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She knocked. And stepped back.
Clearing her throat, she wondered whether doing some vocal warm-ups would help “Give me back my ID and credit card” come out with more conviction. Maybe she just needed ankle boots and half a bottle of Giorgio. And a blond wig—
Frowning, she stepped forward and knocked again.
Then she looked around, like that was going to change anything.
“Bruce,” she said, “I know you’re in there. I just want my—”
The door opened a crack, the security chain preventing it from going very wide. “Here. Take them.”
From out of the slit, her ID and her MasterCard flittered down to the concrete.
“Don’t come back,” he said. Then he slammed the door shut.
The sound of the dead bolt getting thrown was such a surprise that Anne just stood there and blinked. Last night, he’d been all about boasting how he didn’t need her or “that fucking law firm” anyway, that he was making some big changes thanks to an important opportunity, and that she was nothing more than a secretary who wasn’t going to keep up with him.
Oh, and he’d also told her she was making the biggest mistake of her life.
After which he’d come at her physically.
Memories of the hatred in his eyes snapped her back to attention. Scrambling to pick up the piece of plastic and the laminated picture of herself, she hit the stairs on a hustle. The irony that the man who’d lost it on her the night before had just shut her out like she scared him was rich. Then again, Bruce had proven to be unexpected in a lot of ways, none of them good.
As she reached the lower level, she went out the far side of the breezeway and hobbled back down toward the road. The ruined purse and wallet she could get over easily enough, but she hadn’t been looking forward to tangling with MasterCard for a replacement. At least there was no way he’d have made any purchases on her account. He didn’t look like an Anne—
Across the street, a silver car with tinted windows had pulled over to the shoulder at her accident’s impact site, its hazards blinking. Close by, a man with a mustache and a plaid sport coat was taking pictures of everything from the marks on the curb to the gouges in the grass to that poor tree.
Anne told herself to leave it alone. That BMW and its owner were none of her business, even if she had thought of little else during the day—
Of course, she went right over.
The man lowered his camera. “Can I help you?”
“I was just… ah…” She searched his face, trying to read his expression. His dark eyes and straight mouth gave nothing away. “I guess there was an accident here, huh.”
“Yup.”
“Are you… with the police? Or something.”
“Detective Gonzalez.” A badge was taken out of the breast pocket and flashed. “Do you live in this neighborhood?”
As the man’s stare shifted to the cul-de-sac’s entrance, Anne shook her head. “No. I just stopped by…” To get her ID and credit card back. From a man who’d attacked her. “I just was seeing a friend real quick.”
“Oh, okay.” There was a pause. Then the detective frowned and indicated the skid marks with his camera. “Do you know anything about what happened here?”
The image of the man who had helped her to the ER became so clear in her mind that she felt as though he’d stepped in beside her.
“No, I don’t.”
The detective reached into his jacket again and took out a business card. “Well, if you remember something, call me.”
“I said I didn’t know—”
“Take this anyway.”
She reached out and didn’t like the fact that her hand trembled. “Thanks.”
“You all right?”
“Oh, yes.” She ducked the card into her coat pocket. “Sure. Yup.”
“Your head okay?”
“I’m sorry?”
He pointed with the camera again, like the thing was so much an extension of him that he was used to treating it like a hand. “You’ve got a bandage on your temple.”
Anne touched her forehead lightly—and decided she really wouldn’t make a very good criminal. “Oh. It’s nothing. I slipped and fell. In my own bathroom.”
The detective smiled with that hard-line mouth, but not his keen stare. “That happens. After all, most accidents occur in the home.”
“Do they? I didn’t know that. Well, I’ve got to go catch the bus.”
“Okay. Feel better.”
“You, too. I mean, I will—I mean, thanks.”
As she turned away, the detective said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Anne.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Anne Wurster. Do you want my address, too?”
“Nope. When I meet someone new, I just like to make introductions. Hope your head heals fast.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“And that limp of yours, too.”
Mumbling something, anything, Anne hurried away, being conscious that yes, she actually was favoring that bad side, wasn’t she.
The rest of the way back to the bus stop was a blur. The only good news about the detective being on-site at the crash was that she didn’t worry so much about a white Datsun coming after her. Sure, Bruce had told her to stay away, but he lied. About everything.
