0373447477 (R) (20 page)

“He’s still not talking?” Malone asked.

“No, but he may change his mind once we start questioning him about the body we found in the lake. Turns out, he and the deceased were buddies way back in high school. I don’t think it’s coincidence that they ended up in Echo Lake at the same time.” He walked to the door, pulled it open. “Stay alert, and call if you hear from your sister, Quinn. Our goal is to help her, and you can let her know that.”

“I will.” Not that Tabitha would have any way to reach Quinn. Neither of them had cell phones.

She wanted to hear from her sister, though. She wanted to know that she was safe, and then she wanted to tell Tabitha to go to the police, trust that they’d listen to whatever she had to say.

Trust.

That thing that Quinn had never been good at. Yet there she sat, allowing others to make decisions, to take actions that would impact people she loved.

She frowned. She needed more coffee. More sugar. Everyone else seemed wired, the energy in the room palpable. Not Quinn, she was foggy-headed, thick-brained.

She walked into the kitchen, rinsed out the coffee pot and started a new one. She could hear voices drifting in from the service area, hear the soft whistle of wind beneath the shop’s eaves. She poured a cup of coffee, sipping it as she filled a tray with mugs, sugar, cream.

The bakery phone rang, the sound so surprising it took a minute for Quinn to realize what it was. It was a strange time for someone to be calling to place an order, but Lucille was old-fashioned. She didn’t have an answering machine, didn’t have voice mail. She answered the phone when she was there, let it ring when she wasn’t.

The last ring cut off abruptly.

The phone began ringing again almost immediately.

Whoever it was must be desperate.

Quinn grabbed the tablet Lucille wrote orders on and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Nothing but silence, and then a quiet sob.

“Tabitha?” she asked, her heart beating hard in her chest.

“No,” someone responded, the words muffled with tears. “It’s me. The bear spray didn’t work, Quinn. He got me, and he says if you don’t come alone—”

“I will kill her,” someone else finished, the voice masculine, polished and very, very cold. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes.” She managed to speak through the cotton that seemed to have filled her mouth.

“You come to the old lady’s house. We’ll do an even exchange. You for her.”

“Who is this?”

“If you want to see your friend alive again, I guess you’ll come to her house and find out. You have fifteen minutes to make it here. Alone, Quinn. If I see anyone else with you, the old lady dies. If you don’t get here on time, you’ll both die. That’s my promise to you, and I never, ever break a promise.” He hung up, and she was left standing there, the phone in her hand, her pulse racing, her thoughts racing.

“Everything okay in here?” Malone asked, and she turned to face him, knew she had a choice to make—do what she’d been told to do, or trust Malone with the truth.

She hesitated, looked into his dark eyes, thought about the things he’d told her, the man he’d proved himself to be.

“No,” she finally said, and then she told him everything.

* * *

Fifteen minutes was enough time to brew a pot of coffee. It was enough time to run a couple of miles. It was enough time to do a lot of things, but it wasn’t enough time to come up with a plan that would free Lucille and keep Quinn safe.

The perp knew that.

Malone knew it, too, and he wasn’t happy. Not when Stella suggested that they let Quinn approach the old Victorian from the front while the team moved in from the back. Not when Chance agreed it was their only option. Not when August hopped on board and volunteered to do recon—going in ahead of the team, to find the easiest route into the house. He’d left twelve minutes before the deadline, had checked in when he reached the house, describing the woods that butted up against the back of the property, the wide expanse of yard that would have to be crossed to access the large Victorian. A window on the lower level was open. Maybe even broken. August was too far away to see, but he thought they’d be able to gain entrance there.

Even Sheriff Lock seemed happy with the plan.

He’d called in deputies to block off entrances to the street. Every one of them had walked in on foot, setting down traffic cones and spike strips designed to slow down fleeing vehicles.

Everything was in place.

Every
one
was in place.

All of them waiting for Malone to do his part—walk Quinn to the end of the road, make sure she was clear on every aspect of the plan.

“Four minutes,” he heard Stella say through the earpiece he was wearing.

