A Kiss of Revenge (Entangled Ignite) (18 page)

A second later the window below her and just to the right shattered. Flames shot through it, licking upward. She was running out of time from both directions. If she tried to drop to the ground, they’d be on her in a second. If she didn’t, she’d cook, or die of smoke inhalation.

There was no other way. She had to go the impossible route.

She grabbed the gutter above her, praying the previous owners had paid top dollar for secure anchoring. The metal creaked and sagged, but didn’t pull free. Her thumb screamed in protest. Gritting her teeth, heart racing, she slowly pulled the rest of her body out through the window and lowered her legs. The gutter sagged further and some of the nails strained, but it held. She couldn’t see the guy anymore.

She had to go to the left or burn in the fire coming through the window below. She shifted her hands, left then right, left then right, as fast as she could. Something crashed inside the house.

Almost to the corner
. The drainpipe cut an angle to the roof, forming a triangle where she could get some leverage to climb up. She swung closer, closer, and stretched her left foot out to hook the triangle, but the position was wrong. She shifted closer and reached with her right foot. But then a hand wrapped around her left ankle and hauled hard. Three feet of gutter tore away from the roof, and Reese crashed to the ground, screaming.

Chapter Eleven

Pain seared her groin as the muscle pulled, spreading to her knee when her leg twisted in the heap they made on the grass.

But she was on top. She ignored the pain and struggled to her feet, her hands still gripping the edge of the gutter. She tossed it up, grabbed it like a baseball bat, and swung at the guy’s head. He threw up an arm to block it, yelling when she connected, hard. She swung again, clipping him in the shoulder and scraping along his neck. He went down on one knee, and she swung again, and again.

Why the hell didn’t she hear any sirens? It was late, but someone nearby must have smelled the smoke or heard the noise of the breaking windows or crackling flames.

By the same token, why wasn’t she surrounded by bad guys? She couldn’t believe only one man had been sent to take care of her. Only one, who now cowered on the ground at her feet, covering his head against her blows.

She ran, tossing the length of metal behind a bush in her neighbor’s yard. She didn’t waste time knocking on doors or yelling for help. She just sprinted to get away.

Her breathing was so loud she couldn’t hear if there were footsteps behind her, but she didn’t look back. She drew on all the months of jogging and poured on the speed, pounding toward downtown and people.

Should she go to the police station? She didn’t have any more evidence of who was responsible for the fires than she did for the plane crash. She doubted the torch had any traceable connection to Big K, even if the cops
could
find him. Plus she’d have to explain why someone was after her, and doing so without confessing to her own crimes would be difficult, if not impossible. But she’d spent too much time lying; she wanted it to stop. She could go to the police and
not
lie, which would make them arrest her, which would be like slapping a target on her back, her front, and the top of her head. Forget that.

She paused between two brick buildings to catch her breath and reconnoiter. She’d seen no one on the street, but the guy from her house could still be behind her.

She waited, trying to slow and soften her breathing. No footsteps. No huffing and puffing. Maybe he saw her duck in here and was trying to sneak up on her.

She peeked again. Still nothing. But instinct told her not to move. A moment later, her pursuer burst out of an alley across the street, kitty-corner to hers. She slid back into the shadows and watched him peer up the street, then back the way she’d come. He’d tried to circle around and cut her off, she realized. He cursed and slapped his leg, spinning twice more, still looking, then ran back down the street, probably thinking she’d been slower than he anticipated.
Good
. He could keep underestimating her. She touched the BlackBerry in her left back pocket, her wallet in the right, making sure they were both there.

They could
all
underestimate her.

She turned in the opposite direction, toward The Charms, walking fast but not running, considering where to go. The answer didn’t take long to come to her.

She’d go to the Alpine house. She doubted anyone had gone back there since the raid. Missirian and his goons wouldn’t use it, especially since they’d been engaged in other, more obvious, criminal activity in town. The FBI should be done with the house, too. Once they collected all the evidence they needed, it would be closed off.

No one would ever expect her to hide there.

She set off at a light jog, taking multiple streets to make sure no one was following her, and soon approached the wooded alley along the side of the house.

The gravel bore evidence of multiple vehicles driving onto and off the property. The gate was closed but not locked. She let herself in and warily studied the house and grounds, which were dark and silent. Nothing moved, not even the trees overhead. It was odd, not having D greet her as he had on all her early visits.

