Chapter 9

Exhausted Eyewitness

FIONA GRABBED HER PURSEfrom her locker, closed the door, and spun the lock. With a groan, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the cool metal, completely drained.

She'd just finished a twelve-hour shift and was operating on zero sleep. Each time she shut her eyes, memories of her encounters with Noah played on repeat in her head. From that night at the bar to when she rejected him in subspace and the ugly scene with Jordan when, like a hero in the movies, he'd swooped in and saved her. The despicable jerk should count himself lucky Noah had been more concerned with her well-being than kicking his ass.

Recalling his tender care and kindness, and what a bitch she was in return—and how badly mistaken—she banged her head against her locker. Not once but twice, the clang of skull meeting metal echoing through the room.

"For a woman with a master's degree, you sure can be an idiot," she muttered.

It amazed her that even after how coldly she'd treated him, he still agreed to a Kinky Matches fix-up. She'd messed that up too by falling for the lies of a heartless, sadistic asshole.

While being freed and helped from the bench, she only caught the tail end of Master Noah laying Jordan out, but she had a vivid imagination and liked to imagine him knocking out a few of his teeth.

"They're probably all caps and fake like his tan and nose job," she muttered snidely under her breath.

Pushing aside her lingering bitterness, she focused on the apology she owed Noah. It would need to be meticulously crafted, brimming with sincerity, and practiced to perfection, to ensure she didn't screw it up too.

But it wouldn't be tonight. She was in such a state of exhaustion, standing was a struggle. All she had the energy to do was go home, stand under a hot shower, maybe wash her hair, then crawl into bed. She should eat but was too tired to even think about dinner, let alone cooking it.

Tomorrow was her day off, and soon enough to muster her daring—and man oh man was she gonna needed it—to beg his forgiveness.

Fiona pushed upright, her legs a little wobbly as she dug around in her bag for her keys. Why did they always have to end up at the bottom? When she finally found them, she walked out of the locker room, past the darkened gym, to the office. It was deserted except for John, one of the physical therapists, who was still typing away.

"I'm heading out," she told him.

"If you wait, I'll walk out with you," he offered. "I just need about ten to fifteen more minutes to finish my notes."

It was past nine. She was running late because she'd had to stay to complete a pile of case notes, making her shift thirteen and a half hours, not including a half hour for lunch.

Feeling the exhaustion deep in her bones, she declined. "That's okay. I'm in the garage and snagged a spot in the second row."

"Are you're sure?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

They both had similar schedules, and he knew she usually preferred to leave with someone, especially on these late shifts. Tonight was different. Another two minutes, let alone fifteen more sounded like an eternity. She could call security, but that would take even longer.

She mustered a weak smile. "No, I'm not sure, but I'm too tired to wait. See you tomorrow, John."

The outpatient clinic where she worked was inside the immense medical center. She had to navigate a maze of corridors to reach the elevators that would take her to the parking garage. It was nearly a mile trek. Once inside, she leaned heavily against the wall, barely noticing the little lurch as the elevator car slowly descended.

She had picked up extra hours to fill the void left by her nonexistent social life since leaving the club, and the overtime wouldn't hurt. It was a sacrifice she made willingly. Tonight, feeling the weight of that decision dragging on her body, she had second thoughts.

At her floor, she turned sideways and squeezed through the still-opening doors, eager to get to her car and make the short fifteen-minute commute home then collapse. But she stopped in her tracks hearing shouts and cursing echoing off the concrete. She scanned the dim level, not seeing where it was coming from, until two men, engaged in a pushing and shoving match, grappled their way into sight.

Her instincts screamed at her to retreat into the safety of the elevator, but when she spun around to do so, the steel doors had already shut. Panic surged within her as her heart rate spiked. Desperately, she jabbed at the call button, as the suffocating grip of fear tightened its hold.

A cry of pain pierced the air, followed by a sickening thud that chilled Fiona to the bone. Without seeing, she recognized the distinct thud of a body hitting the ground. Uneven footsteps pounded the pavement growing louder as they moved her way.

She whirled to face the threat, the keys in her hand the only weapon she had to defend herself. She used to carry pepper spray. Why had she stopped? It would be a heck of a lot more useful than her car keys.

A man half ran, half limped toward her, a bloody knife in his hand. The erratic cadence of his steps echoed ominously until he noticed her by the elevator doors and lurched to a halt. As their eyes met, time froze, but only briefly.

He raised the blade, the sharp tip wet with blood, and his face twisted into a sinister grin. "This is your unlucky day, pretty lady."

