Her knees buckled. He seized her arm. “Stand up—”
“Dizzy . . .” she gasped. He couldn’t hold her upright with one hand while her body was jelly; he released her. She landed on her knees. Hunched low, she instantly spun toward him, fists interlocked, arms swinging to strike him in the knees, knock him over—
Her arms struck nothing. Her momentum threw her to the carpet; she landed hard on her back, legs flailing, spine twisting, hands still gripping each other. Before she could unsnarl herself, Skyler landed crosswise on her, crushing her stomach and ribs, knocking her remaining breath away.
Writhing, she tried to inhale. Skyler dug one elbow into her ribs, his face toward her feet. She grabbed his arm, fighting to pull that skewering elbow away. Pain poked the front of her thigh, followed by a stinging sensation.
An injection.
“Yup.” He leaped to his feet. “I figured that was where you’d balk. I should have been a psychologist, right?”
Gasping for air, she blinked at Skyler, who was standing far enough away that she couldn’t hit or kick him. He stuck the cap back on the syringe in his hand and slid it into an inside jacket pocket. He no longer held the gun.
“Want some help putting your luggage in your car?” he asked. “Maybe France is out, but we’ll go stargazing at the lake. I hear you and Camille had a favorite spot there. Good place for you to go while you’re crazy with guilt over killing her.”
Chapter 30
“What’s your problem?” Andrea glared at Gideon with bloodshot eyes. “I come here seeking help for Natalie and you turn on me and start lying to the police. What did Natalie tell you to make you believe I’m the bad guy?”
“What kind of help were you looking for, Mrs. Collier?” Turner asked.
“Treatment,” Andrea said. “I want to get Natalie into an in-patient program. That’s the only thing that will help her. But she won’t agree, and I know she’s friends with Gideon, so I came to ask him to help me persuade her. Apparently, he’d rather help her destroy herself.”
Gideon battled a turbulent surge of anger. If he started yelling at Andrea, she’d stand there sorrowful and innocent, drawing sympathy from Turner and Bartholomew. “You’d rather let your sister die than tell the truth?”
“I’m trying to save her life. You’re the one enabling her.” She gestured at the cash on the coffee table. “I’m always offering to help Natalie financially, but she’ll never accept money from me. I thought if I gave this to Gideon, he could use it to wine and dine her, get her to trust him so he could coax her into treatment. The money would also pay for the initial costs of treatment.”
“If that were true, why would you bring cash?” Gideon asked. “If you had legitimate motives, you would have written me a check.”
“What?” Andrea was so obviously offended that Gideon couldn’t help feeling he’d genuinely insulted her. “You’re the one who told me to bring cash. I offered to write you a check, and you said cash.”
Gideon glanced at Turner and Bartholomew. Both men were observing the argument with unreadable expressions on their faces. Adults watching two children bickering, waiting to see if they could work it out on their own.
“I didn’t tell her to bring cash,” Gideon said. “I didn’t tell her to bring anything. I didn’t know she was coming tonight.”
“Oh, really,” Andrea said. “Just because that park was busy doesn’t mean no one noticed us. There must be witnesses.”
“What park?” Gideon knew he was an idiot to get sucked into an argument with a liar, but he was so worried for Natalie that he was having trouble handling this logically.
“We ran into each other at Kemper Park a few weeks ago,” Andrea said to the detectives. “I’d come to town to see Natalie, but she wouldn’t talk to me. I was walking in the park, trying to figure out what to do, and Gideon saw me and approached because of my resemblance to Natalie. We started chatting. That’s how this all started.”
“Not true,” Gideon said. “I met Andrea for the first time last week. At Natalie’s.”
“Natalie can’t hear you, Gideon. You might as well tell the truth. When we talked at the park, you agreed she needed help but said you didn’t have the money to do anything for her.”
Gideon wanted to protest, but this back-and-forth was useless. He bolted his mouth shut and waited for one of the detectives to speak.
Tense silence compressed the room—or at least it was tense for Gideon, and from the anxiety in Andrea’s face, it was tense for her.
“This is a waste of my time,” Andrea said. “I should have known you’re the type of worthless friend Natalie would dredge up.” She grabbed the envelope and pile of cash from the coffee table. “Since obviously the deal is off, I’ll take my money back.”
“Mrs. Collier,” Turner said. “I’d like to speak with you.” He glanced at Gideon. “In another location, of course.”
They don’t believe her, Gideon thought, relieved.
“No, thank you,” Andrea said. “I’m done talking with the police. If you have more ridiculous questions, send them through my attorney.”
