Excerpt 1 from In Safe Hands
A heavy slam shattered the relaxed air.
Rising quickly, Father Michael hit Mute, tossed the remote on the table and moved towards his office, the shortest way into the church proper. “That sounded like the main door.”
Scott was already on his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his senses on alert. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“No. But, this late on a Friday evening, it wouldn’t surprise me.” Father Michael frowned, then shrugged. “It’s been raining all night. Perhaps someone needs shelter.”
Since arriving at St Jude’s Anglican Church, more than fifteen years ago, Father Michael had encouraged people in the Greenwich Village neighbourhood to use his church as a sanctuary. Regardless of their appearance, mental or physical state or circumstances, he always gave people the benefit of the doubt.
Much as he admired Father Michael’s propensity to withhold judgement and see the best in people, Scott had a less tolerant view. Another necessary evil of his job.
Scott covered his friend as the two slipped quietly into the softly lit church and waited in the shadows of a stone arch to see whether the visitor was friend or foe.
A hint of expensive perfume mingled with the smell of damp air and old church. Faltering steps and the scrape of a broken heel on the stone floor echoed around the empty building. Scott frowned. Not cues he associated with drunk kids, graffiti-loving vandals or thieves.
A figure stumbled into the nave.
A woman. Not one of the homeless; her rain-spattered clothes were clean and well-cut, possibly even designer. Though her long, dark hair was dripping wet, it too looked clean and well-cut.
She faltered momentarily, gripping the back of a wooden pew for support. The white-tipped nails of her still-pristine manicure were a stark contrast to her scraped and bloodied hand.
Scott’s stomach tightened as he noticed her split lip and the shadow of a bruise on her cheek. Had she been mugged?
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Father Michael moved towards her; his tone and body language were deliberately non-threatening.
No reaction.
As if in a trance, the woman continued past him, up the aisle towards the chancel and the altar bathed in a pool of yellow light.
Scott stepped out in front of her. She halted and looked up, her expression dazed, her eyes wide. She trembled.
His gut twisted as he took in her injuries. The bruise on her left cheek extended down to her chin. There was a nasty gash on the other cheek. One eye was already swelling shut. From the way she held herself, her raspy breathing and her unsteady movements, those bruises extended beneath her clothing. She may even have a broken rib.
This was more than a mugging. Someone had done a real job on her.
Anger burned inside. Given his childhood and what he’d seen as a cop, he should have been almost immune to such things. He loathed the bastards who beat up women and children. Cowards, bullies. Just like his old man. Just like too many damn men in this city.
The woman before him swayed, as if she’d used her last reserve of energy. “Please help me,” she whispered desperately, the colour draining from her face. “Hide me from Burton.”
Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. Scott caught her before she fell and, sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the nearest pew. As he laid her gently on the bench seat, he studied her more carefully.
Shock ricocheted through him as recognition dawned. His jaw clenched.
He knew her all right. Only hours before, she’d been seated at the next table at the SAFe fundraiser.
Her understated style, her quiet beauty and gentle grace had caught his eye. A contrast to the bold and brash New York glitterati. And to the polished charm of her billionaire husband who, unlike his wife, had relished being the centre of fawning attention.
Scott spoke softly. “This is Virginia Latimer.”
“Sadly, it is.” Father Michael’s expression was grim.
* * *
Read Excerpt 2 from In Safe Hands
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