But if that’s what has to happen to keep Kirby safe, I’ll do it. I’ll turn myself over to this motherfucker in a heartbeat.
“Hang in there, Larry, I’m coming,” I mutter as I order a car, which promises to be here in three minutes—just enough time to get down to the lobby and plenty of time to get across town.
I grab my room key, wallet, and, at the last minute, the wine opener from the mini bar, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans. It’s not much as far as weapons go, but at least it’s something, an ace up my sleeve if I end up alone with this asshole and he drops his guard.
As I hurry for the door, Murder leaps up onto the back of the couch with a fretful meow.
I pause, stomach clenching. “I’ll be home soon, buddy. But if I’m not, you take good care of her, okay? Love her extra hard.”
The cat’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t hiss at me. And maybe it’s just that I’ve been up all night and am going loopy from lack of sleep, but I would almost swear he understands.
“Losing it, Donovan,” I mutter, closing the door behind me and sprinting for the elevator. I suck in deep breaths, willing oxygen to my brain. I can’t afford to be loopy and exhausted. I need all my wits about me to get Kirby to safety.
And to hopefully figure out why my not-quite-right-dar is insisting there’s something I’m missing in those text messages.
I step into the elevator, pulling up the thread again and scrolling through as I zip toward the ground floor. But aside from sending my blood pressure spiking again, the second read-through accomplishes nothing. I probably just need to give my subconscious a chance to marinate on the problem.
But I don’t have time.
“Come on, brain. Come on.” I read it through again, but still nothing new, and then the doors ding open in the lobby and I’m on the move, darting around the crowd by the check-in desk and out into the noon heat where the car is already waiting to whisk me across town.
Hopefully I’ll be seeing Kirby in twenty-five minutes or less.
The thought should be comforting, but it’s not. Nothing is going to be comforting or right until I know she’s safe.
I get to the Pancake House with time to spare and have just stepped out of the car and watched it drive away when it hits me—the wallpaper.
The fucking wallpaper in the shot the dickwad sent me.
It’s the same as the wallpaper in the hallway outside our suite. He was at the fucking hotel with Kirby and just sent me on a wild goose chase. “Wait! Wait!” I sprint after the departing car, chasing it down the street.
I catch it just before it pulls back onto the strip and call the police as we’re zipping back the way we came. But when I finally get through to whoever’s answering the phones, they refuse to connect me with the officers handling the Kirby Lawrence case.
“I can take a message,” she says, sounding pissed. “But they’re too busy fielding calls from reporters right now to deal with any more drama. Some rock star decided to take justice into his own hands and set off a public relations nightmare down here.”
“No, the nightmare is that you aren’t listening to me,” I snap. “Someone has Kirby somewhere at the Legacy hotel. He just sent me a message. He’s threatening to hurt her. You have to send someone over to—”
“I’ll relay the message as soon as I can, sir. Now I need to free up this line.”
And then she hangs up on me, and my head almost explodes.
“Shit, that’s messed up,” the spiky-haired Asian kid driving the car says, speeding faster. “I’ll get you there, dude. I know a shortcut.”
“The faster, the better, man, thanks,” I say, holding on tight to the oh-shit handle as he puts the pedal to the metal.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kirby
I want to shout—Colin, I’m here! Right here! Down the hall by the ice machine!—but Peter has a gun pressed into my back, and I’m not 100 percent sure that’s he’s bluffing about putting it to use.
I’m mostly sure. Sure enough that I no longer want to wet my pants as he jabs the barrel into my spine and says, “He’s gone. Get moving,” but not sure enough to risk my life.
Or Colin’s.
But seriously, Peter can’t really be going to all this trouble to get custody of a cat. Can he? Even as a person who loves cats with an affection bordering on worship, I can’t imagine myself going to these lengths.
“Can we please talk about this?” I ask, violating the “Keep your mouth shut” order he enforced on the drive back into town. “There’s no reason things have to end like this, Peter.”
“They’re not ending like this,” he says, mocking my voice in a way that hurts. I was vulnerable with this man. I loved him, opened up to him—maybe not as much or in the way that he wanted, but he’s still able to hit me in places where I have my armor up with most people. “We ended a long time ago. This is just how we tie up loose ends. Now move. I want to have plenty of time to get gone before your boyfriend comes back.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I grumble.
“Spare me.”
“He’s not,” I insist. Because he’s not, and because a perverse part of me wants to fight back, even if it’s only verbal resistance.
“Shut up and move.” He jabs the gun into my back hard enough to make my pulse spike.
“Fine, I’m moving.” I step out into the quiet hallway with Peter close behind me, praying that someone will open the door to their room, sense that something not-right is going on, and call security.
Or better yet, the police.
But the floor remains still and silent save for the soft hum of the air conditioning rushing from vents in the ceiling and a rattle from the ice machine behind us. This entire level is composed of suites, which means fewer rooms and fewer guests. I have no idea how much Colin is paying for our suite, but it’s enough that we have to swipe our key against a sensor to get the elevator to stop here, and I haven’t seen another soul in this hallway since we checked in.
We might be the only people renting a suite, for all I know.