His smile vanished as sirens wailed in the distance. The man bolted toward the stairwell, which, in her panic, Fiona had completely forgotten about. He called back to her as he burst through the door, "Talk and you die next, bitch."

Trembling, Fiona watched him disappear, his threat hanging in the air like a suffocating fog. The sound of her ragged breath filled her ears as she stood frozen in place, paralyzed by the encounter.

When the door banged shut, it snapped her into action. She raced for her car, intent on getting out of there before he changed his mind and came back for her. But as she rounded the back of her car toward the driver's side, she slipped in something wet and went down on one knee.

That's when she saw the other man, lying in a widening circle of blood. And, just like her shitty luck, his inert body lay directly in front of her driver's side door.

Fiona screamed as the chilling realization of what she'd slipped in sank in. With difficulty, blood on concrete like skating on fresh ice, she got to her feet. That she did so without puking was a freaking miracle.

Backing away, the sight before her a ghastly nightmare turned reality, she couldn't look away from the lifeless body, surrounded by a dark pool of crimson. It was an image that would haunt her memories.

Ignoring his warning, she pulled out her phone to call 911. Because seriously, what other option was there? Dialing an iPhone with slick fingers was as challenging as walking through blood. After several attempts, the call connected, and she relayed the horrifying events to the emergency operator, her voice shaking the entire time.

The reassuring woman on the other end, urging her not to hang up, was like a lifeline to sanity until the police cars with their piercing sirens and flashing lights screeched to a halt nearby.

Officers poured out of the vehicles, their weapons at the ready, all aimed at her. As another wave of terror crashed over her, a desperate sob escaped her trembling lips. But survival instinct took hold, and she raised her blood-stained hands. She could imagine the gruesome image she presented, straight out of a horror movie.

"Stand down," a man called to the others, at least eight of them. "A woman called it in. She must be the one."

An officer approached her and asked, "Are you hurt?"

She wanted to assure him it wasn't her blood but was shaking too badly to speak. Even if she could, she was afraid she'd start screaming again. So, she shook her head instead.

They quickly secured the area, setting up a perimeter around the crime scene, while others rushed to administer first aid to the injured man.

An ambulance arrived shortly after. Its doors flew open and paramedics jumped out. One hurried to assess the man's condition; the other came to her.

"I'm all right," she assured him, but when his gaze scanned her from head to toe, he shot the officer a skeptical look.

"She says she's not hurt," the officer said. "But I think she's in shock."

How could she not be?

"Hank, I need you," the other medic called.

He hesitated.

"It's not my blood," Fiona blurted out.

"Well, that's a relief. You're covered in it. Stay with her?" he asked the cop before rushing over to help his partner.

The scene was a flurry of activity, the urgency palpable. Fiona stood frozen, her eyes wide with horror as she watched the two paramedics kneel in the same blood she'd slipped in and work tirelessly to save a life that seemed to have already slipped away.

"Miss. I'm Officer Briggs. Are you the one who called this in?"

She raised her hand still clasping her phone. He gloved up before taking it from her and spoke briefly with the operator before disconnecting.

"How about we let them work and go someplace else to talk?" He pointed toward a bench by the elevators. Numb and barely functioning, she allowed him to guide her toward it.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was leaving work and interrupted"—she waved toward the crime scene—"whatever that was. A mugging or drug deal gone bad, I guess."

He looked at her funny but only said, "Go on."

"He had a knife."

"There was another man?"

She nodded. "It was dripping with blood. He ran toward the elevator, which was where I was—"

"Did you get a good look at him?"

Glancing down at her hands, which hadn't stopped shaking, she clasped them together, needing something to hold on to as the danger to her sank in.

"I can describe him in vivid detail down to the mole on his left cheek."

He nodded. "And he saw you?"

"Yeah," she replied, her voice quivering too. "That's bad, I know. He said he'd be back for me if I said anything."

The clattering of metal cut through the haze of shock enveloping her. As she glanced around, it took a moment for her to realize it was her own trembling body, causing the bench beneath her to vibrate.

Another official vehicle arrived with lights flashing. It wasn't one anyone ever hoped to see in an emergency, the words Medical Examiner written in red lettering across the doors.

Fiona's heart sank. The ME's arrival meant her role in this shitstorm had changed. In a blink, she went from being an eyewitness to an assault to becoming an integral part of a homicide case.

"Can you tell me your name, miss, and where you're from?" the officer asked.

"Fiona Delacour. I work here, but I live in Culver City."

