I tried to recoil.

His arms loosened immediately.

"I'm sorry."

The terrifying stranger apologized as though my fear mattered more than his intention.

"What are you?" I whispered.

Before he could answer, blue light flooded the wreck.

Three cruisers stopped above us.

Doors slammed.

"Deputy Chief Quinn!" a man shouted. "Call out!"

Grant found his confidence at once. "Down here! Armed suspects! My wife is unstable and injured!"

The lie was so practiced it did not even sound like one.

Boots pounded down the slope.

Silas slid one arm behind my back and another under my knees.

"My leg—"

"The pressure is clear. I can lift you, or we can wait for paramedics who answer to your husband. You decide."

Gun safeties clicked in the trees.

I looked at Grant.

Ronan held him several yards away, but Grant was smiling at the approaching officers. He had worn that same smile when the family doctor told me my bruises were the result of anxiety. He had worn it when my first emergency call disappeared from the system. He had worn it while driving toward the broken guardrail.

Wait, and he would own the story again.

"Lift me."

Silas did.

Pain swallowed the forest.

I came back against his chest with my fist twisted in his shirt and his voice near my ear.

"Breathe. I've got you."

"Put her down!"

Four uniformed officers spread through the trees. Their weapons were aimed at Silas, not at Grant.

The officer in front was Sergeant Dale Mercer. He had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at my house. He had watched Grant refill my wineglass after I said no and later helped carry me upstairs when I could no longer stand.

Mercer's eyes passed over the blood on my sweater.

"Evelyn," he said, almost kindly, "tell him to release you."

Silas's hold remained steady.

"Ask her what happened," he said.

"This is a domestic medical emergency."

"Your deputy chief fired a gun at his fleeing daughter."

"He fired a warning shot while searching for a missing child."

They already had the story.

They had arrived with it.

The realization carried me back to the last turn before the guardrail. Grant had reached across me as though he meant to protect me, pulled my seat belt tighter, and said the city would take care of Sophie after I was gone. At the time, I had thought he was trying to frighten me into naming where I hid the files.

He had been rehearsing his statement.

Distressed wife. Sudden episode. Hero husband unable to save her.

Even the seat belt had been part of it. Mine had locked. His had opened the instant we stopped rolling.

"Check his belt," I said.

Silas looked down at me. "What?"

"The driver's belt. Grant cut it before the crash, then used the passenger restraint for himself. Mine was supposed to hold me here." I forced the next words through chattering teeth. "He planned which one of us would die."

Ronan heard. He lifted his chin toward one of the helmeted men, who immediately moved to the driver's side with his camera trained on the severed strap.

Grant's face emptied.

One physical thing. One lie he had not yet taught his men to explain.

Grant stepped free when Ronan released him at Silas's signal. He straightened his wet uniform and pointed at me.

"My wife caused the crash. She's confused and dangerous. Take her into protective custody."

Mercer holstered his weapon and reached for me.

Every muscle in my body locked.

Silas moved sideways, placing his back between Mercer's hand and me.

He did not speak for me.

He only prevented the touch.

So I forced air into my lungs.

"I do not consent to protective custody."

Mercer stopped.

Grant's expression changed.

"Evelyn," he warned.

I looked past Silas's shoulder at the tiny red lights blinking on three biker helmets.

Cameras.

For once, Grant was not the only person making a record.

"My husband drove the car through the guardrail," I said. "Then he put my hand on the wheel. He aimed his service weapon at me and fired at our daughter when she escaped."

Silence moved through the trees.

Grant recovered first. "She's delusional."

"Then you won't mind repeating that for all twenty cameras," Silas said.

Grant looked up at the ridge.

At the line of helmet lights recording him.

At Sophie, still wrapped in the Blackwood Reapers president's cut.

For the first time since the car left the road, my husband looked afraid.