Which begs the question—“How did you get a key that stops on this floor, anyway?”
“I’m not hideous, Kirby. Some women actually think I’m attractive and are willing to help a cute guy locked out of his rock star buddy’s room. And what part of shut up don’t you understand? You didn’t use to be this obtuse.”
I roll my eyes. Obtuse. I’m a professional writer and even I don’t throw around words like “obtuse” in casual conversation. Or in high-stress situations.
Like say, in the middle of a kidnapping, for example.
“But you were always a pretentious, pseudo-intellectual,” I mutter, unable to help myself. It’s not a nice thing to say—I get that—but I’m still shocked when Peter fists his hand in my hair and tugs it back, summoning a cry from my sun-cracked lips.
“Shut. The fuck. Up. Kirby,” he growls softly into my ear. “Or you’re going to be sorry.”
I’m already sorry. So, so sorry that I stayed with Peter for so long, even when I knew it wasn’t going to work out. But this time, I wisely keep my mouth shut. I just nod as best I’m able with his fingers tangled in my hair, and thankfully, he sets me free. “To the room. When we get there, I want you to go in and sit on your hands on the couch. Don’t touch the cat. Do you hear me?”
I nod again to show that I’ve heard him but stay quiet, saving my resistance for when it will matter. I have to be more careful.
This isn’t the Peter I knew, the intense, often insecure but thoughtful boyfriend who always let me have the salmon sashimi from a combo plate, while he took the icky tuna, and drove my car to the shop for an oil change when I was too mired in deadlines to commit to an hour at the dealership. This isn’t my partner or my friend.
This is an angry man in the middle of an emotional meltdown, possibly even a psychotic break.
Possibly a psychotic break? What’s possible about it, Kirby? He followed you to Vegas and is holdi
ng a gun on you so he can steal your cat. What’s not psycho about that?
In the wake of my second kidnapping—or my first, if the coffin removal turns out to be an accident and not something Regina planned; so many mysteries to solve, so little time—the inner voice has reverted to sarcasm and general freaking out. None of which is helping me remain calm or figure out a way to escape Peter before he completes his cat-napping.
The only comforting thing about the situation is that Colin is moving away from danger and won’t be caught in the crossfire.
Now, if I can just figure out a way to convince Peter to stop being crazy without getting killed in the process. I know Colin would tell me to let my ex take Murder—assure my own safety first, and then we can track down the guy who stole my baby—but I don’t know if I can do it. I wouldn’t put it past Peter to do something horrible to Murder, just to get revenge, and if my cat ends up paying for my wretched taste in men, I’ll never forgive myself.
Imagining any innocent animal being tortured or killed guts me, but the thought of Murder’s wickedly clever green eyes closing forever because I didn’t fight hard enough to save him is devastating. Devastating enough to ensure that by the time Peter opens the door to the suite, I’m trembling again.
And then Murder races up to me with an excited, “Meow,” and it’s all I can do not to bend down and scoop his precious body into my arms.
But I remember Peter’s directions, so I cross directly to the couch and sit down on my hands. Murder, not a cat to be denied his welcome-home snuggles, follows, but before he can hop up onto the cushion beside me, Peter scoops him up in one big hand, keeping the gun trained on me with the other.
Murder mewls in confusion, but he doesn’t struggle or bite a chunk out of Peter. They were good buddies for a long time. Peter has been the provider of enough treats and catnip-flavored toys that when he lifts Murder to his lips and murmurs, “How’s my big boy?” against his head, the cat begins to purr.
But I don’t blame him. Murder is smart, but he’s still a cat, and cats don’t understand guns. He has no clue that the silver thing Peter is holding in his hand could kill me. If Peter were yelling at me or pulling my hair in front of Murder, however, it would be a different story.
The thought gives me the spark of an idea.
If I can get Peter mad enough to hurt me, but not mad enough to kill me, maybe Murder will get scared and run and hide somewhere Peter can’t reach.
And then I’ll…
I’m not sure what happens after that part of the plan, but it will come to me as soon as Murder is out of imminent danger. I’m quick on my feet, and I’ve written enough suspenseful “get away from the bad guy” scenes to have a few tricks up my sleeve.
The balcony for example…
There’s another balcony right below us. One that sticks out farther than ours to make enough space for the lap pool that runs along the entire edge. If I can get out there and work up the guts to jump before Peter works up the guts to shoot me, there’s a chance I can get away from him before he gets away with Murder.
I chuckle a little hysterically, and Peter shoots me a narrow look, his hazel eyes bloodshot in his sunburned face. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say before deciding this actually might be a way to break the ice and adding, “I was just thinking that you’re going to get away with Murder.” I pause for a response, but Peter’s expression remains flat and irritable, so I gesture toward the cat. “You know, his name is Murder, and you’re getting…” I wave a hand because that’s not going anywhere. “Never mind. Bad joke.”
“Awful,” Peter agrees. “But I’m glad you think ruining a man’s life is funny.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “How did I ruin your life, Peter? You left me, remember?”
“Because I was tired of playing the fool.” He cradles Murder closer, turning to murmur against his neck, “Did you know that, Murder? That your daddy is a fool? But your mommy’s a cheating whore, so… Could be worse.”
