-

Thirty-Nine

Being with Troy last night had felt like it had before Cynthia’s wedding and the AWOL proposal. Too bad Madison’s actions this morning might jeopardize everything. She’d slipped out of bed at a few minutes after four, careful not to wake Troy, who was breathing heavily, his mind playing somewhere in dreamland. If Hershey had been home, it would have been much more difficult to sneak out.

She took Troy’s Expedition instead of a cab because she didn’t want a driver hanging around for what she had planned. She just hoped Troy stayed asleep until she returned home.

It was still pitch black out when she drove to Garrett Murphy’s house. She knew the addresses for Murphy and the Phelps brothers off the top of her head.

Murphy’s was a bungalow. No garage. The driveway had a blue sedan parked at an angle. There was no pickup truck—black or any other color.

She tapped the wheel of the Expedition. What had she really expected—that the truck that hit her would be sitting there for the world to see? Maybe she was really losing it to think Murphy was behind the hit-and-run. Even if he saw the woman’s picture on the Cynthia’s monitor, it didn’t mean he was homicidal. And while she could go into the station and confirm if Murphy or the Phelps brothers owned a black pickup, searching vehicle registrations would come with questions she didn’t want to answer. If only she could put the truck in one of their driveways or garages and build her case from there.

She next drove to Dustin Phelps’s place. It was a gorgeous home in a pricey neighborhood, but it went with the showy display and pretense Dustin liked to exhibit. He had his kids in expensive private schools and his mother in a Club Med retirement home. He was crooked, of that she was sure, but apparently had no qualms about flashing his blood money.

Dustin had a double-car garage and the driveway was empty. The pickup could have been in the garage. How was she supposed to—

She growled as the idea went through her head. The accident must have inflicted some damage if she thought she could just trespass. It was the type of neighborhood where everyone was preoccupied with their neighbors—time of day probably didn’t matter—not out of concern but out of nosiness. They wanted to make sure everyone was following some list of imposed standards, such as how short to cut one’s grass, how often, whether the yard was raked or the snow cleared, and when to put up Christmas lights and take them down. Everyone probably knew their neighbors’ business.

Regardless, she parked a street over and cut the engine. Every step shot pain through her, but she pushed it aside, focused on her goal.

She reached Dustin’s house and slunk up the driveway, thankful she’d had another black hoodie in her dresser to wear tonight. And at that thought, she gasped. Her car was a total write-off, but had the items in her trunk, her black clothing and camera, been handed over to Troy? He hadn’t asked her about any of it, but she could have easily dismissed the clothing as being backup. The camera’s presence could be a little harder to explain, but if it had made it back to him, at least there’d be no images for him to find on the memory card.

She made it to the garage. It had six rectangular windows across the top, but they were far too high for her to see through without a ladder.

She walked the side of the garage and found a man door. She put her hand on the knob, about to twist, but a place like this was probably wired with an alarm.

She should just leave. Hell, she could be on some surveillance video at this moment. Dustin Phelps could be inside watching her and laughing his ass off. But if he was, too late for her. She might as well keep going.

She went around to the back of the garage, through an unlocked gate, and found a window.

She leaned forward to peer inside, careful not to touch the window. She’d worked a case where a palm print on glass had factored into the investigation.

It was darker inside than it was outside. Though what did she expect? For it to be lit up? Her mind really wasn’t working that great.

The window appeared easy to breach, but if she did, again there was risk of setting off an alarm. Heck, for all she knew, a rent-a-cop was on his way already.

How was she supposed to confirm whether he had the truck in the garage? She had to get inside.

She touched the windowpane, and a light turned on in the house to her left.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Getting caught snooping was the last thing she wanted. She creeped around the side of the garage and hightailed it down the driveway and returned to the Expedition.

She got behind the wheel. Her head was pounding, and she should be in bed, following the doctor’s orders to rest, but how could she let whoever hit her just get away with it? She had a third house she wanted to visit: the one belonging to Joel Phelps, Dustin’s brother.

She headed to his address.

She practically slammed the brakes when she saw a black pickup in his drive. Goose bumps crawled down her arms. Could this be the one that hit her?

She parked a block away and walked, hoodie up, head down. Every step she took was more painful than the last, but she had to hurry and get this over with, preferably while not being spotted. She gripped her sides, her bruised ribs throbbing.

Get this over with and get home, she coached herself.

She went up Joel’s driveway and rounded the front of the truck. It had a chrome grille guard.

She pulled out her phone and ran its flashlight over the nose of the vehicle. And there it was—a speck of blue, barely noticeable, embedded in a scratch mark on the grille guard. Could it be the paint from her Mazda?

A sudden impact. A loud crunch. Dizziness and shock. A black smudge in the darkness. The familiar face… Her legs buckled beneath her, and she reached for the truck to keep upright. She was finally sure who had been behind the wheel. She had seen him. And this truck had been the one that hit her!

Her hands shook as she snapped pictures of the damage and license plate as quickly as possible. Finished, she hurried out of there, wincing through gritted teeth at the blinding pain from her ribs.

When she returned home, the house was silent. She changed in the second bedroom and tucked the clothing she’d worn out into a drawer of a nightstand and slipped into the master. She breathed with relief. It was quiet except for the sound of Troy’s deep breathing. He was still asleep.

She got under the sheets and stared at the ceiling. No one was going to believe her when she told them who hit her vehicle and ran.