“Got it,” he growled, all his frustration and fear seeping into those words.

He did not want to do this—walk Quinn to the end of the road, send her into a blind situation with an unknown aggressor.

Who was he kidding?

He didn’t want to send her in anywhere. If he’d had his way, Stella would have gone in as a decoy, but he’d been voted down, the possibility that Lucille would be killed if the perp realized he was being tricked a very real one.

“Do not enter the house,” he reminded Quinn, the words ringing hollowly in the still night air. “You’re going in as a distraction so that—”

“The team can get in the back of the house and rescue Lucille,” she finished wearily. “I think we’ve been over this a dozen times.”

“And we’ll go over it a dozen more.”

“No.” She stopped, touched his arm. “We won’t, because we’re out of time, and this is where we’re supposed to part ways.”

“I’m as aware of that as you are of the plan,” he said, dragging her closer, whispering so only she could hear. “You don’t have to do this. The team can go in without you.”

“I do have to do it, because without me at the front of the house, he’s going to hear what’s going on in the back. Then he’s going to do what he promised and kill Lucille, and I’m never going to forgive myself for that.”

“Quinn—”

“And you wouldn’t forgive yourself, either, Malone. You know it.”

It was true.

He couldn’t risk Lucille, and he didn’t want to risk Quinn. It was a no-win situation.

God is still in control.

Those words, another motto to live by.

He brushed his lips against Quinn’s, the touch gentle and light but filled with dozens of words that he didn’t have time to say—
be careful, I need you to come back to me. Do exactly what we planned. Don’t take chances.

“Two minutes.” Stella’s warning was so loud, Quinn heard.

She jumped back, her hand flying to her mouth.

“I won’t say I’m sorry,” he told her.

“I wouldn’t want you to. See you soon,” she said, and it sounded like a promise, like a hope, like something she wanted desperately to believe in.

He watched as she rounded the street corner, her shadow bouncing in the street light. She was jogging, hurrying to make it in the allotted time. Her friend’s life was on the line, and she was willing to risk anything to save it.

He admired that.

He’d have done the same.

But he didn’t like it.

“One,” Stella said, a note of panic in her voice. “Don’t mess this up because your heart is involved, Malone. If you do, I’ll never let you live it down.”

“She’s on the way,” he responded. “So am I,” he added, and then he sprinted into the woods that edged the street and made his way toward Lucille’s property.

FOURTEEN

T
he last time Quinn had been this terrified, she’d been sitting in an oncologist’s office listening to the doctor diagnose her husband.

Cancer. Inoperable.

Her heart had pounded harder with every word, a fast, sickening beat that had almost drowned out what was being said.

Six months.

Maybe a year.

The doctor had been somber, filling the awful silences with words that were supposed to take the sting out of the diagnosis.

There’s always hope.

She’d wanted to believe that Cory would be the exception to the rule, but she’d felt sick with dread, certain that everything she’d dreamed of, everything she’d hoped for was about to be taken from her. She’d left the office knowing what was facing them—months of treatment, months of struggle, months of watching someone she loved suffer.

She hadn’t known how helpless she would feel, though. Hadn’t understood the depth of despair that came with knowing she couldn’t help the person she loved most.

She felt the same despair now, the same terror. Only there was a different kind of horror waiting for her. Not the slow suffering of someone she loved. Lucille’s death would be quick and brutal, and it would be all Quinn’s fault.

Fear or not, Quinn had to do this.

She sprinted up the road, cutting through a neighbor’s yard as she made her way to Lucille’s Victorian house. The place was huge, meant to be filled with a family. Instead, Lucille lived there alone, her cat, Kitty, her only companion.

Sad. And sadder to think she might die there at the hands of a man who wanted...

What?

Tabitha?

Quinn pounded across the yard, not stopping when the security lights went on. She was at the top of the porch stairs when she heard her name. Not the quiet whisper that had drifted from the churchyard. This was a full-out yell filled with panic.

“Quinn! No!”

Quinn turned, saw someone racing across the street.

