murder a year, and this year’s box had already been checked. Broslin was nothing like the seriously dodgy Philly neighborhoods Annie had lived in during the past decade.
She drew a steadying breath. As the mad banging in her chest quieted, her gaze dropped to the massive hand the man had lowered—the skin battered and bloody, his knuckles busted.
He must be in painwas her first thought, the second being that he might not mean to kill her, but hehadkilled someone. Recently. With his size, if he’d pummeled anyone hard enough to cause that much damage to his own hand, the other guy had to be dead. Broslin’s murder rate had just doubled.
Where was the victim? Her gaze darted to the deserted alley behind him on reflex.
The sky hung low, a heavy dark-gray—a metal coffin lid, trapping the world. The giant billboards that lined the top of the warehouse next door blocked what little light there was, leaving the alley a dim space.
No bodies—dead or alive.
Never mind.The most important question was, could Annie jump back into the single-stall bathroom fast enough to close the door in the killer’s face and lock herself in while she called the police?
As if the man could hear the panicked rush of blood in her veins, he took another step back. “Don’t be scared.” His tone dipped and grew another notch gruffer. “I’m leaving now. All right?”
He grunted with frustration and pulled his neck into his shoulders, hunching, hiding the bloody hand behind him, trying to appear less menacing. His downcast expression said he was used to people being afraid of him. He’d come to expect it.
Annie’s first impression of him had been that of a man who could take a person apart without breaking a sweat—and not be particularly bothered by it either. But hewasbothered that he’d scared her.
He half turned to walk away.
“Wait,” she blurted.
Oh cripes.She hadn’t meant to say that. But when his dark eyebrows twitched with surprise, she continued, “You should clean that hand.”
She held the bathroom door open, the sink and paper towels behind her.
He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t walk away either. He took her measure once again, more carefully this time, like a person who’d opened a box and found something other than what he’d expected.
She squirmed under his scrutiny.Should have let him walk away.
“Who did you fight with?” Again she had spoken without thinking. Thinking people didn’t chat up violent men in abandoned alleys and invite them to incriminate themselves.
A shadow passed over his broad face.Embarrassment? Unlikely.He didn’t seem like a guy who’d be easily embarrassed.
“I punched the bricks.” He jerked his shaved head toward the wall. “Got frustrated.”
“Ever tried meditation?” There she went with the blurting again.
Are you for real?his dark eyes asked. But he withdrew his damaged hand from behind his back, as if deciding that she could handle the sight after all. “I guess washing the blood off wouldn’t hurt.”
Oh God. Blood. Right.Now that she wasn’t in imminent fear for her life, the whole blood thing hit Annie full on the chin and knocked her back.
Don’t throw up. Don’t pass out.She kept her eyes on his face.
She stood aside as he went into the bathroom. She didn’t offer to help with cleaning his wounds. The sight of blood filled her with the acute need to run the other way.
She hurried over to her car and grabbed the first-aid kit from the trunk. Running away did feel great. But then she made herself return to the bathroom with the red plastic box.
He had washed off the blood already—thank God—and was now dabbing his busted knuckles with a paper towel. He showed no sign of pain, as if he were made out of the same bricks he had punched earlier.
She stepped closer. “Let me see that.”
“It’s no big deal.” The way he pulled back said he was equally uncomfortable with their proximity.
She balanced the box on the edge of the sink and popped it open, then pulled out the minuscule brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
After a moment, the man held out his hand—twice the size of hers—knuckles up. She poured the peroxide, let it fizz, poured more. Then she picked up the first Band-Aid to begin covering up the worst of the damage.