Not bothering to hide, she walked across the property and up to the front door. The handle was locked, but the wood frame was cracked, the latch plate loose. The door rattled when she tested it. With better leverage than in the attic, she only needed four solid kicks with her good leg to finish the damage. The door flew open, the latch plate clattering across the floor.

“Way to go, feebs,” she muttered. She closed the door behind her, turned—

And was attacked.

…

At first she thought someone was going for her throat, but the body that leaped on her was too small and too heavy. She fell backward with a cry and crashed to the foyer floor, struggling to fend off the dog, her pounding heart trying to escape her chest.

She was soaking wet before she realized Ripper wasn’t trying to shred her throat or tear off her head. He was greeting her with joy.

“Oh, get off, D!” She pushed, but the Rottweiler splayed his legs on either side of her body and licked what he could reach of her face even more enthusiastically. She gave in and rubbed his ears and neck, squinching her eyes shut against the drool. Mess aside, it was nice to receive such uncomplicated, genuine affection. “All right, that’s enough. Blech.” She pushed, and he backed off, stubby tail waggling, tongue flapping. He bounced at her feet as she moved into the kitchen. “You’ve been neglected, haven’t you?” She pet him some more, feeling his ribs. She couldn’t believe the FBI had left him here. Even if he’d hidden or evaded them, they should have called animal control. “Let’s go see if there’s anything to feed you.”

She found dog food in the cupboard and filled a bowl, which he wolfed down in seconds then stood, panting and grinning with his tail wagging.

“I’ll give you more later. I don’t want you to get sick. Let’s explore now.”

She needed a phone. She wanted to call Griff, to let him know what had happened before he heard some other way. She craved the sound of his voice, something to ground her, to prove she had something left when the rest of her life had just been destroyed.

The dog padded along beside her as she searched the rooms. All of the downstairs rooms were furnished but had none of the clutter of being lived in. No books on end tables or newspapers on the floor, no papers stacked on the kitchen counter or shoved into drawers. No phones.

She went upstairs and looked in the film rooms. They’d been gutted, all the equipment gone. Even the beds had been stripped of sheets. A few empty DVD cases remained in the room she’d been in, and nicks and gouges in the door frame testified to the scuffle that had gone on there.

The dressing room was empty, too, but they’d left the toilet paper in the bathroom. “Good thing, too.” She used the facilities before checking the office.

The FBI had thoroughly removed everything except the heavy furniture. Even the phone was gone. A wave of disappointment swept over her, though she hadn’t expected anything different. It seemed pointless to search the room—they wouldn’t have missed anything important.

“You never know, though, right, D?” He flopped down on the floor in agreement and laid his head on his paws. She joined him, lying on her back to check the bottoms of the drawers and under the top of the desk, feeling the backs of the drawers and along the sides of the desk frame behind them. Nothing. Not even a tiny scrap stuck in a corner. The filing cabinet was just as empty, and the closet didn’t look like anything had ever been in there, judging by the dust on the rod and the unmarked carpet. She felt battered, as if she’d physically run into another dead end.

When they returned to the ground floor, she fed the dog another half can of food and sat at the kitchen table with Missirian’s phone in her hand. Using it felt creepy. Dirty. But she had no other options left. She knew Griff’s cell phone number, had made sure to memorize it even in this age of ubiquitous speed dialing.

Need overwhelmed squick and she dialed quickly. Just as quickly, she got a recording that her call could not go through because the service had been disconnected.

She cursed and set the phone down before she threw it against the wall. With nothing left to do, she curled up on a sofa to doze the rest of the night away.

…

The next day, she rigged a leash for the dog using a strip of fabric she pulled from the dust ruffle of the couch and wrapped through his collar. The Humane Society was housed in a small building near the edge of downtown, and she took a half hour to walk him over. The attendant looked suspicious when she told her he was a stray. That she believed Reese was abandoning him hurt, especially since she’d come to love the guy and would keep him if she could. She had to hold her tongue between her teeth and her electrical shields firmly in place, or vent all her pent-up frustration at the poor girl.

After signing the paperwork, she walked past her burned-out bakery to her burned-down house. The ground was churned mud, and the crumbled remnants of her home reeked of wet char. She stood and watched her dreams drift upward in the cloudy morning.

She’d gone beyond fury, beyond rage. All she felt now was cold purpose. Maintaining control wasn’t going to be any problem right now.

“You’re okay.”

