His Runaway Juror. Mallory Kane
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She huddled in the corner of the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, unable to stop shivering. She was chilled to the bone, although it was September and still summertime-hot in Biloxi, Mississippi.
She didn’t know how long she sat there staring at the front door, terrified they’d return. Sick with the knowledge that they knew where she lived.
Still afraid to trust her trembling legs, she crawled over to the door and reached up to throw the dead bolt. The useless gesture was almost funny. They’d gotten into her apartment once. They could do it again. They could come back any time they wanted.
She pulled herself to her feet, her body aching with tension, her head woozy with fear. Leaning against her kitchen counter, she chafed her sore arms. Her throat and jaw hurt. She couldn’t stop trembling.
What was she going to do? They’d threatened her. Threatened her father.
Dad! The little Cajun hadn’t said anything specific, but his implication sent icy fear surging through her veins. His boss had chosen her because she was alone and vulnerable—and so was her father.
She had to check on him. Carefully she walked over to the couch. Where was the phone? It had been knocked onto the floor when she’d bumped her head on the end table. It was halfway across the room.
She moved unsteadily toward it as pain shot through her shoulders. The man who’d held her had been strong. Thank God he wasn’t as cruel as the Cajun.
Just as she touched the handset, it rang.
She jerked away with a startled cry and covered her mouth with both hands to keep from screaming.
It rang again. Her temples throbbed. Her heart raced. She forced herself to pick it up.
“Ms. Raines? This is Mary Bankston, night supervisor at Beachside Manor.”
Horror clutched at her chest. No, please!
“Ms. Bank—” Her voice wouldn’t work. She swallowed painfully and tried again. “Ms. Bankston. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t worry. Your father is fine. But I need to let you know that there was a small incident a few minutes ago. Somehow, some papers in the trash can in your father’s room caught fire. The nurse on duty put them out immediately, and made sure your father wasn’t injured. I can’t imagine how he managed to get matches or light a fire. But it’s all under control now.”
Lily’s hand cramped around the phone. “You’re sure? You’re sure he’s okay? I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t think he even realizes anything happened. You certainly don’t need to drive over here—”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” She hung up the phone, old, familiar guilt squeezing her chest.
Her father, a cop, had once been so vital, so big and strong, so courageous. But a gunshot to the head during a liquor store robbery had turned him into a bewildered, docile shell of the man who’d raised her.
He’d survived the shooting, but the loving father who had taught her right from wrong, who’d stressed the importance of truth and justice, was gone.
Unable to speak and barely able to understand rudimentary conversation, Joe Raines seemed to look forward to her visits, but the times were fewer and fewer that his brown eyes lit up with recognition.
The intruder’s Cajun twang echoed in her ears. You be hearin’ something very soon.
Bile burned her throat and nausea made her double over. They’d made their point. They’d already gotten to her father.
Suddenly her head spun and acrid saliva filled her mouth. She stumbled into the bathroom, making it just in time.
Collapsing onto the cold tile floor, she bent her head over the toilet, giving in to the spasms. She gagged and coughed until there was nothing left inside her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she flopped back against the wall and wiped her face with unsteady fingers. For a few moments she just cried. She was so scared. So tired.
It was amazing how fragile humans were. And how fast hope could turn to despair. In an instant, everything could change.
About the same time as her father was shot, she’d found out her husband was cheating on her. He’d always been controlling, but she believed in marriage, so she’d tried desperately to make hers work.
He’d asked for a divorce and moved out.
Then, because of the time she had to devote to caring for her father, her fledgling interior design business had suffered.
Still, she’d survived. She’d started over, like so many others.
Then, just last week, she’d begun negotiations to design the interior of a new high-rise being built in Biloxi. She’d started feeling hopeful once again. Strong and safe.
But no more. Today, her life and her father’s had changed again. Their lives were threatened.
Her dad’s beloved, confused face rose in her mind. He was all she had. And she was all he had. She had to get to the nursing home, to see for herself that he was all right.
She struggled to her feet, her muscles stiff from the cold tile, her stomach fighting the nausea that still clung to her. She splashed water on her face.
How would she face her father, knowing what she had to do? Vote not guilty. Let a murderer go free.
It went against everything he’d stood for all his life. Everything he’d taught her about justice and truth. To protect him, she would have to betray everything he believed in.
She looked at her pale face in the mirror. How could she do anything else?
BRANDON GALLAGHER TOSSED down a straight shot of Irish whiskey and grimaced. The burn felt good, but it didn’t wash the taste of self-disgust from his mouth. He slapped the glass down on the counter and nodded at the bartender, then got up and headed for the bathroom.
He splashed cold water on his face, and when he did, his senses were filled with the scent that clung to his fingers. Vanilla and fresh coconut.
He held out his arms and examined the scratches. A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
He turned on the hot water and scrubbed his hands with soap, then rinsed his face. Lifting his head he met his eyes in the flaking mirror.
“Can’t wash away your own stench with whiskey, nor her perfume with soap, can you, Gallagher?” he muttered. He patted his face and hands dry with a paper towel, then he wet a corner of it and wiped the specks of blood off his forearms. She was a fighter. That was good. She’d need to be.
Foshee had carped at him all the way down the stairs and back to Gio’s. This ain’t good cop, bad cop, salaud. You too soft. Mais, yeah, I better tell the boss you can’t handle it.
Brand hadn’t reacted, although his insides had clenched with worry. He’d prayed he was reading the little Cajun right. Foshee was merely flexing his nonexistent muscles. He wouldn’t really go to Castellano.
Feigning unconcern, Brand had just grunted and muttered that there were better things to do with females than rough them up.
To his relief, Foshee had laughed.
You better watch her. Make sure she don’ turn tail.
You watch her and I watch you. Boss wants to hear how you handle this job. You try something with her, I be waitin’ my turn, yeah.
As soon as he’d gotten free of Foshee, Brand had driven back to Lily Raines’s apartment. He was surprised to see her car still there. But just about the time he cut his engine, she’d