My jaw drops. “Peter! What are you talking about? I never cheated on you. Not once. That emotional affair bullshit is—”
“I’m not talking about the emotional affair,” he spits. “I’m talking about you getting it hard from behind while he pulls your fucking hair.”
“What are you…” My eyes go wide, and my stomach sinks as I connect the dots. P. Eater. Pumpkin Eater. Peter the Pumpkin Eater. “You’re the one who rented the drone. You were filming us.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kirby
I recoil against the couch, horrified and feeling more violated than ever. A stranger filming us was bad enough, but knowing it was Peter…
Peter controlling the drone.
Peter watching me and Colin naked and…
“Why?” I ask, throat tight. “Why would you do that?”
“I was trying to get footage of Murder in here alone,” he says, having the grace to look at least a little ashamed of himself. “So I could prove that you’d violated the hotel’s terms of service and convince them to let me take him with me. You’re not supposed to leave an animal unattended, not even for thirty minutes, but I knew you would. I knew you’d care more about going out and partying with that rock star sack of shit than you would about Murder’s well-being. Unfortunately, instead of what I was looking for, I got an eyeful of you fucking the man you swore to me you’d never fucked. Swore to me, Kirby,” he says, his voice rising. “In that innocent, but kind of pissed off voice of yours that made me feel like I was the crazy one. But it was you. All along. Lying like a fucking sociopath.”
“Peter, I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he shouts, making Murder squirm in his arms.
I’m making progress on plan “Mad, but not too mad,” without even trying. Now to kick it up a notch.
“Please,” I say, lifting my hands, fingers spread wide, “just calm down and try to think rationally.” There’s nothing Peter hates more than being told to calm down.
“Fuck you, Kirby,” he says, but not as loudly as before. “You don’t get to punch my buttons anymore. I’m free. And soon, Murder will be, too.”
“But he doesn’t want to be free from me,” I say, trying another tack. “Murder loves me, and he knows that I wasn’t with Colin while you and I were together.”
“Stop,” Peter growls through clenched teeth.
“Yesterday was the first time,” I insist. “What you filmed with the drone. That was the first time we were ever together.”
“It sure looked like it,” he says in a cold, quiet voice that’s scarier than the yelling. “The way you moved together—completely at ease and in sync like you were speaking a language only the two of you would ever understand.” He sighs, his expression turning haunted. I can’t help a stab of empathy, no matter how much I hate him right now.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper gently. “I’m sorry you had to see that, and I’m sorry I didn’t love you the way you needed to be loved. But I swear to you, Peter, that was the first time I ever had sex with Colin. I didn’t lie to you or cheat on you.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says softly, his gaze fixed on the city outside the windows as he absentmindedly strokes Murder’s back.
“It’s still the truth,” I say, inspiration striking. “Ask Bridget! You know there’s nothing I don’t share with her. Call her, ask her about Colin and me. She’ll tell you that we hadn’t even kissed until a couple of days ago.”
“Bridget’s a sweet kid, but she can’t be trusted. She’d lie for you,” he says, lips curving slightly as his eyes slide back to my face. “But maybe I will give her a call, once I’m settled in Mexico, see if she wants to fly down for a visit. Get to know each other better. I always thought she was the better-looking sister.” He motions toward me with the gun, tipping the barrel up and down in a way that makes my pulse stutter. “Nice long legs, prettier face. Or maybe it just looks prettier because she’s a brunette and not so damned pale. And e
very other word out of her mouth isn’t a lie.”
“I’m sure she’ll be into that,” I say flatly, “flying down to spend time with a loser who went so psycho over a perfectly normal breakup that he had to kidnap her sister and steal her cat.”
He straightens his gun arm, leveling the barrel at my chest with a smile so chilling it makes my heart gallop. “Not if she doesn’t know. If I kill you, no one will ever know who took Murder.”
I shake my head, still struggling to wrap my mind around the fact that the guy pointing a gun at me is the same one who used to think I was cute when I woke up fuzzy-headed in the night and ran into the closet door trying to get to the bathroom. The one who was so patient with me when I took six more months to get around to “I love you,” after he’d already said the words a dozen times. The man who told me he’d never let me down the way my parents had.
“They’ll probably think it’s that crazy fan who kept sending those threatening letters to your agent,” he continues, smile widening. “The ones sent from a mental institution in upstate New York. I wasn’t supposed to be able to send letters, but my friend Bruce snuck them out for me. Did you know that I was in the loony bin, Kirby? Did you even stop for a second to wonder where I went when you kicked me out of our house and left me with nothing?”
Face going hot and tears burning the backs of my eyes, I whisper, “It’s my house, Peter. And I didn’t kick you out. I gave you a month to get your stuff together while I stayed with my sister. And you have a job and money of your own, I never—”
“But not the kind of money I would have had if I’d stayed with the firm instead of giving everything up for you.”
“I never asked you to do that,” I say, fighting the urge to start crying. I don’t want him to know how much he’s scaring me, but the longer he holds that gun on me, the more worried I am that he’s actually going to use it. “Please, Peter, I—”
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