Losing Leah Holloway (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 2) Page 4

  Brianna’s arm fell away from Claire’s shoulders. She touched Claire’s forearm, her fingers coming away bloodied. “Claire, you’re bleeding.”

  Claire lifted her right arm to see a small gash on the outer side of her wrist. Blood trickled from it. It had been running down her hand and dripping from her index finger.

  “Jesus,” Connor said. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and pressed it gently against the cut, keeping her arm upright. Claire watched the blood seep through the white tissue. Connor always carried tissues with him, she remembered. His mother had taught him that before she died, that he should always have a tissue on him in case he happened on a person in need of one. It was old-fashioned, but Claire had always loved that about him, and let’s face it, it came in handy.

  “You might need stitches,” Connor remarked.

  “It’s fine,” Claire said. “It’s just from the glass in the sunroof.”

  She concentrated on Connor’s warm palms wrapped around her arm. She couldn’t feel anything in her body—not the gash, not the wetness, not her aching muscles—yet she knew the next day she would be hurting.

  “You really should go to the hospital,” Brianna said.

  Claire shot her a look. “No hospitals.”

  Brianna put a hand on her hip. “Claire.”

  “No. Hospitals,” Claire repeated through gritted teeth.

  She had spent some time in the hospital after her escape from captivity. They always brought back bad memories, and Claire had had enough for one day.

  “Claire,” Connor said gently. “Someone has to look at this.” He raised one of his hands at her anticipated protest. “But no hospitals, I promise.”

  Stryker cleared his throat as Webb rejoined them. She pointed toward the incline that led to the overpass. The uniforms had begun cordoning it off to keep the press and other onlookers out. “Your girlfriend is up there,” she said to Stryker.

  “Oh shit,” Stryker said. “Noel?”

  “You have more than one?”

  Noel Geary was a reporter for KCRA 3. She and Stryker had met five years earlier while Connor was investigating Claire’s cold case. Their relationship had moved at a glacial pace, since they both put their careers first. Claire knew that early on they had had several fights because Noel wanted Stryker to give her the scoop on stories involving the police. Claire also knew Stryker was very careful about what he told her, and that it put a strain on things.

  Webb looked at Claire. “I’m afraid the cat is already out of the bag. They know a Fletcher got those kids out of the car. They’d like to talk to you.”

  Claire felt the color drain from her face. “No, Detective Webb,” she said firmly. “No press.”

  “Call me Jade, would you?” she said. She squinted at Claire. “Not even Noel? I mean, you guys were both victims of that guy—”

  “We’re not friends,” Claire said quickly. Before Reynard Johnson abducted Claire, he had struck up a romantic relationship with Noel’s mother to gain access to young Noel. While Noel’s mother uncovered the abuse and put a stop to it, she didn’t turn Johnson in, leaving him free to abduct and victimize Claire for ten long years. During the media frenzy following Claire’s escape and Johnson’s capture, Noel held more news conferences than a presidential press secretary. Constitutionally incapable of wrapping her mind around the notion that someone could not want to be on television, it took the blessed arrival of the next news cycle to put a stop to Noel’s incessant requests for Claire to join her in front of the cameras. Claire had wanted to like her for Stryker’s sake, but she just couldn’t trust her to keep anything Claire might say in confidence and not use it for a story.

  Jade sighed. “Okay, well, look, the press isn’t going to back off. This woman just killed four people and drove her SUV packed full of kids into a river.” She looked toward Stryker. “It will take the heat off the Soccer Mom Strangler investigation at least for a day or two. They could use the break.”

  Before Claire could open her mouth, Connor exchanged a look with the female detective. “Jade, she’s not doing press.”

  Jade shrugged. “She’s a hero, Parks. People could use a story about a hero right about now. How many hero stories do you see on the news where they don’t get to interview the hero?”

  “I’m not doing it,” Claire said.

  “She’s not doing it,” Connor and Stryker said in unison.

  Brianna sighed. “For Chrissake, I’ll do it.”