Blond hair shining in the darkness, slim frame still dressed in a fitted suit.

Tabitha! Running straight toward her, still screaming Quinn’s name.

“Don’t—” Quinn started, but the door to the house flew open.

She heard it. Felt someone rushing outside.

She tried to run, but hard hands grabbed her waist, yanking her back toward the open door.

Tabitha was still in the yard, frozen there.

Quinn was too busy fighting to do more than scream for her to run.

She jabbed an elbow into rock-hard abs, stepped on a foot. Kicked a shin.

“Stop,” the man growled, snagging one of her arms, and yanking it up behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulder and up into her jaw. She stilled, trying to ease the pain, trying to see through the haze that seemed to be clouding her vision.

Go!
Quinn wanted to yell at her sister, but she couldn’t get the word out.

“There,” the man crooned, his voice sending chills up her spine. “That’s what I want. Just cooperate, Quinn. After all, it’s the first time we’ve met. You should want to make a good impression on your in-law.”

“You’re not making a good impression on me,” she said, clenching her teeth against the pain.

“Call your sister,” he commanded.

“No.”

He yanked her arm up higher, twisting her hand in opposition to the movement. Something in her wrist popped, the pain so intense, darkness edged in and her legs went out from under her.

“Don’t!” he growled, dragging her up by the arm. “We’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t have time to waste on swooning females. Tabitha!” he called. “You’d better get moving, because I’m not in the mood for games tonight. You keep standing there like the idiot you are, and your sister is going to die. Right here. Right now.”

“Like John died?” Tabitha called. “Are you going to murder her, too?”

She was trying to buy time, Quinn was certain of it.

Did she know there were men moving in from the back of the house? Could she see something that Quinn couldn’t?

“John committed suicide because he was weak,” Jarrod said easily, the words well practiced and smooth.

“You killed him because he learned you were laundering money through your casino, and he was going to turn you in.”

“That’s a lie. All of it.”

“Is the blood on the clothes you wore the night John died a lie? You knew I found them in your gym bag, didn’t you? That’s why you went into a rage when I said I wanted to take a vacation. You knew I had them, but you were afraid to ask, afraid I might record the conversation and use it against you. For once, I was a step ahead of you, and you hated it.”

“Shut up!” Jarrod yelled, shifting his grip, pulling something from his jacket pocket.

Quinn felt cold metal at the hollow of her throat, realized exactly what he had—a knife, the sharp blade digging into her skin.

“I tried to play nice, Tabitha. Just like I always do. You forced me to this. Get up here.
Now
. If you don’t you’ll see exactly what kind of damage a knife can do.”

“Don’t—” Quinn started, but the knife blade dug deeper, a trickle of blood sliding along her collarbone.

“
You
don’t,” Jarrod ordered. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. Don’t even think about sacrificing your life for the life of your worthless sister. I gave her everything. A gorgeous house. Clothes. Jewelry. Money. She repaid me by kidnapping my child—”

“Jubilee was never yours,” Tabitha said as she walked up the porch stairs. One slow step at a time, her gaze on her husband, her face so pale Quinn was surprised she was still on her feet.

“She has always been mine. Her mother gave her to me. A gift for what I gave her.”

“Drugs?” Tabitha spat. “Is that what you paid her with?”

“I loved her, and I loved our child. That’s a concept you can’t seem to understand.”

“You’re wrong, Jarrod. I know what love is. I felt it for you for a long time. If I hadn’t, I would have taken Jubilee to her birth father the day I found her birth certificate in the safe.”

“Found because you were snooping, trying to see if there was anything you could steal.”

“You gave me the combination, Jarrod. Have you forgotten that?” she asked wearily, and Quinn could see she was at her breaking point, that she was near collapse.

“I gave it to you because I figured you were too stupid to look at anything but the jewelry and the cash.”

“I’ve never been stupid until it came to you. I really believed you loved me.” There were tears in her eyes, and Quinn wanted to tell her not to cry, but one slip and the knife would cut through her throat.