Hurt darkened his eyes. “You have my number.”

The rollercoaster sped away from the platform, leaving her standing by an empty desk.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

11:44 a.m.

Sweat seeped into the fine cotton of Harry’s shirt. Even the strongest deodorant couldn’t protect him from the shock of what Detective Cooper Ellis had just revealed.

Leah Roberts?

Jesus Christ.

Why the hell had she broken into his parents’ house?

He tried to keep his expression neutral. “No, I don’t know who she is,” he said, his heart hammering at his lie. Detective Ellis had hit ‘record’ from the minute that Harry’s and Mel’s rights had been read to them. Everything he said would be on tape. And everything could be held against him. Time to change the subject. “Do you know who the other guy was?”

Harry noticed the look that Detective Ellis shot him. This guy was built like a linebacker, with a broken nose to suggest he might have once been a linebacker, but he was no fool. He had picked up Harry’s reaction to his revelation.

Shrewd brown eyes surveyed him across the table. “No.”

“She hasn’t told you?”

“She is still unconscious, Mr. Owen.”

The trigger was a smooth, hard, cold curve around his finger. Rage and fear surged from the very deepest part of his being. No. Fucking. Way. Not going to be a victim again. His finger yanked on the trigger.

The intruder staggered back as the bullet hit her leg. Her eyes—now, it was so obvious that she was a she—widened in shock. Fear.

Remorse.

She sank to the ground, strangely graceful.

Her eyes begged his.

Not for mercy.

But for forgiveness.

He closed his eyes.

And pulled the trigger again.

He glanced at his father. His father glared at the detective. Harry had instructed him to say nothing. “I mean nothing, Dad. Leave it to me.” And Harry had entered the interview room knowing that his political career hinged on what he disclosed to the inscrutable detective sitting opposite him.

“Why do you think Leah Roberts was in your house last night, Mr. Owen?” The question was directed to Mel.

Harry shifted ever so slightly.

His father threw him a glance. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know her?” The detective slid the photograph of Leah Roberts toward Mel. The photo showed a young woman, with striking white blond hair and fair skin, holding a black cat to her face. It gazed at the camera lens with an expression of contentment.

Mel stared at Leah’s photo. “This is the woman who killed my wife.” He pushed the photo away. “No. I don’t know her.” Then he muttered, “But I’ll never forgive her.”

The detective pivoted the photo toward Harry. “How about you, Mr. Owen? Are you sure you don’t recognize her?”

Harry pretended to search his memory. His only interaction with Leah Roberts was fresh in his mind.