  They all turned to stare at her. She tugged at her brown curls. Since growing her hair out, she did look remarkably similar to her little sister. “You said they know a Fletcher did it, which means they don’t know for sure it’s Claire. The people who helped won’t know the difference and if they do, maybe Stryker can talk to them. I’ll say it was me.”

  “No,” Stryker said immediately.

  “Not a good idea to lie to the press,” Jade added. “That will come back to bite us in the ass.”

  Brianna folded her arms across her thin chest. “Well, then no one is doing press.”

  Gently, Connor pressed a hand to Claire’s lower back, nudging her away from Brianna and the other detectives. “I’m taking Claire to get this cut looked at.”

  “Parks,” Jade implored. “She wouldn’t have to say much. Claire?”

  “No,” Claire said. “No press.”

  Brianna rolled her eyes. “Come on. Just let me do it. No one will know.”

  “Oh shit,” Stryker said, his eyes drawn to the top of the incline. Claire followed his gaze to see Noel Geary making her way down the riverbank in six-inch heels, her cameraman following her, one hand holding his camera and the other outstretched toward Noel as though to catch her should she fall. Noel’s eyes were fixed on the ground ahead of her, probably to avoid mud, Claire thought.

  “Who the hell let her down here?” Jade grumbled.

  At her lower back, Claire felt Connor press harder, pushing her now up the riverbank, veering away from Noel Geary. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Claire glanced over her shoulder as they walked briskly up the incline. Brianna stood grinning at Stryker and Jade.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Connor drove Claire’s Jeep. Wilson sat in the back, his head between them, panting, his tongue hanging out.

  “Keep that arm up,” Connor instructed.

  Claire lifted her arm and peeled back the gauze that Connor had gotten from one of the EMTs on the riverbank. “It’s stopped bleeding,” she said.

  He kept his eyes on the road, driving slowly, more slowly than necessary. She watched him, studying his profile, admiring his new, well-groomed beard. Her first crush. He had been her first real crush. Her only real crush. She’d been attracted to him in spite of all the horrific things that had been done to her. He had wanted her, had been willing to wait for her, had not been afraid of her baggage. He knew every single sordid detail of her past and he wanted her anyway.

  And she had pushed him away.

  She really was a fucking idiot.

  Staring at him, she kept coming back to Detective Webb touching his arm, leaning into him. The touch had been so familiar, almost intimate. She’d told Connor many times to move on. He deserved better. He deserved more. Claire could give him nothing but baggage. Tons and tons of it. More than the cargo hold of a packed international flight. She couldn’t even fulfill his most basic needs as a man. But she had never given any real thought to what it would actually mean if he moved on. Had never thought about how it would feel to watch another woman touch him.

  Oh God.

  Had he kissed Jade Webb? Had they had sex? Did he trail little kisses along her collarbones the way he had always done to Claire? Had Jade been able to do all the things that Claire hadn’t?

  Connor’s quiet laughter broke through her silent panic. He glanced over and met her eyes for a brief moment before turning back to the road. “Claire, Jade and I are just friends.”

  A hand flew to her chest. A stinging heat enveloped her
face. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I mean I—” she stammered. “Wait. Was I thinking out loud?”

  Even in profile, she could see the grin on his face. “No,” he said.

  “Then how—”

  “I know you, Claire,” he explained. “And I’m a detective, remember?”

  She humphed and looked away from him, folding her arms over her chest. She tried to think of a witty reply but nothing came.

  “Jade and I worked a very big case last year,” he said. “We spent a lot of time together. We became good friends. That’s all.”

  “Okay,” Claire said. She watched the scenery passing by—hotels and motels along the flat expanse on either side of Jibboom Street, which gave way to the tree-lined banks of the Sacramento River on her left, then downtown Sacramento’s high-rise buildings reaching toward the azure sky in the distance. He turned right, away from the I Street Bridge, and got on to I-5, heading south. They were well below the Holloway accident, and the highway was deserted. The northbound side was jammed across all lanes. A gaper delay, no doubt, people staring in horror at the carnage that Leah Holloway had caused on the southbound lanes just a few miles ahead.

