Just surprise and then something darker crossed his face. “I don’t know them.” His thumb ran through the mud on my chin. “You weren’t followed home?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Kind of. If they’d wanted to stop me from identifying them or saying they were at Melvin’s today, it was too late. There was no reason to seek me out now. “Are you sure you don’t know them? I mean, you described them well, and maybe they were shooting at you?”
He straightened. “No. They were shooting at Randy Taylor.”
“Either Randy or you, Aiden.” I studied his face for any hint of a lie. “They were at Melvin Whitaker’s house today. You know him, right?”
“Why were you at his house?” A muscle ticked in Aiden’s jaw as he didn’t answer my question.
Wrong place and wrong time? “Just doing my job.”
“That ain’t your job, and you need to stick to the courtroom. For now, I’ll find out who they are,” he said.
“Not your job. Bad guys are bad guys. I can handle it.” I just didn’t have the energy to question him right now. “Aiden, I’m freezing. Pour the wine, I’ll be right back.”
He paused. “People aren’t all good or all bad, Anna. Ever.” He released my hands.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.” My job depended on it. I hobbled through the great room, my bedroom, and into the bathroom. I gasped in dismay at my bathroom mirror. It was even worse than I’d feared.
My hair frizzed around my face in frightening angles, loaded with sticks and bark. Mud smeared across one of my cheeks and down my windbreaker. A jagged rip ran through my jeans, and my remaining sandal was filthy. Bark and clumps of bushes stuck haphazardly throughout the mud, completing the disastrous look. My eyes were wide, frightened in my pale face.
I shimmied out of my wet clothes, and hopped in the shower, moaning as hot water cascaded over my battered body. My shoulder and hip already sported deep purple bruises, and one leg held raised red abrasions. Scratches and long cuts stung my knees and hands. But the water balmed some of the hurt.
I hurriedly washed the mud out of my hair before turning the shower off. Then I let myself turn the shower back on, sit on the floor, and then bawl. Everything hurt, people were trying to kill me, and I just couldn’t handle it.
Finally, I wound down, feeling somewhat better. Lifting my face to the cooling spray, I settled my shoulders. All right. I’d been kidnapped at ten and had survived that.
I could survive this.
Turning off the cool water, I stepped out of the shower and dried off with a fluffy white towel. Then I wrapped it around me while walking into the bedroom. There I threw on panties and eyed clean jeans. But my blue striped pajama pants beckoned from the bed, and my body just hurt. I quickly donned them, the matching tank top and some thick comfy socks. To complete the look, I wrapped a thick sweatshirt around my torso like a fuzzy knitted hug.
I dodged back into the bathroom and ran a comb through my curls, figuring I’d rather eat dinner than dry my hair. I swallowed three Advil dry and then put a couple of bandages on my palms, noting the scrapes weren’t so bad with all of the bark and dirt gone. A swipe of gloss didn’t help my face enough. With a shrug, I headed out to face Aiden.
How many times through the years had I fantasized about domestic bliss with him? Man, I really was crazy.
He had set the table, and a bottle of Shiraz breathed on the counter. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms and watched me walk into the kitchen, his eyes sharp and his face thoughtful. He seemed solid and somewhat safe in his black shirt, dark jeans, and flak boots. My mind reeled; I wasn’t sure what questions to ask him. Maybe he’d feel pity and just roll over and confess everything. I hoped he didn’t have much to confess.
He just couldn’t be bad.
I tried for a reassuring smile, reaching into the freezer for a bag of homemade rolls, liking the feel of the cold bag on my aching palms. They went into the microwave before I stirred the stew. It was my Nana’s recipe. Gravied beef, roasted carrots, and puffy potatoes scented the air, and I ladled two big bowls and handed them to Aiden to put on the table. He poured the wine, and I placed the heated rolls onto a large plate before crossing to the table and sitting down. He followed suit.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, and the stew warmed me.
He grinned. “This is delicious.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s actually homemade,” he murmured.
“Yep. I like to cook, Aiden.”
He took a sip of his wine, his eyes focused on me. “So.”
“What do you know about a drug called Beast?” I asked, too tired to worry if I was going to tick him off.
