Meet Cute, Elise Faber [audio ebook reader .TXT] 📗

some gauze earlier to stop the bleeding. I’ll get it looked at when I’m done giving my statement.” A beat. “You’ll need to give yours next. Unless you need to call in a lawyer?”

Gauze? Gauze?

She slipped her wrist free, raised her brows. “Do you need to call someone?”

I shook my head. “I don’t need a lawyer for this.”

At least, I didn’t think so. It wasn’t like either of us had done anything wrong, and certainly the mob of paparazzi could corroborate what had happened. I might need Maggie and her magical PR skills, but I wasn’t going to ruin the night of her engagement party with a scandal.

Although . . . I pulled my cell from my pocket, fired off a text asking her to call me.

Because if I’d learned anything about my friend in the years we’d worked together, it was that she hated to be blindsided—and she would hate even more to wake up tomorrow and be taken by surprise with the events of this evening plastered all over every gossip mag and site, not to mention the main-stream news outlets.

The text would cover my bases.

And hopefully, she would see it after the party but before morning.

Tammy was talking to the officer by the time I finished texting, so I slipped down the hall and into the half-bath I’d stripped of all things towel just a little while before. There was a first aid kit beneath the sink, and I grabbed it, bringing it back into the kitchen and opening it up. More gauze. A wrap.

At least I could get it covered until Tammy had it checked out.

The last of which had me remembering a contact I’d programmed in my cell just the previous week. On Artie and Pierce’s recommendation, I’d signed up for a doctor’s service—it was easier than going into medical offices or the hospital (for non-emergency stuff)—and there was a direct number for urgent visits.

I stepped into the hall and called.

The calm, kind voice on the other end said they would be here in twenty minutes.

Feeling better about having done something, I told them to call my number when they arrived, so I could let them in, then went back into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. By the sound of the conversation Tammy was having with the officer, it seemed like they might be at it for a while, and then there was her arm to consider, how long it would take to treat it. We would probably be up for hours.

Plus, it gave me something to do that wasn’t standing around, staring into space, hating myself for freezing, and furious that she had gotten hurt protecting me.

The coffee steam hissed its way out of the pot, and I grabbed three mugs, filling them and bringing two of them to the officer and Tammy. The first took the mug gratefully. The second with no little amount of suspicion.

“Did you need cream or sugar?”

She shook her head, took a small sip, and I could have sworn that her eyes gentled. Then she was nodding at the cop and saying, “Talbot, this is Officer McTavish. He’s going to take your statement, if you’re ready.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Bill,” he said, extending his hand. “Feel free to just call me Bill.”

I nodded.

He gestured to the barstools. “Did you want to sit down?”

“No,” I told him, “I’m okay. What did you need to know?”

“Let’s start at the beginning. Do you know about what time you pulled up to the gate?”

“Um, maybe a few minutes after ten?” I tried to think back, but I hadn’t really been paying attention to the time. I’d been too enthralled with the woman sitting in the car next to me. “I left the party early and saw Tammy, and since my car was blocked in and I’d had a couple of drinks, I asked her for a ride. My place is . . . thirty minutes or so from Artie and Pierce’s without traffic, but we did hit the usual slowdown on the freeway for a few miles.”

He nodded.

And then asked another question. And another.

And by the time I’d related even the most innocuous detail about the drive and that stop-and-go traffic and the winding road up to my house, finally reaching the part of the story where I’d been putting in my gate code, my cell rang.

I glanced down at the screen. “Sorry,” I said. “I think that must be the doctor.”

“Go ahead.”

I picked up, got confirmation it was, in fact, the doctor, and said, “I’ll come down and let you in.”

Bill snagged my forearm. “I can radio down. They’ll escort him up.”

I nodded, relayed that information, and hung up. Then I told Bill, “It’s actually her. Dr. Bailey Stevens. She says she has her ID.”

After calling that into his radio, he said, “So, you’d put the code in . . .”

“Part of it, yes. But I hadn’t finished when Tammy whipped around, pushing me between her and the car. At first, I didn’t see anything, but then I caught a flash of silver and saw the man coming toward us. I heard her tell him to stop, but he didn’t. Then she fired.” My heart began pounding again in my chest, and I took a breath, forced it to slow. “He got back up, and she fired again. Two times.”

“Then what happened?”

“He didn’t get back up, so she kicked the knife away, ordered me to call 9-1-1 and to get some towels—”

The knock at the door interrupted me.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Bill nodded.

I went to answer the door, or rather to follow Tammy down the hall as she pulled it open.

A petite brunette wearing a plaid button-down and blue jeans stood on the porch. She held a large bag with one hand, an ID in the other.

“Who are you?” Tammy asked, and I’d be lying if the protectiveness in her tone didn’t make my heart skip a beat.

“I’m Dr. Stev—”

I moved, some instinct bringing me to Tammy’s side