Madrid was adept at reading people. Now his well-honed instincts were telling him this woman truly believed he meant the child harm. But why would she think that when she was the one who’d kidnapped him and murdered his mother? Was she mentally unbalanced? Psychologically unstable? Or was there something else going on he didn’t know about?
“The police found Angela’s body,” he said. “You’re the prime suspect. Surely you know you’re not going to get away with this.”
“I did not kill Angela.” Her voice broke on the name, but she took a shaky breath and continued. “She was my friend. She was helping me.”
“Your prints are on the murder weapon.”
“I picked it up, but I didn’t use it.”
“You took the boy.”
“To save his life.”
“From whom?”
“The police. They tried to kill both of us.”
“You ran. They think you’re a killer. That’s what happens.”
“I didn’t run. I mean, not at first. I took off when I realized they were going to shoot us down in cold blood.”
He didn’t believe her. Not one iota. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know.” Wincing slightly, she motioned toward a chair at the small table. “Sit down.”
Madrid didn’t take the chair. He stood his ground and faced her. “What are you doing to do? Kill me, too?”
“I haven’t killed anyone. I’m just trying to stay alive.”
He watched her closely as she snagged a length of rope from the coatrack near the door. She leaned heavily against the table as she passed by it. She was shaking now. The tendrils of hair framing her face were wet and pasted to her skin. Fever, he thought. Was she sick?
“How did you find me?”
“That’s what I do. I find people.” He lifted a shoulder, let it fall. “It wasn’t that hard.” He cut her a hard look. “It’s only a matter of time before the police figure out where you are.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the darkened windows beyond. In her eyes Madrid saw the worried look of a hunted animal. One that was tired and ready for the hunt to end. Good, he thought. She was exhausted and scared, that gave him an edge. He moved closer.
She turned to him abruptly, jabbed the gun at the chair. “I told you to sit down. Put your hands behind your back.”
“You’re not going to get away with this. Why don’t you make this easy on both of us and give it up before someone gets hurt?”
“Someone already has been hurt,” she snapped. “Angela is dead and for some reason unbeknownst to me, the police think I did it. Now they’re trying to kill me and that innocent little boy.”
She used the back of her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her face was so pale the skin looked translucent. Her pistol hand shook, and she blinked as if she were having a difficult time focusing.
Madrid stepped toward her. “You look like you need a doctor.”
“What I need is to know why the police are trying to hang this on me and why they want to hurt that little boy.”
“Let me help you figure it out.”
Raising the pistol, she choked out a desperate laugh and took a step back. “Stay away from me or I swear I’ll pull this trigger.”
“Jessica, give me the gun.”
“Don’t make me use—”
He lunged at her, shoved the muzzle toward the ceiling. A cry escaped her as his fingers closed around her gun hand. A gunshot exploded, and bits of plaster floated down. She was surprisingly strong for her size, but Madrid overpowered her with ease. One twist and the gun was his. Grasping her other arm at the shoulder, he shoved her back.
“Settle down,” he snapped.
She fought well, but he doubted she weighed much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’d been no match for his six-foot-three frame and 180-pound bulk.
“I’m taking you in for the murder of Angela Matheson,” he said.
“I didn’t kill her.” She staggered, using her arm against the wall to regain her balance. “You have to believe me.”
“Tell it to the judge, honey.” Tugging cuffs from his belt, he started toward her. “Turn around and show me your wrists.”
Before he could enforce the order, she staggered again. She grasped the doorjamb to maintain her balance. But her eyes rolled back white. Her knees buckled and she reached out as if to break her fall. Then she pitched forward like a dead weight.
Chapter Two
Madrid caught her just in time to keep her from falling. He knew the faint was a ploy. A feeble attempt to regain control of the situation—or the gun. He was forced to rethink that assumption when he noticed fresh blood on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“Damn it,” he muttered.