A man, somewhere in his mid-thirties, in a suit with a badge on his belt joined them at the bench. Officer Briggs introduced him as Detective Owens. "He'll be heading up the investigation."

Taking a seat beside her, the detective flipped open a small notebook and jotted down copious notes as he gently probed her with questions, trying to piece together the events that had unfolded before her eyes. In a distant voice, as if she'd stepped outside of herself, Fiona described the attacker, every detail of his face indelibly etched in her mind.

Seeming satisfied, at least for now, he tucked his notebook inside his jacket. Then he considered her at length, a frown creasing his brow. "Is there someone you can call to take you home? A husband, boyfriend, family perhaps?"

"I have my car."

The police officers exchanged concerned glances.

"That's not possible tonight," the detective said. "We're going to have to impound it as evidence."

"Why?"

"It's been vandalized," he explained grimly. "The tires are slashed, there's a bloody handprint on the side, and we found the spray paint can nearby."

"Can this night get any worse?" she whispered, her trembling hands instinctively rising to cover her face. At the last instant, she halted, letting out a whimper at the sight of the dried blood.

"Even if we didn't need to bring it in for the crime lab to examine," the detective continued, "it's not drivable in its current condition."

Wasn't that just great? What did she do while they had it in custody? There was the bus, but that wasn't happening after tonight. No way. No how!

She could Uber, but that wasn't cheap.

"I don't have a husband, or any family in LA. It's just me," she admitted, which was rather pathetic.

Their brief, meaningful glance spoke volumes, leaving her no doubt about the answer to her next question, which she blurted out with mounting panic. "I'm in danger, aren't I? He's going to come after me."

The detective gave it to her honestly. "He saw your face and knows where you work. And then there's his threat."

Fiona wrapped her arms around her middle, hugging herself as she rocked a bit. What was she supposed to do?

"You've given us a description, and we have some good leads. Do you have somewhere to stay, preferably out of town, while we work this?"

She could stay with her mother in San Diego, but she'd almost rather take her chances with the murderer. Besides, she couldn't simply uproot her life and leave. She had a job and bills to pay.

"Can't you offer me protection?" she asked them.

The older cop shook his head. "Unfortunately, we're not staffed for personal protection, even when it's a prime witness."

Detective Owens opened his notebook again and jotted something down. He tore out the page and passed it to her. She grimaced as soon as she took it because the dried blood on her hands transferred to the white paper.

"That's the address of a security firm I moonlight with occasionally. They do home security, personal protection, and investigations. They're pricey, but occasionally take pro bono cases for vulnerable clients."

"That's me. Fiona Vulnerable," she replied with a nervous, humorless laugh.

"I'll call and let them know you'll be coming in. They're good and are your best bet for staying safe until we find this guy."

"Thanks," she said, feeling more alone than she had since leaving home when she was seventeen.

"If you don't mind waiting, I'll take you home after I'm finished here," the detective offered.

"Fiona. Oh my god! What's happening?"

Stunned and looking as freaked out as she felt, John stood outside the elevator doors, taking in the organized chaos of the crime scene.

She rose and took a step toward him then everything came out in a rush. "I walked out to two thugs shouting. It turned physical, and one stabbed the other. Now, they're impounding my car."

His stunned gaze swept over her. As if he heard none of what she said, he asked, "Is that your blood?"

"No. It's his." She waved at where the ME was loading up the body.

"Fuck me," he breathed.

"I should have waited for you to walk me out."

"Ya think?"

"Could I trouble you for a ride home?"

"Of course it's no trouble. My god, Fi. You must have been scared out of your mind."

"It was the scariest, most horrifying few minutes of my life."

The detective passed her his card. "I'll need you to come in to file a report, Miss Delacour. And make sure you contact Rossi, asap."

"Rossi Security?" John asked.

Fiona looked from the card, also with brown smudges since she'd touched it, to him. "You've heard of them?"

"Who hasn't?" her coworker replied. "They're on the front page of the Times every other day."

She didn't have time to read. Besides, who got the newspaper anymore?

"I'll do both first thing in the morning," Fiona told the detective. "Thank you."

"Come on, Fi," John urged. "I'm sure you want to get home and into a hot shower."

She looked down at someone else's blood all over her and tried to keep the contents of her stomach from coming up. "I should get some trash bags from the clinic. I don't want to get blood all over your seats."

"I've got a pair of sweats in the trunk you can change into, and the dumpster is the only place for those pants." He eyed them with a grimace and a shudder before leading her to the other end of the garage and his SUV.