Page 6 of Deny Me
“And the police?”
“They’re brushing it off as a random accident.” Wes’s mouth tightened. “The chief’s being a—”
King held up a hand. If they were dealing with the smallish station near his old neighborhood, the cops there played a lot of politics. Blossomwood was part of the wealthiest suburb of Atlanta, and serious crimes rarely occurred there. Knowing one had could hurt the city’s reputation.
The work part of King’s brain, the logical part of him, clicked on. This was Charlotte they were discussing, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He leaned forward over his desk. “Start from the beginning.”
“She was coming home from a fundraiser yesterday.” He glanced out the window for a second, his profile so like King’s that the familiarity gripped his heart, squeezing tight. He hadn’t seen a face that familiar in so long. “She was almost home when a truck smashed into her from a side street. T-boned her. On her side of the car.”
King sucked in his breath. He knew those roads. Wes had said Charlotte was all right, which meant she’d been incredibly lucky. A direct hit could’ve tumbled her down a steep hillside or, even worse, killed her instantly.
She could be dead. His Charlotte.Dead.He squeezed his hands into fists below the edge of the desk.
She’s not your Charlotte anymore.
He forced his focus back to Wes’s words.
“She went over the railing”—King’s heart stopped—“but slammed into a tree a few feet down,” Wes said, his voice strangled. “Luckily her car has direct assistance. The company called police as soon as the accident registered on their system.”
Thank God. He didn’t want to imagine her, hurt and alone, scrambling for a cell that could’ve ended up who knew where in the car.
“The driver fled the scene. The police think he ran because he didn’t want to be arrested, but…”
“But what?”
Wes shook his head, his mouth a thin line. “Charlotte recognized the truck. She’d just been to visit a client. She told the police the father threatened her, that it was his truck that hit her, but they’re skeptical given her injuries.”
It seemed a bit too obvious, and smart criminals usually avoided the obvious if they could. But King knew better than most that not all criminals were smart.
Desperation deepened the lines on Wes’s face. “She’s afraid he’ll come back, King. And so am I.”
King took in the intensity of emotion, the fact that his cousin’s body practically shook with the need to do something. This wasn’t mere worry over a friend of the family. No, it was something much, much more.
He forced himself to tuck that thought away as well.
“That area has a clear line of sight. Whoever hit her knew she was coming. Where the road curves around the McAllister estate, with that reinforced guardrail? She was slammed into it, crushed between it and the truck before it gave way.
“The only evidence left behind was some paint scrapings and the rusted grill. A Chevy pickup, heavy duty, it looks like. The police are ‘looking into it’”—Wes made air quotes—“but my friends at the station say they’re not looking that hard or that quickly.”
“And no one saw anything?”
“No. She was left there, alone, for around fifteen minutes before help arrived.”
Anxiety tightened his muscles. Charlotte helpless, bleeding, hurting. All the discipline he’d learned as a cop, as a security specialist—hell, all the discipline in the world couldn’t keep him from picturing it. From needing to get to her. Keep her safe.
It bothered Wes just as much; anger and pain dripped from his words.
“Wes…” He got that the cops weren’t working fast enough for his cousin; he’d feel the same. But that didn’t explain… “Why did you come tome?”
Wes stood, started to pace. “The estate has a security system, a gate. She’ll be fine there, right?” He didn’t sound any more convinced of that than King was. “At the scene Charlotte was frantic, kept begging the EMT to check on her client. Becky.” He ran a hand down his face. “She was absolutely certain, King. Even with a concussion, with a sprained wrist and ribs and blood dripping down her face, sheknewwho hit her. Becky’s father, Richard Jones. And the fucking police don’t want to rock the boat hard enough to have an attempted murder become public knowledge!”
Wes stopped, took a breath, obviously struggling to get himself back under control.
“What if it wasn’t too dark? What if Charlotte saw exactly what she thought she saw and no one is doing anything about it? What if the guy comes back? What if Becky isn’t safe and they’re taking their sweet time checking on her? She’s sixteen and eight months pregnant. What if something’s already happened to her?”
Why did Charlotte have a sixteen-year-old client? He hadn’t allowed himself to follow her life; knowing would’ve been too much temptation. “Did you try—”
“I called. No one’s answering. I thought about going out there, but…” He waved a hand down his body. Wes wasn’t small by any means, but his cousin had never been a fighter, not with his fists. He saved his battles for the law.
