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“Not me.” Another thing that sets me apart from other Angelenos. Not only could I not afford it, but I also don’t like the taste of coffee. “Sorry about the other night. But I’m here now. And I’m so glad you came because like I told you on the phone, I saw everything. And now I know the name of the man driving the getaway?—”
My mouth is still open as my gaze slowly turns to face the west end of the main street as the familiar rumble of an engine overtakes the quietness of the quaint downtown.
DI Collins follows my line of vision to see what’s gotten my tongue. The red truck comes into view, crawling slowly down the main street.
The detective shakes his head. “The Bayne’s boy. That truck needs a new muffler but somehow passes its vehicle inspection every year.”
It’s a Toyota truck, like I told Collins I’d seen the night of the fire. Will he remember this detail? Ask me if this is the truck? This is my moment. All I have to do is tell DI Collins it was this man, driving by us, right now.
Heck—I could probably make this really simple and just point.
I’m just about to confess but Collins speaks first, stopping my words.
He locks eyes with me. “Those boys are dangerous.”
My mouth snaps shut. I wait for him to continue, hanging on to his every word. He narrows his bushy brows at me. “You’d do best to stay away from them. This one driving the truck, he killed his girlfriend.”
My mouth goes dry. “Did he?” I’ve read the details in the article but hearing them said out loud, in person, by a uniformed police officer, the danger surrounding me is palpable, swirling through the air I’m trying to breathe.
“Strangled her with his bare hands. Do you know how long that takes?”
“Um…” My stomach drops. I need a bathroom. Now.
“Over a minute,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “Really count that out. One second…two…three. All while looking the one you love in the eyes while the breath leaves their body.”
“A minute,” I whisper back.
Fear clings to my ribs, travels through my blood, my hands going cold and my face clammy.
The truck is getting closer.
“Broke his father’s heart. Literally. Old Man Bayne died of a heart attack the very next day. Just more evidence that his son was guilty, but not enough to convince a jury.” Collins turns to look at the truck. “Unfortunately, we’ve never been able to get control of that family, so if no one’s warned you off yet, here’s your official warning.”
I watch, wide-eyed, as the truck rolls slowly past us. Bayne is driving with one hand on the wheel, the elbow of his other arm casually perched over the frame of the door, the driver’s window down to give us a full view of his hardened, handsome face.
His blue eyes stare into mine, gripping my soul.
A soul he, the devil, seems set on making his.
Bayne finally passes by, and I take what feels like my first breath in over a minute. Long enough to die by being strangled by someone. I picture his big, strong hands around my throat, the cold metal of the two rings he wears pressing into my skin.
DI Collins drags me back to the present moment.
Slipping a hand into the breast pocket of his shirt, he pulls out a black notebook and pen. He flips the notebook open to a clean sheet of white paper. His serious gaze settles on my face.
“Let’s document your report.” The tip of his pen hovers over the paper. “How do you spell your last name?”
I can still see the red truck. He’s pulled over, and parked, watching me from his side-view mirror. I wrap my arms tighter around my middle.
What about Clive? Doesn’t he deserve someone to stand up for him? Responsibility, my civic duty, and mistakes from my past pull at me to tell him exactly what I saw. The instinct of self-preservation thrumming in my gut tells me to do as the girls say and mind my own business. I don’t know what I should do.
One thing I do know: the last thing I need is him watching me while I’m trying to talk to the police.
“Do you mind if we go inside?” I run my hands over my upper arms. “It’s a bit chilly out here for my California blood.”
Chapter Nine
Bayne
