Friday, February 20,

8:00 P.M.

„Give me your keys.“

Kristen said nothing, moved not a muscle, just sat staring out the window as she’d done the entire way to her house. She was in shock, Abe realized and cursed himself for not following his gut and driving her straight to the ER.

He crossed around to her side of the SUV and gently grasped her chin. „Kristen.“ He snapped his fingers and she blinked. „Let’s go inside. Can you walk?“

She nodded dully and slid down, her face contorting in pain as her foot touched the ground. Ignoring her muted protests, he swung her up into his arms and carried her as if she were one of Sean’s kids.

He eased her in through her kitchen door, careful not to jar the knee he’d seen her favoring as he’d stalked off to relieve that bitch Richardson of her ill-gotten gains. He couldn’t stop Richardson at the press conference, but he’d be damned if he allowed her to portray Kristen scared and hurt for all Chicago to see.

Because even through her bravado, the woman he held in his arms had been both hurt and scared. Terrified. He thought about the look in her eyes that morning. Had it just been that morning that they’d sat outside the Restons ’ home?

Impossible to believe, but true. She’d said victims never, ever forget. And he’d suspected she’d been one. Was still one. Now, he knew for sure. How that made him feel was something he wasn’t ready to analyze. He was still too pissed off by the here and now to even think about the past.

„I need to turn off the alarm,“ she murmured. So he set her down long enough to punch the buttons on the console, then guided her to the overstuffed sofa in her living room, stretched out her legs, and slipped a pillow under her knees.

He unbuttoned the top button of her coat and her hands sprang to his. „No.“ She looked up, her eyes carefully blank in the darkness of the room.

„Okay.“ He switched on the overhead light and they both blinked. „I’m going to make you some tea.“ He hoped she had tea bags, because he had no idea of how much loose tea to put in her china teapot with the big roses. „Stay here.“

She did have tea bags and he completed the task with reasonable competence while he placed calls to Spinnelli, Mia, and his physician sister-in-law Ruth, his voice steady. But when he picked up the cup of tea his hands trembled.

Abe turned, leaning against her ancient refrigerator, her fragile teacup clenched in his hands, his stomach churning. And once again he was back there, with Debra the day she’d been shot, stuck in the scene he’d replayed in his mind too many times to count. It had been cold, a late-spring storm dumping five inches of snow the night before. The sidewalks were still icy, and he’d worried she’d slip and fall. Hurt herself or their unborn child. How ironic.

„I’ll drop you off in front of the store,“ he’d said, worried that the walk from the parking lot to the baby store would be too much for Debra, round in her eighth month.

She’d laughed, that husky sound that he’d found so incredibly sexy. „Don’t be such a daddy,“ she’d said, playfully reproachful. „I’m pregnant, not disabled. The exercise is good for me. Ruth said so.“ So he’d driven on to find an empty metered space on the street two blocks from the baby boutique on Michigan Avenue. The gift certificate she’d received at her baby shower the night before was burning a hole in her pocket, she’d said, and jumped from the car before he’d had a chance to come around and open her door.

And then everything happened so fast. The shot, the way Debra’s body just crumpled to the ground, the look of surprised disgust on the face of the teenaged gunman before he ran to his waiting car. The sound of squealing tires as he escaped.

Then everything moved so slowly. The way her blood pooled in the gutter, a bystander calling for help, his own futile attempts to stop the blood spilling from the hole in the side of her head, his own voice, pleading. „Debra. Please, baby, open your eyes.“ Again and again.

But she didn’t. Not then, not ever again. The doctors delivered the baby at the hospital an hour later, still and lifeless. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.

Until tonight. Driving up to two wrecked cars, knowing Kristen was locked inside one of them, knowing two bloodthirsty gang punks had threatened her for something she’d had no part in causing.

But she’s all right. She took care of herself.

He huffed a mirthless chuckle. With a pathetic can of pepper spray. And thank God she had it, that she had the guts to use it. That she hadn’t frozen, helplessly.

„Abe.“

He looked up to find her standing in the arched doorway, her brow creased in concern. She’d called him Abe. „You shouldn’t be up,“ he said.

She limped across the tired old linoleum and took the cup from his hands. „I’m not hurt. I’m all right“

She was better, he could see right away. Her eyes were sharper, her face less pale. But she wasn’t all right, not by a long shot. „Right. That’s why you haven’t taken off your coat in your own house.“ His voice was harsher than he’d intended, but she just quietly removed her coat, revealing a charcoal suit with a bright fuchsia blouse that should have clashed with her hair, but somehow did not.

„Is this my tea?“ she asked.

„Unless it tastes bad, then it’s mine.“

She sipped. „It’s fine. Can I get you something? You look worse than I do.“

He supposed he might at that. „Do you have anything stronger than tea?“

„I don’t drink, but I might have something.“ She searched a cupboard and brought out an unopened bottle of scotch, a really good brand. „I won the door prize at John’s office Christmas party last year. If it’s no good, blame him.“

He followed her to the kitchen table, taking the seat across from her. „It is good,“ he said after the first sip. Alden had good taste. „Why don’t you drink?“

She blinked at him over her teacup. „You are a nosy man.“

He sipped at the scotch, feeling it warm his belly, settling the residual nerves still buzzing from his stroll down memory lane. „It’s a job requirement.“

She acknowledged the point with a wry nod. „My sister was killed in a drunk-driving accident when I was sixteen. I’ve never touched the stuff.“

„I’m sorry.“

„Thanks.“

They said nothing more after that, just sat drinking then-beverage of choice. It was not an uncomfortable silence, Kristen thought, watching Reagan watch her from across the table. Actually she’d become accustomed to seeing him in her kitchen after the last few nights. It had an air of intimacy that she savored even though she knew it was a product of her own imagination. And fruitless wishing.

The front doorbell rang and Reagan stood up. „That’ll be Officer Mclntyre. He’ll want your statement.“

„Have him come in here if you don’t mind.“

Kristen heard him open the door, greet Mclntyre. Then curse loudly and she knew what he’d be holding before he came back into the kitchen, a plain brown box in his hands.

„Sonofabitch,“ Reagan snarled. „At least we’ll have him on tape this time.“

Kristen stared at the box, utter exhaustion making her limbs heavy. „We knew it would happen sooner or later. You want to open it here or down at the station?“

Reagan flipped out his phone. „I’ll let Spinnelli decide.“ He walked out of the kitchen, leaving her with the box and an agitated Officer Mclntyre.

„This is a really bad time, Miss Mayhew,“ Mclntyre said, and she couldn’t say why, but the young man’s earnest words struck her as incredibly funny and the laughter just rolled. She laughed and laughed, slumping down in the chair when her breath simply gave out. Mclntyre was eyeing her teacup suspiciously.

„It’s just old-fashioned Earl Grey, Officer,“ she said when her gasps had refilled her lungs. „The scotch is Reagan’s.“