Before I can add anything, Bea says, “So… the man who attacked me?—”
“The man?” I sit up straight. “Are you sure it was a man?”
“Yes. He talked to me. He said—” Her forehead squinches up, and she winces in pain. “He said…”
“We can talk about it later.” I’d rather not make her talk about it at all, but unfortunately, that’s not possible. In order to investigate effectively, we need to question Bea. Not just about Jenna, but about Bea’s background, too. Because one scenario we discussed on the plane was that Bea was actually the target, and Jenna was just an unrelated victim who got dragged into it.
But I’m not asking Bea about that now. No way. Not when she’s fighting back tears and looks like she’s on the verge of passing out.
“Is this too much?” I ask. Smoothing the bandage back in place, I let my fingers linger on her skin for an extra second.
And shit, her skin is so damn soft.
For just a moment, or possibly less than that, Bea leans into my hand. Her eyes close. Then she reopens them and swallows hard. “I need to know.”
She’s so strong.
Even stronger than I realized.
So I fight back the instinctive urge to shield her from the painful truth and keep talking.
I outline everything we discovered last night and this morning, about the apparent cause of death—multiple stab wounds resulting in massive blood loss—and how Bea was discovered unconscious only feet away from Jenna, the bloody knife clutched in her hand. I tell Bea about what the police think happened; that as she was hurrying to leave the scene, she slipped in blood and hit her head on the locker, knocking her out until nearly eleven-thirty last night.
“He grabbed my head,” Bea insists. “I was trying to get to my phone, and this man… he slammed my head into the locker. I didn’t slip. I was careful not to touch the blood at all. I touched Jenna’s wrist to see if she was… she was…”
More tears spring free.
“Hey. It’s okay.” Without thinking, I brush the fresh tears from her cheeks. “You don’t have to talk about it now. We can wait.”
“Untilwhen? Until the police come get me? Until?—”
“They won’t.” My tone brooks no argument. “The police won’t find you here. There’s no way.”
Bea sniffs back her tears. “How do you know?”
“Because there’s no reason for them to look here. We got in and out of the hospital without being noticed. And we were wearing disguises, so even if we did get caught on surveillance, which we didn’t, we couldn’t be identified.”
Hope sparks in her eyes, but it’s quickly extinguished. “But…”
“You’re safe here,” I continue. “Like I mentioned before, I brought you to our headquarters. It’s extremely secure. No one can get inside without our permission. And this”—I make a sweeping gesture around the bedroom—“is our client apartmentright on site. We keep it for, well, clients, obviously. Or if friends or family come to visit. So no one can get to you here.”
“Your headquarters?” She gnaws on her lip again. “Headquarters for what?”
“Blade and Arrow Security. There are three branches, one in New York, another in Texas, and we’re the newest of them. We provide private security and investigative services to clients all over the country.”
“And you work here?”
A rare bloom of pride warms my chest. “I do. I know you wouldn’t have thought it, seeing me two years ago. But… I got my shit together. And even though I’m missing a hand?—”
“Indy.”In a blink, Bea’s voice loses its wobble. She gives me that look, the one I remember so well from our sessions, when she’d insist I could achieve whatever I wanted. “Ineverdoubted you. Not for a second.”
Emotion slams into me with the force of a tank.
Gruffly, I reply, “I did. But I’m here now. And my company, we’re good. We can keep you safe here, like I said. We have contacts, avenues the police don’t have access to. We can investigate this. Find out the truth. And then?—”
“But they probably think I ran away.” Bea’s face pales. She clutches my arm. “They’re going toreallythink I’m guilty now.”
“They won’t.”