She walked past Turner and Bartholomew, heading for the door. Gideon expected one of them to stop her, but neither moved as she exited.
“Hey!” Gideon started after her.
Bartholomew snagged his arm as he passed. “I don’t recommend pursuit. I doubt there’s anything legal you can do that would persuade her to talk to us.”
Gideon wanted to shout that at this point, he was willing to do something illegal, but that was an idiotic thing to say in front of police officers. “Fine.” He shook his arm free. “You believe her nonsense?”
Turner closed the door. “The investigation is ongoing.”
“Listen. This is exactly what happened tonight, straight truth.” As quickly as he could, Gideon described Andrea’s warnings, her agitation, and her demand that Gideon take Natalie out of town. “Even if you’re still sorting everything out, how can you let her walk away? She knows things—maybe who murdered Camille.”
“Unless she’s under arrest, we can’t detain her,” Bartholomew said.
“You detained me.”
“Would you rather be dealing with an assault charge?” Bartholomew asked. “That’s what would happen if you so much as touched her.”
“I wasn’t going to tackle her.”
“What were your plans for confronting her?”
Gideon stood brainless and wordless. His plans. What plans?
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Bartholomew said. “We have enough paperwork without arresting you. Stay away from her.”
He wanted to ask if they believed his word over Andrea’s but knew he’d get another “The investigation is ongoing.”
“I’m calling Natalie,” he said. “She needs to know about Andrea’s visit.”
“We’ll be speaking to Dr. Marsh as well and keeping an eye on her,” Turner said. “Please don’t assume that because arrests haven’t been made, we’re spinning our wheels.”
Gideon nodded, still infuriated that Andrea had marched away with critical information inside her and there was nothing the police could do to force her to surrender it.
“We’ll be in touch,” Turner said. “If anything else happens, call, no matter the time.”
“We don’t believe in sleep,” Bartholomew added.
“Thanks,” Gideon said grimly. As soon as he closed the door behind the detectives, he grabbed his phone and called Natalie, not caring that it was nearly midnight. He couldn’t spirit her away to Hawaii, but maybe he could convince her to stay with friends or in a hotel. She couldn’t stay alone in her house any longer.
The call went to voice mail. He tried twice more. No response. He wrestled against panic, reminding himself that Andrea had thought there was time to get her out of town so the threat wasn’t immediate. Her phone was probably off. She was asleep.
He called again.
* * *
Still short of breath, Na
talie staggered to her feet. She was hyperconscious of the burning in her thigh but was no longer afraid of the gun. He wasn’t going to shoot her. He’d set the stage; he wouldn’t wipe out his work with a noisy, messy bullet.
“They’ll see the needle mark,” she said. “They’ll know I didn’t drug myself.”
“Yeah, they’ll see it,” he said. “But once you’re a little calmer, we’ll get your fingerprints where they belong on the syringe. And we’ll try a few unsuccessful stabs at a vein.” He tapped the crook of his elbow. “It’ll look like you were going for the turbo IV effect, weren’t experienced enough with a needle, and got impatient and jabbed yourself in the thigh. We’ll leave a few of the spilled pills on the floor.” He picked up the drinking glass from the vanity, held it high, and dropped it into the sink. It shattered, shards scattering across the vanity and bouncing to the floor. “You were freaking out, doing anything you could to numb your guilt.”
She backed away from him. How long before the drug’s effects hit her? “This isn’t going to work.”
He shrugged. “If it doesn’t, that’s not your problem.”
He was several feet away, not standing between her and the door. She lunged out the door and flew down the stairs, hearing his tread behind her, wanting to scream but lacking air. He caught up fast. His fingers brushed her upper arm, but when he tried to seize her, he missed. She wasn’t going to make it outside or to the kitchen for a knife or even another ten feet before he could grab her. She plunged through the nearest doorway—the downstairs bathroom—slammed the door and jabbed the lock button.
He grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. She pressed her body against the door, expecting the wood to rattle as he pounded it, but the only noise was her own panting for air.
“Nat.” He spoke from the hallway. “You realize this is a lock a five-year-old could spring. And you have no outside window.”
She didn’t answer. Yes, she’d cornered herself, but it was that or get tackled in the hallway. At least this gave her a few seconds to figure out a way to . . .
A way to extract the drug her hammering heart was spreading through her body at top speed? A way to defend herself with a hand towel, toilet paper, and a soap pump? Maybe she could fling the basket of her mother’s carved-soap flowers in his face and hope a carnation knocked him cold? There were no weapons in here, no way to shout loud enough for neighbors to hear her, no way to stop him from . . .
