Party Crashers

worry about it. I'll make a couple of phone calls, pull in some favors. With any luck, it won't hit the air."
    She leaned her head back on the headrest. "Is that how things are done?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "Favors are owed, favors are exchanged."
    He shrugged. "I suppose that's life, isn't it?"
    "I wouldn't want you to waste a favor on me."
    She felt his gaze on her, but she couldn't look him in the eye. "Oh," he said finally. "Well...there's my family name to think of, too."
    Jolie wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse. "I owe you an explanation. I didn't kill Gary Hagan."
    "I suspected as much," he said. "And we can discuss everything later, after you've had a chance to recover."
    Although she was grateful for the reprieve, Jolie had never been so thoroughly miserable in her life. Gary was dead, and the people who should believe in her innocence didn't, and the one person who shouldn't did. She felt like a glove that a hand had been ripped from—turned inside out. Her body ached with the intensity of a profound wound laid open, but she didn't have the energy to cry.
    She concentrated on the rhythm of the engine and tires, the sound of her own breath entering and leaving her body. She closed her eyes, yielding to the hazy sense of nonbeing that sleep promised. Tension drained from her spine, sending the dead weight of her body into the seat.
    Her next conscious thought was that the vehicle had stopped. A distant, dark feeling of dread came zooming back, jolting her upright. Moonlit hedges hemmed the nose of the SUV. Slowly Jolie became aware of streetlamps, sidewalks, connected two-story buildings. Her apartment complex.
    "We're here," Beck said. "I think."
    She nodded.
    "You didn't say what your apartment number was."
    She looked around to get her bearings, trying to shake the cobwebs from her brain, then pointed. "I'm in that building over there. I can walk."
    "I'm coming with you."
    Rather than argue, she undid her seat belt and ran her tongue over her dry lips, moving gingerly to allow her sleep-laden limbs a chance to catch up. Before she realized what was happening, Beck was at the passenger door, helping her down in the dewy darkness. His hand against her waist, her back, sent a perilous feeling spiraling through her chest—she wasn't afraid of him, but she was afraid of how good his touch felt. She couldn't remember the last time a man had touched her just to comfort her instead of as a prelude to a sexual encounter. She leaned on Beck liberally while walking to her apartment door. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, overwhelmed with a sense of relief at being home.
    Flipping on lights, she stumbled inside, not caring what Beck thought of her crocheted coasters and shabby furniture. He looked around, hands on hips, his expression unreadable, then he finally nodded toward her ancient sofa draped with a camouflaging throw. "Looks like a comfortable couch," he said, and from the tone of his voice she realized with a start that he was looking for a spot to crash.
    "You want to stay?" she asked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
    He turned over his wrist to consult his watch. "Well, it is four in the morning." Beck cleared his throat. "And considering everything that's happened, I thought it best if someone stayed with you."
    Was he afraid she would do something to hurt herself, or like Vanderpool, that someone else might? At the moment, Jolie didn't care. "That would be nice."
    He returned to the door to check its security, then walked over to the picture window above the couch, pulled up the blinds, and tested the closing mechanisms. "Do you have any other windows?" he asked.
    "Only in the bedroom," she said, pointing. "Come on, I'll get you a pillow and a blanket."
    "Just a pillow will be fine," he said, following her into the bedroom.
    He scrutinized the room where she slept, but his expression was devoid of personal interest in her intimate space—he seemed more concerned about the layout of the room. He strode to the window and nodded at the two-foot cactus she'd set on the floor beneath the sill.
    "Nice touch," he said approvingly. He raised the blinds and ran his hands along the closure, then frowned. "Have you had this window open lately?"
    Jolie shook her head and walked over, her heart jumping in her chest.
    "This latch is open." He leaned down to peer at the window sill, then indicated the clean scrape in the dust. "Looks like someone has either come in or left by this