Alex’s fingers tapped against the chair. “You think he’s the same man who caused your accident in New York?” Then he reached forward and opened a manila folder that was on the table. He shoved some stark, black and white photos across the table.
Photos of a totaled vehicle. Skye’s car.
She was trapped there.
He looked up from those photos and found the detective’s gaze on him. “While you were away on your little trip, I did some more digging,” the detective said.
Good. I’m glad you’re doing your job.
“I talked with a detective Fuller in New York.” The detective glanced over at Skye. “He said you were sure someone had forced you off the road.”
Skye nodded.
Trace pushed the photos back toward the detective. “We just talked to Fuller, too. The guy didn’t buy Skye’s story—”
“Because there was no evidence of anyone else at the crash scene. No paint from another car. No sign of a rear impact.”
“My car…” Her voice was too cold for Trace as Skye said, “Rolled four times. It was smashed like a damn can. There were signs of impact all over the place.”
“Fuller thought it was a one-vehicle accident,” Alex continued. His gaze had locked on Skye’s face. “I’m not Fuller. I know you’re scared, and it sure looks to me like you have a reason to be.”
It should look that way to fucking everyone.
“I’m guessing Weston took you to New York because he thought it might be one of your ex’s, huh?” Now Alex’s gaze swung back to him. “How’d that work out for you?”
“I’m running their alibis.” And so far, turning up jack. So…no, it hadn’t fucking worked out for him.
Alex pursed his lips and nodded. “Running their alibis…that’s good.” He put the photos of Skye’s wrecked vehicle back inside the folder. “But what about your own alibi?” He pushed another sheet of paper toward Trace.
Trace stared down at a picture of himself. An image from a New York newspaper.
“You tend to catch attention when you go places,” Alex murmured. “Guess that’s the price of being so rich, huh? When you went to New York to see the ballet…Sleeping Beauty, right? Well, you were caught leaving the show early that night.” Alex paused. “The date on the image…that would be the same day that Skye here had her wreck.”
Skye’s hand reached for that newspaper clipping. She pulled it toward her. “You were in New York? At my show?” Her head turned toward him. A faint furrow appeared between her brows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, this isn’t the first show he’s caught.” Again, Alex reached into that folder. “Seems that when you were performing, Trace here made a point of coming to see you dance. At least once, sometimes twice a month. He was always there for opening night, but he’d go back, to catch other performances, too.”
Sonofabitch. The detective had been busy.
“You…you saw me dance?”
“He saw you, quite a lot.” Now Alex seemed musing. “He liked to stay at the same hotel every time he went to see you…that posh place right off Fifth Avenue. I believe you both stayed there on your recent trip?”
“Who did you talk to?” Trace demanded. Because someone had been talking too fucking much. This kind of personal leak wasn’t allowed in his organization. An assistant, an agent—someone was about to get his or her ass fired.
“I grew up in New York,” Alex said with a shrug. “I’ve still got some friends there, and they helped me with my digging.” His lips pursed. “Skye, you mean to tell me that you didn’t know he was there, any of those times? With the two of you being such old…friends…I thought you’d—”
“I didn’t know.” Her voice was even colder now. Her eyes were on Trace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dammit. He didn’t want to have this conversation with the detective’s watchful stare on them. “Because we were over.”
She flinched.
Hell. He was fucking this up. We were over. You’d moved on. I just needed to see you.
“He wasn’t just at your dances, though.” And, again, the cop pushed clippings aside. He extracted a final photo from that file. Another photo from the crash scene. Only this time, the wreckage was in the background. Skye was strapped in a gurney and being loaded into an ambulance.
“A reporter on the scene that night caught this shot, but his bosses were…persuaded not to run it.”
She’d stilled.
“That man, right beside the EMTs, that’s you, isn’t it, Weston?”
Skye’s breath rushed out. “You were there the night of my crash?”
Shit. He had to tread very, very carefully now. “I found your car. I called for help.”
Skye shook her head. “Why were you there?”
“I think he was following you,” Alex murmured as his brows lowered. “He’d been watching you for some time. I suspect he left that ballet early, and he waited for you to leave, too. Then he followed you.”
“That’s not what happened!” Trace snapped. He should have told her. Dammit, the minute she’d walked back into his life, he should have told her that he’d been there.
As if he could forget those moments. The pelting rain. The lightning that flew across the night sky.
The blood.
The sick, twisting fear because he could not get her out of the mangled mess that had been her car.
“You were the hero who saved her from death,” Alex said as he gave a nod. “Both in New York, then here, in Chicago. You’ve saved her…what, two times in the last few days?”
Skye wasn’t speaking. Her eyes were so big and wide and lost.
“Someone broke into her studio, slammed her head into the glass…then you appeared, just in time to play her white knight.” Alex’s voice was grim.
“I had a guard on her, I had—”
“Someone set her studio on fire tonight. Before the flames could get to her, you appeared again.”