Love Can Be Murder

shoulders. The back door opened, then slammed, sending a vibration through the small car. In the side mirror, she saw him run away and disappear into the darkness.
    Jolie clawed at the controls on the door panel until she heard the comforting thwack of all four doors locking, then she lowered her head on the steering wheel, giving in to shuddering breaths and waves of relief...frustration...confusion. Nothing remotely like this had ever happened to her before. How had she, a normal, hardworking, good girl, suddenly become enmeshed in a murder investigation?
    She massaged her temples, trying to chase away the fear, to clear her head enough to think. Gary was obviously terrified, but was it possible that he'd become mentally unstable—sometime before or after he'd driven his car into the river and killed that woman? And was he using coke? With all the talk about what "they" would do to him, he'd sounded clinically paranoid. She'd promised him she wouldn't go to the police, but that went against her every gut instinct.
    And what if he was telling the truth? What if he had been set up by some kind of drug ring and the police couldn't protect him? Roger LeMon had seemed intent on hiding his relationship to Gary, although the man didn't strike her as a criminal mastermind. If he were a successful investment broker, he might simply be worried about his reputation if the media tied him personally to a murderer.
    Common sense itself kept pulling her away from Gary's fantastic tale of being set up. Wouldn't denial be a likely first line of defense? On the other hand, if he were guilty of murdering the woman in his car, why would he stay in Atlanta? Why not flee to another state, or another country? He'd made it sound as if he were going to try to resolve the situation himself and go to the police afterward. What if he was right—what if she went to the police and their interference only made things worse...or cost him his life?
    A knock sounded on the window. Jolie gripped the steering wheel and screamed until her tonsils quivered, then turned her head.
    Beck Underwood stood there with his hands up, his eyes wide. "Didn't mean to scare you," he shouted, his voice muffled by the window.
    Her shoulders fell in relief, but she'd had enough of men sneaking up on her for one night. She rolled down the window. "Are you following me?"
    He looked perplexed. "What? No." He gestured in the direction Gary had gone. "I was coming back from walking my sister to her car and I saw you sitting here. Are you having car trouble?"
    She looked up at him and burst into tears—a first for her, ever. And she wasn't sure who was more horrified, her or the man standing outside her car. While she tried to pull herself together, he squatted down to her level and placed his hand on the car door. He had big, strong hands that matched his physique...capable hands...capable of harm? She retreated a few inches, suddenly suspicious of everyone.
    He sighed. "Look, Jolie, I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but it's clear to me that you're scared of something. Does this have anything to do with that police officer coming to see you the other day?"
    His voice pulled at her with a promise of comfort. Once again she had the overwhelming urge to confide in this stranger. But as the seconds ticked by, the desire to spill her guts was overridden by the fear that Gary might still be watching her, might even be within hearing distance.
    "I'm fine," she said, dragging a tissue from her purse. "I'm not feeling well, that's all." Now accustomed to the man seeing her at her worst, she blew her nose noisily.
    "Let me drive you home," he said.
    "No." She stuck the key into the ignition and turned over the car engine. "I'll be fine. I just need a good night's sleep."
    "I'll follow you home."
    " No ," she said, more vehemently than she'd intended. What kind of mess was she that in the space of a minute she could find him suspicious, then trustworthy, then suspicious again?
    "Good night," she said quietly, then buzzed up the window, displacing his hand.
    As she pulled away from the curb, she glanced in the side mirror and watched him standing with his hands on his hips, staring after her. He had to be thinking she was the most bizarre woman he'd ever met.
    Considering her current predicament, she would have to concur. In the past couple of days, she felt as if she'd entered the Twilight Zone. As she proceeded north on Peachtree Street, she scanned the sidewalks for