The Hero’s Sin by Darlene Gardner

ignored her jumpy stomach and moved closer to him.
    His head swung in her direction, and it seemed to her that the corners of his mouth started to lift. But the glimmer of a smile was gone when he turned off the sander. “Do you need something?”
    She needed to see him.
    Because no matter what Quincy Coleman said, Michael corroborated and all those friends of Coleman intimated, she didn’t believe she’d gotten a true handle on what had happened in Michael’s past.
    However, she couldn’t tell him that.
    She held up the letter she’d written the day before announcing the opening of her practice. “I need to get to my copier.”
    He nodded once, then removed the drop cloth from the copier in a fluid motion and immediately stood back, as though being careful not to get too close to her.
    “Thanks,” she told him.
    He wore an old T-shirt that showed off the definition in his arms and faded jeans that made his legs appear long and rangy. Stubble covered his lower face.
    He looked like a conscientious, hard-working man and not the monster Coleman was portraying him to be.
    “Anything new on my aunt’s case?” he asked.
    She was so intent on figuring out a way to get answers that his question threw her. Of course he’d want an update. They had barely seen each other inthree days. During the few minutes when she’d approved the paint colors, they’d discussed her choice of a red accent wall in the main lobby but hadn’t talked about his aunt at all.
    “I’ve been researching refinancing options, but her best bet is the local bank.” She opened the lid of the copier and placed her letter facedown on the glass. “Our appointment’s tomorrow morning. I’ll hit on her status as a longtime customer, and I hope we’ll be able to work something out.”
    He nodded, his expression that of an impassive stranger. She closed the lid of the copier and pressed the start button but nothing happened. She pressed again, harder this time. Still nothing.
    He reached down and picked up one end of an extension cord. Without a word, he plugged it in and the machine whirred to life. She felt her face heat, could almost hear him asking for the real reason she’d interrupted his work.
    “Why exactly did the police drop the vehicular homicide charge?” she blurted out.
    He stiffened, his eyes becoming even more guarded. Way to ease into the topic, she silently berated herself. Now that she’d brought it up, though, she wasn’t about to back down. If she did, she’d never get answers.
    “You said it was because there wasn’t enough evidence, but the forensics teams that reconstruct fatal accidents are good. They can figure out what happened from skid marks.”
    “There were no skid marks,” he said in a monotone.
    Her mouth dropped open. It was the last thing she expected him to say. Because in the absence of skidmarks, the conclusion was that the driver had made no attempt to stop. That usually only meant one thing.
    “Were you drinking that night?” she asked.
    “No,” he said.
    That had to be the truth. The police would have tested his blood alcohol level and detected the presence of any controlled substances. But the driver didn’t have to be impaired for charges to stick. The law viewed a vehicle as much of a weapon as a gun. If there weren’t skid marks, that alone should have been enough to prove that Michael was driving recklessly.
    “Then why did the police drop the charges?” she repeated.
    His chest expanded with the deep breath he took. “Because it was an old car and a blind curve. The investigators found a leak in the rear brake line and hardly any fluid in the master cylinder. They couldn’t prove the brakes hadn’t been bad before the accident.”
    “But I can’t be—”
    He didn’t let her finish. “It’s a matter of record. Look it up if you don’t believe it.”
    “But I—”
    He switched on the sander and turned his attention to the wall before she could mount any more protests or ask