Expired Getaway (Last Chance County #7) - Lisa Phillips Page 0,17
back.”
“What is it, Aiden?”
“I need another ambulance at my location.” He checked his GPS on his phone and told her where he was.
“Copy that. Five minutes.”
Aiden knew that wouldn’t make a difference. The man on the ground was dead. He pulled the flashlight from his belt and shone it at the face long enough to see where the bullet had entered. “And send a detective.”
He knew who it was. He just didn’t want to think about who it was.
Aiden called Sergeant Basuto and ran down everything that’d happened while the dog stretched out beside the man. He wanted to call the animal away but wasn’t sure it would even leave the dead man’s side.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Relief nearly caused Aiden to sink to the ground. “Thanks.”
“It’s my job.” Basuto hung up.
Aiden stared at the phone for a second. Then he stowed it in his pocket. A second later, it rang again. “Donaldson.”
It was Frees. “Woman is all loaded up in the ambulance. You need help up there?”
“Did you see a vehicle? Silver compact, driving fast?”
“Nothing like that down here. He fled?”
There was no tone or insinuation, but Aiden still gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“Must’ve gone the other direction.”
Aiden swallowed. “How is she?”
“Banged up, but they don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong. Other than the gunshot graze to her arm.”
So that man had shot her and the man up here? He was going to withhold his relief she was still alive until the doctors checked the woman out, though. There could be any number of serious injuries. Or some internal bleeding.
Who was she? He twisted around and studied the trees.
Aiden didn’t want to get so close he disturbed any evidence, so he jogged to the back door. “I’ll check for mail.” Something with an address would give him a name.
The minute he entered the house, his nose wrinkled. He breathed through his mouth and waded through a pile of discarded boots—even a couple of pairs of ladies’ shoes. The kitchen table, every inch of counter space, and the sink were piled high. Dishes, pots, mugs, boxes. Open food containers. Only the temperature outside kept this place from buzzing with flies, but in summer it was likely a nightmare.
He found a pile that looked like mail and found the address.
His stomach dropped, faced with the truth. “Thomas Meyers.”
“Who is that?”
Aiden squeezed his eyes shut. “He’s Bridget’s father.”
The old man was out there, laying on the grass. Dead. Shot by the gunman who’d driven away in that car.
How many times had Aiden snuck over to pick up Bridget for a date? He hadn’t even realized where he was.
Now her father was dead.
His stomach flipped over. He had so many thoughts swirling in his head. For one thing, the condition of the house made him finally realize why Bridget had always refused to bring him inside her house. He would’ve been embarrassed, too. And also, who was the woman, and how did she fit in with all this? Why was Thomas dead?
“Who?”
Aiden gritted his teeth. “Sydney’s mother was Bridget Meyers.” He choked out the words. “The dead guy up here? He’s my daughter’s grandfather.”
“Dude.”
“Sydney has never met him.”
“Still.” Frees paused. “And the woman the ambulance took to the hospital? That’s her, this Bridget person? Sydney’s mother?”
“No. That’s impossible.” Aiden strode back outside. He shook his head even though no one but the dog could see him.
“Why?”
Aiden stopped and stared at the dead man. “Because Bridget is dead.”
Seven
“Kathryn?” A steady hand shook her shoulder. “Kathryn, can you hear me?”
Bridget pressed her lips together as she came awake. Before she answered, it was necessary to assess the situation and figure out what was happening.
The last thing she remembered? Headlights. Pain.
Her elbow hurt, and her hip. One arm was kind of limp, and the outside of her bicep didn’t feel good.
“There you are.”
She blinked and clocked the evidence this woman was a nurse. The voice held authority, as though anything less than Bridget coming to full wakefulness was unacceptable.
She cleared her throat. “What happened?”
“You’re in the hospital, Ms. Weston. The doctor will be in shortly to take a look at you.”
Bridget noted the fact she didn’t answer the question. They’d found her wallet, along with the driver’s license she kept there for times exactly like this when her real name would raise a flag. It was best to remain…not anonymous. Just well under the radar.
Kathryn Weston lived in Denver, worked for a certain accountant’s firm, and had a social media profile that although showed a social