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“I remember,” I say.
“I have additional information about the shooting.”
Shooting?
I’ve been so damn focused on reading celebrity websites and gossip blogs I forgot about the finding the bastard who tried to kill Kayla.
“You have a suspect?” I demand. Standing outside the restaurant’s glass windows, I spot Kayla at a corner table. The fear rises up, churning my empty stomach. Shit, I forgot to eat today. And I try to never let that happen. I skipped too many meals as a kid. The feel of an empty stomach threatens to bring back those memories.
“Not a suspect, Mr. Black,” the deputy says.
I growl with frustration. But I knew finding the culprit was a long shot. Without witnesses and forensics. “Do you need support? A K-9 unit?”
“No, sir.” Lucie keeps her voice even, but I swear there’s a hint of amusement in her tone.
“Because I take Kayla’s safety seriously.”
“Mr. Black.” The police deputy speaks in a no-nonsense tone.
About damn time.
“We have the shooter,” she continues. “He came forward this morning after reading an article in the local paper about Kayla’s dog.”
I stop pacing and stare into the restaurant. She’s safe. I’m watching her devour breadsticks from basket at a table designed for two—proof she’s alive and breathing. “He turned himself in? He’s under arrest?”
“Mr. Lewis came forward and admitted to hunting after dark,” she says. “He’s your neighbor, about three homes down.”
“I’ve never met the man.” This holds true for most of my neighbors in the country. I go there to escape, not make friends with the locals.
“And Mr. Lewis also admitted to attempted murder,” I add.
“The prosecutor declined to press those charges.”
“Who is the prosecutor? I want to call this lawyer and demand that he add attempted murder.”
“The shooter is eighty-eight and shouldn’t be hunting at all,” the deputy explains. “He realizes that now, and has offered to turn his guns over to his grandson. He will plead guilty to the hunting violation. For that, he will face a potential fine and up to a year in jail.”
“He could have killed Kayla. And he’ll only receive a year in jail?”
“I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t know if he’ll serve any time. You can speak with your own counsel about a potential civil lawsuit, but I’m not sure it is worth your time and energy. Mr. Lewis has offered to pay the vet bills.”
Vet bills and a fine?
“He could have shot her,” I repeat. “If he missed Luna, that bullet would have—”
“But he didn’t shoot her, or anyone else,” Lucie says in a calm voice. “He didn’t set out to harm her, or anyone else that night. What he did was stupid and against the law, but it wasn’t a premeditated attempt to kill. Frankly, I think he’s an old man who might have a touch of dementia.”
“And he still has a gun?”
“Not anymore. Now I tried to speak with your fiancée, but her cell went directly to voicemail today.”
I told Kayla to keep her phone off to avoid reporters. Then I suggested she use the day to write a business plan for Kayla’s Home for Wayward Dogs. And yeah, I know that’s not the name. But I wanted to make her laugh before I left for the office. I’ve dragged her into my attempt to foil my blackmailer. I know I owe her a lot more than funding. Especially after someone shot at her …
“I’ll have Kayla call you tomorrow.” I lower my cell and end the call without waiting for a response.
How the hell do I walk into the restaurant and tell my best friend that the shooting, which nearly killed her dog, and could have hurt her, was an accident? It was a random act of stupidity. And the idiot responsible says he is sorry.
But an apology wouldn’t have brought Kayla back if he’d hit her. If she’d fallen in the field behind her house, an old man’s regret wouldn’t change a damn thing. The bastard didn’t even call 911 when he heard Kayla scream. And I know she let out some gut-wrenching sounds. The sight of blood on her dog must have sent her into a panic. She was still wild with worry and rage when I drove up that night.
