The officer raises his brow. “That’s quite a big assault.”
I clench my jaw and hope they’re going to leave it at that.
For now.
The two officers cut their gaze over to Piper. “We have on file that your father, Philip Hart, was escaping a gang in Boston.”
Hart side-glances me, knowing I had to report the truth. Something terrible must’ve happened there at the motel, because she nods in response to the police’s statement and says, “Yeah. That’s true.”
“And he’s staying at West Mill Hotel?”
“Squatting,” she corrects. “There is no West Hill Motel. The place shut down some time ago due to a rat infestation. But yeah. He’ll still be there. The bullet wounds in each of his thighs will be making sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
Jesus. Sounds like it was a massacre in there.
“We’ll need to be in touch again,” says the other officer, plucking the radio from his pants. “Speak soon.”
I swing my arm around Piper and bring her close. For someone who saw their own father shot at today, and who came close to death, she’s doing well. And I know her well enough to know that the assurance in her voice is no front. She’s okay, and I clarify that by looking into her eyes, blue as ever in the afternoon sun.
“Let’s go home,” I tell her, making sure to slip back into the truck when the cops are well away.
“Home,” she repeats. “You’re no longer referring to it as your place?”
“After the day we’ve had, I think we can cut to the chase and realize that our feelings are too strong to fight.” I offer her a smile.
But her gaze is elsewhere, cutting across the parking lot.
“Hart?”
“Taylor.” The self-assurance disappears from her face, her eyes wide with fear. But she manages to sigh the fear out of her system. “I’ve taken enough shit today. I’m not letting him come between us and get in the way of our good thing, just because he doesn’t have one.”
She pops the truck door and jumps out, taking wide steps toward the suited man who has just stepped out of his own car.
“Hart!” I leap out after her, positive that she’s still on an adrenaline high. This can’t get out of control. “Hart,” I call again, this time through gritted teeth.
“I got a confession from the hitman who’s been after my father,” Piper shouts, storming through the rest of the parking lot. “Only he got my phone and deleted the recording.”
James Taylor adjusts his cuff links, grinding his jaw. “I have been advised by the police to drop the case.”
In his fucking face.
I stay behind Piper, waiting for him to elaborate further, but the man only likes to talk when the ball is in his court.
“What?” Piper scoffs. “I don’t understand.”
“Even though you were intending to squeeze a couple thousand out of the situation, your house did not burn down on your account. The man following you around was the one who?—”
“You’re just relaying information that I already know.”
James stands rigidly in front of Piper. The restricting suit probably isn’t helping matters. I’d look like a piece of cardboard too if I forced myself to wear linen and tweed everyday.
“The hospital and police have been in communication. I was informed that you were almost shot at today.” He bows his head. “You have a son to look out for. You cannot raise a child if you’re dead, and you certainly cannot raise one behind bars serving time.”
“Thanks,” Piper whispers. I sense the underlying confusion in her voice, as to why the guy has suddenly changed his tune. He was at our throats like a vampire only days ago. “That’s…not what I was expecting you to say.”
“No.” James keeps his voice controlled. “But you are around the same age my sister was when she lost her life.” He bows his head again and disappears into his car, leaving Piper and me to fill in the gaps.
“Fires are personal,” I tell her as we head back to the truck. “I should have known before that he was trying to rectify a past guilt.”
