Living with the Dead

ROBYN



To say that running from two crime scenes was the stupidest thing Robyn had ever done put it at the top of a very short list. Robyn didn’t make stupid mistakes. Her father had always said that he’d never had to teach her to take care before crossing the street, because she naturally looked both ways—twice . . . then reconsidered whether she needed to cross the road at all.

The biggest chance she’d ever taken was Damon. They’d met at the wedding of his sister, a casual friend of Robyn’s. They’d been seated at the same table and talked through dinner. At the end of the night he asked her out, but she’d been seeing someone—Brett, an ad exec she’d been dating since her freshman year. He was a good guy who treated her well, and they had a comfortable relationship that both expected would lead to marriage, a minivan and a house in the suburbs.

When she’d turned Damon down, he’d gone to his sister for details. Was Robyn engaged? Living with her boyfriend? No on both counts. So he sent her an invitation to a club where his band was playing. She didn’t go. He sent a card, asking her for coffee—no strings, just coffee. She said no. Then he sent her a CD of him singing “500 Miles.” The band at his sister’s wedding had played that and, after one and a half glasses of wine, Robyn had proclaimed it the most romantic song ever.

She’d listened to the CD. More than once. Then she called. He invited her to coffee again, but she couldn’t justify meeting a guy she knew wanted more than friendship. Not when she was involved with someone. The only alternative was to end a good three-year relationship for a “coffee date” with a near-stranger. Madness, of course.

That night, she told Brett it was over and called Damon back. A year later, they’d been celebrating their own wedding.

As incredible as that payoff had been, though, she’d never seen it as proof she should take more risks. Just as a sign that she’d probably used up her life’s allotment of good fortune.

Yet that potentially dumb move wasn’t even in the same ballpark as this one. How did someone accidentally flee from not one but two crime scenes? In one night?

She hoped Judd was still alive, but she doubted it. His attacker had been shooting to kill. And who had his attacker been? Someone from his former days as a cop? A disgruntled current client?

No, Robyn was sure she’d brought a killer to Judd Archer’s house. Whether it was Portia’s murderer or a partner, it didn’t matter. Robyn had run to Judd for help and she’d been followed. She’d gotten him killed. And then . . . And then she’d done nothing.

It was almost morning. She’d been sitting on a park bench for three hours. People passed. Some glanced her way. None ran screaming for the nearest cop.

She almost wished they would.

After hours of wandering, exhausted and shock-numb, she’d stalled on this park bench, wanting nothing more than to stretch out and sleep. If she did, would that make anyone notice? It might if she still looked like Robyn Peltier. But this bedraggled woman in oversized sweats and old sneakers? Just another homeless person. No one would care. From respectable to forgettable overnight.

She pulled up her legs and closed her eyes.