  An image of Holloway’s mouth, opened wide to take in water, flashed across Claire’s mind. She gave her head a small shake, as if to rid her brain of the memory. It was easier to think about Connor and Detective Webb than to relive the encounter with Holloway.

  She realized Connor had gotten off the highway and was cruising down the wide streets of Midtown. It was where she had first lived after returning from captivity. She had moved in with Brianna, who had an apartment right in the heart of the district. Claire had loved it, loved the energy of it. Things were always in motion. People were everywhere. There were restaurants and coffee shops and many other busy places for her to explore. After ten years in isolation, she couldn’t get enough of noise and crowds and near-constant activity. But by the time their lease was up, she had rescued Wilson, and he needed more space and a yard. They had found a lovely Tudor-style house for rent in Land Park, which was only ten or fifteen minutes away from all of Claire’s favorite Midtown haunts, including the veterinary clinic she now worked at, which they were getting closer to with each block.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Someone needs to look at that arm.”

  She felt a small tick of anxiety. “You promised no hospitals.”

  He smiled at her, and her anxiety melted. God, she missed him. “That I did,” he agreed.

  “Then who’s going to look at my arm? I hate doctors too.”

  Connor laughed. “You like Dr. Corey.”

  Dr. Corey was Claire’s boss. Claire had worked for her all through college. She had helped Claire get into veterinary school. “Dr. Corey is a vet. She’s not going to give me stitches.”

  “True. But her son is a physician’s assistant. He’s more than qualified to do stitches, and any old sterile environment will do for him.”

  Claire raised a brow. “You’ve already texted him, haven’t you?”

  The Saturday morning office hours were over, but Derrick Corey usually worked Saturday afternoons, sometimes into the evening, watching over the animals that had to stay one or more nights. During the week, he worked for an orthopedic practice. The regular office hours allowed him time on evenings and weekends to help out at his mother’s clinic. He waited for them outside of the building, smiling as they pulled up. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, his wavy brown hair slicked back with gel. Wilson jumped over Claire to reach him, greeting him eagerly. “Hey, boy,” Derrick said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. After he let them in and locked the door behind them, he led them past the reception and treatment areas to Dr. Corey’s office.

  “Sit,” he instructed Claire.

  She pulled out one of the padded guest chairs and plopped into it.

  “Connor said you didn’t like exam rooms,” Derrick explained.

  Connor stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. A small smile played on his lips, although he pretended not to pay attention to them. Instead, he bent his head to his phone, typing something in every now and then.

  “Ow!” Claire exclaimed.

  She turned to Derrick, who had positioned himself in a chair directly across from her, their knees touching. He held her wrist between two gloved hands, using one to dab her wound with alcohol-soaked gauze.

  Derrick frowned. “Sorry about that. There’s really no way to keep it from stinging. So,” he said, as he rummaged through the first aid kit he had placed on the desk. “Who was this lady? What’s her deal?”

  “We’re really not sure what her deal is yet,” Connor said. “Her name was Leah Holloway. Looks like she lived in Pocket. But her name hasn’t been released to the press, so keep it to yourself.”

  “Of course,” Derrick said. He laid Claire’s arm across their laps and pointed to it. “You don’t need stitches. Steri-Strips and bacitracin should do the trick. We’ll cover it up with a piece of gauze to keep the greasy stuff from rubbing off on your clothes.”

  Claire’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.

  From the door, Connor asked, “Did you or Brianna call your folks?”

  “They’re on a cruise for two weeks in the Caribbean, but Brianna left them a message.”

  “How about Mitch? Is he still back East with his daughter?”

  Mitch Farrell was a close family friend of the Fletchers and had helped Connor crack Claire’s cold case five years earlier. “Yeah,” Claire said. “He’s in Arlington, Virginia. Brianna talked to him.”

  “I’m sure this has made national news already,” Connor muttered.

