An awkward silence filled his truck as he drove her back to her house. He’d given her a lot to consider, and the knit in her brow said she was deep in tangled thoughts.
His regret wasn’t for telling her about the events of the day Andrew died. No, he wanted her to understand what had transpired, give her the version of those events she hadn’t yet heard. But he’d all but admitted his long-held feelings for her. If pressed on the issue, he supposed he could deny any deeper meaning. I just meant you’re my friend, and I want your forgiveness, your trust. You’re his widow, and your opinion is the only one that matters.
But the gut-wrenching ache in her tone, the raw emotion in her eyes and quiver of vulnerability in the rasped why? had punctured his defenses, undermined his better judgment.
Add to that the disturbing information they’d uncovered at her father’s house, the indications Andrew was onto something incriminating—and the bombshell that Penelope might not know she was adopted. His own emotions were in upheaval today, and her question had blindsided him.
At a red light, Reid tapped the steering wheel with the side of his fist. When he added his own father’s disappearance and other recent tumult at the Colton Valley Ranch, he had quite enough to ruminate on before adding today’s mysteries to the roster. He pondered the fact that Hugh Barrington had been key in stirring up false hope about Eldridge’s whereabouts last month. Was there a connection to what Andrew was researching? Maybe not, but he didn’t buy into the theory of coincidence, either.
He continued to mull over these thoughts as he turned onto the neighborhood street where Pen lived. The long residential lane was lined with carbon-copy houses with winter dead yards and a variety of Christmas decorations on display.
Reid had been down this street enough times to be familiar with the lay of the land, but he still took note of the details. Old habits and all...
Most of the driveways were either empty, since the owner would have been at work at this hour, or had some fashion of minivan or SUV which belonged to the stay-at-home mom or babysitter. Sure, there were exceptions. He’d met the Clarks’ across-the-street neighbor, Ned Smithe, who did shift work, and his legal-assistant wife, at a Super Bowl party two years ago. The pickup truck in the driveway would be Ned’s, sleeping off a graveyard shift. As they drove past, Penelope returned a wave to an older gentleman raking leaves at the end of the street. All was quiet. Normal. Americana... The term popped into his mind.
What would it be like to live in a middle-class neighborhood like this one instead of a sprawling ranch with quarrelsome siblings and stepparents? To have neighbors over to watch the game or call friendly greetings to someone working in their yard? The simplicity of the lifestyle and idyllic imagery appealed to him. Although, he admitted, he enjoyed some of the creature comforts of having wealth. Having household staff to cook and clean. An infinity pool and tennis court. Privacy when it was warranted to keep the family circus on the down low.
He glanced in Penelope’s direction and amended his previous question. What would it be like to live with Pen in a neighborhood like this? His chest tightened. Where had that idea come from? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he needed to rein it in. She was his partner’s widow. Making a move on her would feel...wrong somehow. How could he even think of taking advantage of Andrew’s death by moving in on is wife?
As they approached Pen’s house, he noticed a light blue sedan that had been parked down the street pull away from the curb. He’d been briefly distracted by his wild sidetrack thought, but he’d not seen anyone get in the car. Of course, that didn’t mean—
A brief flash of sunlight on metal snagged his attention. An odd intuition sent a prickle of alarm to his core. He backed off the accelerator, slowing to a crawl when he saw the driver’s window lower. “Pen, do you know—”
A handgun appeared at the sedan’s window.
“Gun!”
The muzzle flash and crack of his windshield were simultaneous.
Pen screamed.
“Get down!” he yelled even as he yanked her arm, pulling her down on the seat. He ducked, too, as another shot slammed into his front hood. He shifted automatically into cop mode. Crisis mode. Protect Pen. Consider civilians—the old man raking. ID the gunman. Age, race, anything!
The sedan rolled straight toward them. He narrowed his eyes, lifting a hand to block the sun’s glare behind the approaching car. Another bullet hit the side of the truck with an ominous thunk.
“Reid!” Pen cried, reaching for him, tugging at his jacket sleeve as if to pull him down onto the floorboard with her.
He only had a split moment to decide: flee or stand and defend. The cop in him refused to retreat. He had a better chance of protecting Pen by shielding her, and he’d rather catch or kill the bastard responsible than run from him.
“Glove box!” he returned, and she scrambled for the Smith & Wesson .40 he kept stored there.
He had only a second to study the person in the driver’s seat as the sedan neared. Reid’s angle was bad, seated higher in his truck than the guy in the car. The shooter’s face was largely hidden by the bill of a ball cap. Dark winter coat. Caucasian male.
Pen raised her head for a look, the pistol clutched in a two-handed firing grip.
Another muzzle flash had Reid diving for cover. “I said get down!”
He watched the roof of the blue car pull alongside them, and he pushed her head down again. Reid shielded Penelope as the shooter took direct aim now through the truck’s driver-side window.
“Sonofabitch!” Reid snarled, raising an arm for protection as shards of glass from his blasted-out window rained down on them.
Penelope yelped, and Reid’s gut swooped. “Are you hit?”
“I don’t think—”
Tires squealed as the car raced away.
Pen shoved at him and climbed onto the seat, twisting toward the shattered back window. She aimed the Smith & Wesson at the fleeing vehicle, and Reid grabbed her wrist. “No!”