Free Hot Pursuit by Anne Mather

was more to her conduct than a simple stiffness in her spine? No doubt he had a computer. He’d need one for his writing. Was he even now combing the Internet for any story that might match her unconvincing explanation?
    She looked for her watch and then remembered that she’d taken it off before lunch. It was broken anyway, so it wouldn’thave been any good to her. Besides, she knew it was nearly five o’clock. She’d seen a clock in the kitchen. Almost a whole day had passed since she’d left the apartment. She’d been a widow for almost twenty-four hours. She shivered. Oh, God, what was she going to do?
    The effort required in taking a bath wasn’t particularly appealing now, but she guessed the hot water might soothe her aches and pains. Somehow she had to get through the next fifteen hours without breaking down. When Matt left to take Rosie to school the following morning she’d ask him to give her a lift into Saviour’s Bay. With a bit of luck her car might be repaired by lunchtime, and then she’d be free to move on.
    But where?
    And what if Matt wouldn’t let her go?
    But she wouldn’t think like that, she told herself severely. He couldn’t keep her here by force and, despite what he’d said before, she didn’t think he’d report her to the authorities. Not without knowing who she was. He wasn’t that kind of man. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.
    The corner bath filled quickly. She found some pine-scented bath gel in a glass cabinet over the sink and added a squeeze of fragrance to the water. Steam rose, warm and scented, into her nostrils, and she felt a twinge of anticipation at the prospect of feeling clean again. One day at a time, Sara, she told herself encouragingly. She had to believe that she’d get through this.
    It was hard to hold on to that thought when she took off her clothes, however. With the removal of her dress it was impossible to avoid the many bruises and contusions colouring her pale skin. She looked as if she’d been in a fist fight, she mused bitterly, and of course she had. But there had only ever been one real contender.
    Yet Max was dead and she was alive…
    The incredible truth couldn’t be denied and she sagged weakly against the basin. She hadn’t meant for him to die, she insisted painfully. But who was going to believe her now?
    For so long she’d accepted that her hands were tied, that there was nothing she could do to change things. Even without the threats Max had made against her mother, she’d known hewould never let her go. He’d told her so many times. And she’d believed him. God knew, she’d had every reason to believe his threats before.
    So what had happened last night? How had the victim suddenly become the hunted? She’d had no notion that anything different was about to happen. She’d been too busy defending herself to anticipate that help might come from a totally unexpected source.
    She swallowed the sickly feeling that surged into her throat at the memory. She saw Max raising his hand towards her, saw herself falling against the corner table on the landing of their duplex apartment. Even now her hip throbbed in memory of the agonising pain that had stunned her at the impact. She remembered rolling herself into a ball, arms curled over her head in mute acceptance of the boot that would surely follow—but it hadn’t happened. Instead, Max had lost his balance. He’d tripped, swearing as he’d stumbled over her crumpled body, and, unable to save himself, had fallen headlong down the stairs.
    Another wave of nausea gripped her. It had been an accident, she assured herself now, as she’d assured herself then. If she’d rolled against his legs, if she’d caused him to lose his balance, it hadn’t been deliberate. If he hadn’t hit her, if he hadn’t caused her to fall across the head of the stairs,