Maximum Exposure by Allison Brennan Page B

little blood. “I’m okay,” she said. But she didn’t try to stand. Her knees still felt weak, and her head was fuzzy.
    And then she thought: Had someone hit her on purpose?

Chapter Ten
    Max took advantage of all the resort amenities that weekend, relaxing for the first time since before she took the elder abuse case in Florida. Had she really started that over a year ago? She might even stay here until her cousin’s wedding next weekend, when she had to face her family back in California. If she did, she could attend Scott’s memorial service on Wednesday evening.
    She didn’t relax easily, but swimming in the heated pool, soaking in the spa, and being pampered with massages—she finally felt the tension and stress from the tragedies and the car accident disappear.
    The truck that hit her was registered to Carlos Ibarra. He had an alibi for the time of the collision—he was in class. Police questioned Arthur Cowan and Tom Keller, but both denied driving the truck. Police found it abandoned several miles from the accident. There were no prints at all in the cab, suggesting it had been wiped clean.
    There was no doubt in Max’s mind that Arthur Cowan had rammed her, but there was no proof, either.
    She had to let it go.
    She didn’t want to.
    When Chuck Pence called Monday afternoon, she invited him for a celebratory drink. “Bring your wife, and Trixie.” Max would enjoy the company, both human and canine.
    “I’ll see,” he’d said, and agreed to meet her at four.
    She was sipping her wine on the outside terrace when she saw Chuck step out with Trixie. The woman on his arm was not his wife, however; it was Detective Amelia Horn. Immediately Max knew something was wrong.
    She watched them approach her table. The cop wasn’t looking at her, but Chuck was. His long face hung even longer.
    Max leaned back and scratched Trixie while motioning for Chuck and Horn to sit down. The attentive waitress approached. Horn asked for water only. Chuck, a beer.
    Max sipped her wine and waited for one of them to tell her what in their case was messed up.
    It was Chuck who spoke. “Amelia asked me to come with her to explain the situation.”
    Max waited. Inside she was heating up; she knew what was coming before either of them said anything. But still, she waited, a vision of the calm she didn’t feel.
    “It was supposed to be a joke, like Tom Keller told you last week,” Chuck said. “They didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”
    “Drunk drivers don’t mean to kill anyone, but they still get prosecuted when they hit someone while driving drunk.”
    “It’s not the same thing,” Horn said.
    “They left him on the mountain in below-freezing temperatures with a small tent and sleeping bag that was insufficient for the weather.”
    “Had Scott stayed at the campground, he would have survived,” Horn said.
    “So it’s Scott’s fault that he’s dead? You’ll tell that to his mother?”
    “I already spoke to Mrs. Sheldon. She understands. I explained that while the D.A. wasn’t filing criminal charges, she was welcome to file a wrongful death case in a civil court. But she doesn’t want to press charges.”
    Max felt sucker-punched. “You sugar-coated it. Arthur Cowan is a bully who’s an expert skier and would have known that conditions could turn at any time.”
    “They all admitted to what they did, that they went back up Saturday morning, looked for him, couldn’t find him, panicked when the storm got worse.”
    “And waiting until Sunday to tell campus police? And campus police waiting until Monday to tell the rangers’ office so a search party could be sent out?”
    “It’s a tragedy for everyone. The D.A. has already cut a deal. They pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor charge of reckless endangerment and one year probation.”
    “That’s unacceptable,” Max said.
    “I don’t believe you’re a lawyer, or a cop, or have any say in what the D.A. does or does not do.”
    “This is bullshit,”