Hemingway knows Mick’s there, but Emma—face now buried in his long, well-arched neck asking him how he got in—hasn’t seen him. She’s beautiful.
“Ahem.” Mick coughs into his hand, not wanting to startle her.
Emma’s head comes bolt upright. “Oh my goodness, you scared me!” She places a hand on her palpitating heart.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m also sorry that Hemingway barged in on you.”
Hemingway’s thick tail thumps like an overactive metronome at their exchange.
“We were just discussing that,” Emma says, stroking the lanky dog’s wiry coat. She turns to Hemingway. “I haven’t figured out how you got in here, mister.” Her impish grin tears Mick’s insides, making something crack open.
Mick slips off his shoes and socks and steps inside the cottage. A cool snake of evening air wraps around his ankles. As he walks toward her, he nods toward Emma’s wheelchair folded next to the nightstand. “May I sit down?”
“Sure,” she says, smiling with appreciation as she watches him open the chair with expertise.
The vision that meets his eyes is breathtaking. Propped by a mountain of pillows in the sage-colored bedding, auburn hair shimmering in the lamplight that casts its glow across the now-forgotten book she’d been reading, Emma returns his look with inquisitive eyes.
Hemingway, satisfied they’re going to stay a while, lays on the floor next to the bed and rests his bearded chin on top of his massive front paws.
“I lived in this cottage while recuperating from an accident,” Mick says. “From puppyhood, as soon as he was tall enough, Niall taught Hemingway how to operate the door-activation button with his nose. He came and went as he pleased. It’s obvious he’s smitten with you.” He’s not the only one.
“Please tell me about your accident. What happened?” Emma asks.
Mick turns his pained expression toward the sliding glass doors and rubs the back of his neck as if reliving the fatal impact. Minutes pass lost in contemplation.
Emma waits in companionable silence while he gathers his thoughts.
“Five years ago, I was on the police force. Sam, my partner and I, were in a high-speed chase. We’d just radioed for backup when our windshield shattered. Sam lost control of the squad car, and we smashed head-on into a bridge embankment.
“When I came out of a coma a few weeks later, the first thing I learned was that Sam had been shot between the eyes by a sniper from the bridge. We’d been partners for over five years. He left behind a wife and two small children. The second thing I learned was that I was paralyzed, but they couldn’t know the extent of the damage until I was conscious and could go through a battery of tests.”
“Oh, my God,” Emma whispers, pressing a hand against her throat. “Did they ever find the person who shot Sam? Did they ever find out why he was shot? I can’t begin to imagine the heartbreak for Sam’s wife and family, and then what you went through. But you’re out of a wheelchair now, how did that happen?”
“The accident initiated a widespread response from law enforcement agencies and an exhaustive manhunt. A special crime unit followed hundreds of tips that failed to produce solid leads. As time wore on, the search scaled down and dwindled to nothing. Sam’s assassin was never found.
“As it turns out, it wasn’t Sam—specifically—that the elusive sniper was after. He could have shot any police officer. The high-speed car chase was a diversionary tactic to draw a squad car to the bridge so that a police officer could be killed. The sniper took out the driver, Sam. I was the collateral damage.”
“The title of your book,” Emma whispers in understanding as her moss-green eyes melt with emotion.
Mick nods and continues. “When backup arrived on the scene, they called in ‘Officer down!’ drawing just about every law enforcement officer on duty and within radio range. Not only police officers on patrol, but also deputy sheriffs, showing a united front and turning up even though the location is out of their jurisdiction.
“With an almost-empty stationhouse, a huge cache of heroin that had been seized from an expansive crime-ring bust was stolen out of lockup. The street value was well over ten million dollars.
“That seven-month investigation culminated in the arrest of eleven people, including one of two ringleaders. Fraternal twins. Since then, three of the eleven have died in jail. One was killed in the yard, another in the cafeteria, and a third, one of the twins, was found hanging in his cell. From the bruising and other marks on his body, it doesn’t appear to be suicide.
“The brothers’ rap sheets are a mile long. The charges include murder, aggravated assault, and conspiracy to transport, sell, and dispose of firearms. Added to that there’s failure to appear, witness tampering, conspiracy to possess and distribute a variety of drugs including heroin and cocaine, and conspiracy to organize, finance, and manage a narcotics trafficking network.
“What makes this even more difficult is that the remaining twin is unknown. Their birth records were destroyed, and there are no fingerprints or DNA for him on file.
“The undercover operation determined that no one on the outside could have orchestrated this by themselves. They had to have help from the inside—a dirty cop. Unfortunately, the case has gone cold.”
To lighten the mood, Mick pretends to look around, then slides Emma a sideways glance. In mock warning, he whispers, “I know you think that Libby and Niall are sweet, loving, kind, and thoughtful people. But let me tell you, they moved heaven, earth, and a little bit of hell, to get me well again. Sometimes their methods were downright vicious.”
His voice returns to normal. “But as Libby will tell you, it’s because I deserved it. They told me that I not
