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He’d had the gun for years, normally only carrying it with him when he went camping, just in case he met with trouble. He’d never fired it outside a target range and hoped he’d never have to.
He’d had alarming clients in the past, of course. He’d even been worried that clients would come after him before. But this was different. If Colton wasn’t lying, if he was guilty of sexual assault or even murder, Sam would be the one responsible for turning him in to the police.
Sam couldn’t carry a weapon into the office, but he could put it on his nightstand for his own peace of mind. If the police had taken his tips seriously, they’d hopefully take Colton into custody and Sam wouldn’t have to worry about him.
It wouldn’t be as simple as that, Sam knew. Colton might not be arrested, and if he was, he might be released on bail within a day.
I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
A sharp rap on his door had him freezing, then glancing at his phone for the time. It was almost midnight. Neither of his parents would be knocking this late, and they did a little shave-and-a-haircut knock anyway, so it couldn’t be them.
A shiver of trepidation slithered down his spine. It couldn’t be Colton. I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got myself worked up over nothing.
But just in case... Sam pointed the gun toward the floor, crept to the door, and put his eye to the peephole.
Then exhaled in a swift rush of relief. Two people stood on his doorstep—a tall man with graying hair and a thirtyish woman of medium height with a sweet face devoid of makeup, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.
Detective McKittrick. The man was her partner, Basil Constantine. Sam recognized him from the articles he read.
They’d followed up on his tips. Thank you, God.
Sam opened the door. “Detectives. I—”
He froze once again when both detectives abruptly drew their weapons and pointed them. At me.
“Drop the weapon,” Constantine barked.
McKittrick appeared grim. And maybe disappointed?
Sam didn’t have time to analyze her expression, remembering too late the gun he’d brought to the door. Shit, that was stupid. But he could explain. They’d understand.
Slowly he lowered the gun to the floor and took a step back, his hands held in front of him, palms out. “I can expl—”
McKittrick’s soft gasp cut him off. “What the hell?” she murmured, her eyes wide and focused behind him.
Sam looked over his shoulder. His crime board. Shit. “I can explain.”
“I’ll just bet you can,” Constantine snarled quietly. “Trolling for your next victim, you sick sonofabitch. Hands out at your sides, Dr.Reeves.” He spat Sam’s name with contempt.
What? Oh. Oh no. Realization dawned and Sam took another step back. They thought he was involved. They’re here for me. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“It always is,” Constantine mocked.
McKittrick’s jaw was squared, her eyes cold as she pulled handcuffs from her belt. “You’re coming with us.”
In shock, Sam opened his mouth. “This is wrong. You’re wrong.”
Ignoring him, she snapped a cuff on his right wrist, stepping behind him to cuff his left. Panic rose, clawing his throat.
No, no, no. Not his arms. They couldn’t grab his arms. He couldn’t let them.
“No!” He yanked free, taking a large step backward. “This is a mistake. Let me explain.”
Then everything seemed to happen at once. McKittrick swept his legs out from under him and had him facedown on the floor of his own apartment. His glasses went skittering across the floor as she jerked his arms behind his back, slapping the other cuff on him.
“Your mistake was resisting, Dr.Reeves,” she said coldly. “Now you’re under arrest.”
Arrest? I’m under arrest? Me? No. No. No. This is wrong. This can’t be happening. But it was.