She didn’t look at Andrew when he stepped up beside her. “I got out.”

“You weren’t around when the fire department arrived.”

Why hadn’t she said she wasn’t home? No, that wouldn’t have worked, either. He’d dropped her off, knew she hadn’t been home very long when the fire started.

She sighed. “It was deliberately set, like the bakery. Someone seems to be targeting me. I was scared, and I ran.”

“Yeah, they found the remnants of another Molotov cocktail in the living room. But why didn’t you come to me?” He sounded hurt, as if it had been a personal slight rather than a professional one. He must have heard it himself, because he quickly corrected, “To the police station.”

She didn’t respond.

“For God’s sake, Reese—” He broke off when she looked up at him and let him see all her anguish. When he pulled her into his arms, she went, wishing desperately it was Griff holding her instead.

“You need to come to the station and answer questions,” he said after a minute. “We can arrange protective custody, or—”

“I can’t. Not yet.” She pulled away and ran her sleeve under her nose. “I have to get to the hospital. Brian had his surgery, and they’re expecting me.”

“The fire chief still needs to talk to you. And if we’re going to track down the arsonist—”

“I don’t have time!” she cried. Andrew pulled himself taller, stiffer, the hint of compassion in his eyes blinking out behind the cop’s mask. If she told him it wouldn’t matter, that no one ever connected this guy to his crimes, that would just make things worse. So she went the girly route, plucking at her clothes and hair. Stale smoke and worse wafted off of her, and she wrinkled her nose. “I can’t go to the hospital like this. I need clothes and things. A shower.” She let her eyes water. “I have so much to take care of, and Brian could already be awake.” She turned toward her car and trailed off, shocked. The paint had melted off, leaving blackened metal and misshapen tires. It wasn’t parked close enough to the house for the flames to jump, so they must have set it on fire separately.

Andrew must have recognized the utter defeat that swept over her face, because he relaxed an inch. “How about a compromise? I’ll give you a ride to the store and a place to shower, and you answer my questions on the way.”

He was giving in a lot with the offer, so, resigned, she let him take her to a small department store, where she bought the very basics in clothing and toiletries, to a car rental agency, and then to his house. She answered his questions the best she could, struggling to tell as much truth as possible and to look the same when she lied. Mostly, she played dumb. She doubted Andrew was fooled by any of it.

The clock ticked. She rushed through her shower and left her hair wet. Andrew was on the phone in the kitchen when she came out. She waited quietly, squeezing her hair with a towel.

“Where can I put this?” she asked when he hung up.

“I’ll take it.” He came close with his hand out, and she flinched away. He froze, then slowly took the towel from her. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She shook her head, then realized he meant
really
afraid. “No! God, no. I just don’t want to…I don’t know, give you hope.” She winced. They were so far past that, he would recognize the lame excuse without hesitation.

Sure enough, he asked gently, “Who’s after you, Reese?”

The plastic bags holding her clothes and toiletries rustled when she set them on a kitchen chair. He hadn’t asked outright like that until now, and she wondered why he was changing tactics.

“I don’t know.” That was the truth, dammit. “Do you think they’re after me, specifically?”

“I didn’t at first.” He looked disgusted. “With the bakery, I thought it was random vandalism.” He shifted to lean against the counter, crossing his arms and ankles and giving her a piercing stare. “But now, I’m thinking that wasn’t actually the beginning of whatever you’re dealing with. I’m thinking there’s been a lot going on for a long time, and that I ignored my instincts because I like you. And you make good muffins.”

She smiled weakly at his equally weak joke, but didn’t know what to say.

“Truth is,” he continued, “I think it’s all connected. The break-ins, the FBI raid in The Charms, your fires. Maybe even the very possessive guy helping you in the bakery the other day.” His voice hardened. “I had to wonder why you wouldn’t just tell me you were involved with someone else. Wonder how much of what you’d said to me was a lie, and why. I think you’re in trouble, and I want to know what kind.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not coming back to town. The trouble will follow me and it won’t—”

“Don’t tell me it won’t be my problem.” His jaw flexed, and so did his hands. “That’s an insult to me as a professional and as a friend.”

He was right. Suddenly deathly weary, she dropped into a chair. “I don’t know who’s after me, Andrew. That’s the truth. The tables have turned. He tried to kill me and Brian, so I was trying to determine his identity. I guess I got too close, and he came after me, instead.”