Time to take care of myself. She’d promised Mason she’d go home and relax. Maybe it was time to catch up on that TV crime series. No. Something funny. A show where I can turn off my brain and eat ice cream. She turned on her car and planned a stop at the grocery store.
Her phone rang.
She glanced at the unfamiliar number that popped up on the screen on her vehicle’s dashboard. Maybe the therapist? She kept her car in park and pressed the green button on her steering wheel to answer the call.
“Is this Ava?” asked a male voice. He nearly shouted in the phone as voices in the background moaned and cried.
She sat up straight. “This is Ava.” She listened hard, trying to make out the words in the background.
“Your sister had me call you. She’s bad off. The fire department’s here and they’re working on her.”
“What happened?” She gripped her steering wheel, her foot pressed on the brake, staring at the phone number on her dashboard screen.
“I don’t know. I found her collapsed in Jefferson Park and called 911. She was throwing up and there’s blood everywhere.”
Her heart stopped. “Was she hit by a car? What—what did she do?”
“No car. She was behind the restroom structure.” He hesitated. “Her wrists are all bloody.”
No. Jayne. Tell me you didn’t . . .
“Are they taking her to the hospital?” she forced out.
She heard him question someone.
“Yeah. OHSU.”
“I’m on my way.” She paused, her mind unable to focus. “Thank you for calling me.”
“She’s bad. I don’t want to scare you, but it doesn’t look good.”
Ava froze. “I appreciate that.”
“Just warning you.”
Ava ended the call. She didn’t need warnings; she’d expected this day for two decades.
23
Sirens sounded.
He glanced in his rearview mirror. Red and blue lights. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Is this it?
He looked in the mirror again. Only one set of lights. If they’d figured out who he was, they’d have sent twenty police cars, not one. He steadied his breathing and flicked on his blinker. Sweat made his fingers slide across the leather wheel as he turned the vehicle down a side street and pulled to a stop. He turned off the engine and wiped his hands on his shorts.
Stay calm. In his side mirror, he watched a woman step out of the cruiser.
Jesus-God-damned-fucking-Christ!
Every muscle clenched, and he ground his teeth, creating a sound as if he were chewing rocks. This wasn’t happening to him.
She was small and blond with her hair pulled tightly back. She met his gaze in the mirror as she strode toward his vehicle, and he looked away.
Unacceptable.
“Good afternoon, sir.” She stopped a step behind his driver window. Her stomach and weapon visible in his side mirror. “May I see your license and registration, please?”
He didn’t answer, knowing she’d had a clear view of the distorted skin on the left side of his neck. He leaned across to the glove box and dug for his registration. He held the piece of paper out the window without looking at her, feeling her gaze probe his scars.
“License?” she asked, plucking the registration from his hand. Her voice was young. She sounded like a middle-school-age child.
“I’m getting it,” he muttered. He shifted in his seat to remove his wallet from his back pocket.
“Do you know why I stopped you?” she asked sweetly.
“No.” He slid his ID out of his wallet, and turned to meet her gaze as he handed her the plastic. Her eyes were an impossibly light blue and her cheeks were sunburned. Or flushed. Is she scared?
A rush of pleasure made him smile at her.
“Your plates are expired.”
“What?” Shock rocked through him. He’d been pulled over for that? “Seriously? I haven’t received a renewal in the mail.”
“Have you moved recently? Perhaps they were lost in the mail. I’m sorry, but that’s not an excuse. You can contact the DMV if you haven’t received new stickers.”
Her tone was like fingers on a chalkboard. Condescending and haughty. “Yes, I moved recently.” Anger narrowed his vision to a small point.
She sounded like his mother, pointing out everything he’d done wrong. He’d never done anything good enough for her.
“I’ll go to the DMV.”
She handed back his registration and license. “I’m going to give you a warning. Your stickers are only a month out of date. Can you make it to the DMV today?”
“I’ll go right now. I don’t want to be pulled over again.” And lectured by a woman.
Minutes later he was back in traffic and fighting the rage that overtook him every time he remembered her tone. “Fucking bitch. She’s just another woman looking for a reason to talk down to a man. She must really get off on ordering men around.”
His mind raced ahead. What if she’d pulled her gun on me? He imagined himself throwing open his driver’s door and leaping out, focusing on the scared woman. He strode toward her, never taking his eyes from hers as her weapon shook in her hands. She screamed for him to stop. But he didn’t. He reached out and yanked the weapon away as she stepped backward, cowering from him, tears flowing from those light eyes. “Don’t hurt me,” she said. He released the magazine and removed the round from the chamber, throwing the pieces to the side. He stepped close, pressing her back against her own car. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he whispered. She tilted her head back to look up at him, nodding frantically, trapped between his body and her vehicle. Fear radiated from her, her trembling passing between their pressed bodies. He tossed the remaining frame of the weapon through the driver’s window of her car.