  Derrick worked quickly and deftly, applying a row of Steri-Strips to the thin four-inch slice on her wrist. “It’s sad,” he remarked. “Those children. You know, Mrs. Holloway brought their dog in a few months ago. I don’t know how many Leah Holloways live in Sacramento, but the Mrs. Holloway we had in here was also from Pocket, so I’m guessing it’s the same lady.”

  Both Claire and Connor’s eyes darted to Derrick, but his attention was on bandaging her arm.

  “I don’t remember her being a client,” Claire said.

  “No, not a regular client. This was an emergency. Weekend. Her regular vet was closed. It was after hours, but you know my mom, she couldn’t say no. I was here, as usual. Mrs. Holloway was pretty distraught. Kids loved that dog.”

  Connor put his phone away. He folded his arms across his chest, watching Derrick with a slightly raised brow.

  “What kind of dog was it?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, it was a mutt. A rescue dog. Some kind of collie–German shepherd mix.”

  Connor said, “What was wrong with it?”

  “Somebody poisoned it. Gave it raw meat with Xanax in it. Large dose. Really sad. At least the poor thing didn’t suffer for long. But Holloway, oh boy, she was a mess.”

  Claire glanced at Wilson napping in the corner of Dr. Corey’s office. As usual, he had found the one square of sunlight in the room and was passed out in it, snoring loudly. “Of course she was,” Claire murmured. She started thinking of Leah Holloway in a slightly different light. Regardless of what the woman had done that morning, it must have been devastating to lose her dog in such a way.

  “She said she was going to file a report with the police,” Derrick added. “But I don’t know if she actually did.”

  Claire glanced at Connor. He was back on his phone, fingers flying over the tiny keyboard—texting Jade Webb, no doubt. Claire’s face flushed—part jealousy and part embarrassment at having been so transparent to him in the car.

  “Anyway,” Derrick said, taping a piece of gauze over her cut and patting her arm. “I’m glad you’re okay. Call if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” Claire and Connor said in unison.

  “I’ll let you guys out when you’re ready.” Derrick gave Connor a mock salute on his way out of the office. Alo
ne together, Claire and Connor gazed at each other. Connor dropped his phone into his pocket and made his way across the room. He took the chair Derrick had just vacated, pulling it closer to her, his knees knocking against hers. The proximity made her heart race—not in the usual, anxious way, but in an excited way. Claire put her hands on her thighs and looked down at them. Connor waited. In the corner of the room, Wilson yipped in his sleep. When Claire looked back at Connor, he said, “Tell me about today.”

  Involuntarily, Claire shuddered. Shoring herself up, she said, “That woman—Connor, I told her to unlock the doors so I could get them out of the car, and she said, ‘No.’ She knew what she was doing. She killed herself. She was terrified. She was—the last time I saw that look on someone’s face, the life was being strangled out of her.”

  “Sarah?” Connor said, using Claire’s name for the girl her abductor had murdered in the woods. It wasn’t until Claire had escaped and Sarah’s body had been recovered and properly identified that Claire had learned her real name: Miranda Simon.

  Claire nodded. The tears came fast and hard—the kind she usually only cried during therapy sessions. A sob shook her whole body.

  “Claire,” Connor said. He reached for her, taking her face in his hands. He pulled her in until their foreheads touched. She tried to stop the tears, but they came anyway, and Connor wiped some of them away with the pads of his thumbs. Their breath intermingled, and she felt a strong urge to close the distance between their mouths and kiss him.

  The vibration of his cell phone made them both jump. He held on to her, but the moment had passed. She reached up and gently pulled his hands away. “You have to get that,” she said.

  With something between a growl and a sigh, he fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and glared at it. “Captain Boggs,” he muttered. He answered, listening momentarily, then uttering a series of “yeahs” and “uh-huhs” and “okays.” After about two minutes, he hung up, dropping his phone back into his jacket pocket. He swiped a hand through his hair. “Boggs is pulling me off the Strangler task force and putting me on Holloway. The twins in her car weren’t hers—they were her neighbor’s kids. And one of the people she killed on the overpass was the mayor’s father-in-law.”