Stargazing. Stargazing with Camille. He was taking her to the pier at Lake Ohneka, to Beau Lac. Pitch-dark, deserted at this time of night, isolated by trees. He’d kill her there and toss her body into the lake. Unless Andrea spoke up, the police would never suspect him. Why would they think he’d had anything to do with her death or Camille’s? Whatever way Andrea had paid Skyler’s blackmail, Natalie was certain it wasn’t easily traceable like her bribe to Dante. Skyler wouldn’t have let her create flagrant evidence.
Trying to camouflage any noise she was making, she turned the sink faucet on high. She removed one of her silver stud earrings and snatched a carved-soap lily out of the basket. With the post of the earring, she scratched words into the soap petals. Skyler Hudson killed Camille and Dante. She grabbed a rose and scratched more words. He blackmailed Andrea over the will. He killed me at Beau Lac Pier. She set the rose and lily in the bathtub and grabbed another rose.
The door handle jiggled and metal scraped metal. Skyler had found something to use to spring the lock.
“This is trickier than I thought,” he said through the door. “Be patient. I’ll rescue you soon.”
She didn’t have time to write more information. She threw her earring in the trash and grabbed the basket holding the rest of the soaps. When the lock clicked again, she screamed as though the noise had startled her and dumped the basket into the tub with the message flowers a little separate from the rest. She hoped he’d think she’d panicked and knocked the basket over. He wouldn’t know it usually sat on the wall shelf across the room, not on the side of the tub.
She unscrewed the top of the soap pump, held it under the stream of water, shook it, and dumped soapy water on the floor. As the door opened, she jumped behind it.
“Ohhhkay,” Skyler said. “So I’m supposed to slip during our bathroom chase scene?” He turned off the tap. “If you’re waiting behind the door to club me with a toilet plunger, I can always stand in the hall for a few minutes until you’re too woozy to aim straight. You’ll be feeling it soon, if you aren’t already.”
With the hand not holding the soap pump, Natalie gripped her thigh as though she could seal the veins, trapping a drug that had already spread. The towel ring jiggled—was he taking the towel to mop the floor? She couldn’t give him too much time to straighten up, to wonder if she’d deliberately dumped the basket into the tub, to notice the messages.
“Can we make a deal?” she asked. “There must be a plan E that can work for both of us.”
“Could be,” he said. “Come out from behind the door, keep your hands up, and we can talk. If you have something of value to offer, maybe we can negotiate.”
She was starting to feel heavy. Tired. Still scared but not as keenly frightened, as though the danger had lessened. Stay focused. Stay focused.
“I’m going to pull the door away from you,” he said. “If you want to attack, you have one last chance. Go for it.”
He yanked the door back. Natalie dropped the useless plastic soap pump and lunged at him. The motion turned her brain to swirling stars and her limbs to noodles. She skidded on the soap puddle and flailed, colliding with Skyler more than hitting him. He caught her, keeping her from crumpling.
“Okay, not bad; good try.” He dragged her into the hallway and laid her on her back.
She pressed her palms against the carpet, pushing herself to a sitting position.
“Hey, no, the fight’s over.” He caught her wrists and pulled her bracing hands away from the floor. She flopped backward.
He pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt up, crossed her wrists, and wound something soft around them, multiple layers of white. A gauze bandage. “Nice and cushioned,” he said. “Don’t want to leave marks, right?”
She tried to tug her hands out of his grasp.
“Relax. This won’t hurt.” He wrapped something else around her wrists and pulled it snug. A zip tie. “Now’s the easy part, where you get to rest.”
“I . . . won’t . . . rest . . .”
“I guess I can’t stop you from haunting me.” He bound her ankles together. “But you’ll be a friendly ghost, right? You’re a nice person. Gotta admit, I’m a little scared of Camille.”
“You . . . monster . . .”
“Since you made a wreck of the bathroom, let’s use that as your drug den.” He entered the bathroom and returned carrying a towel.
“You’re right-handed, correct?” He sat next to her on the hallway floor. “Yep, right-handed. I’m thinking of you making notes in meetings.” He pushed the left sleeve of her sweatshirt up past her elbow and removed the empty syringe from his pocket.
With his gloved fingers, he pressed the fingers of her right hand around the barrel and her thumb on the plunger. Shouldn’t she be thrashing around, making this difficult for him? Yes . . . but Skyler wasn’t scary. He was a friend, and it was a relief lying down, resting. The carpet was thick. She liked the plushy carpet in this house. Stay focused. Fight him. He’s going to kill you.
She moaned and strained to roll away, awkwardly kicking her legs. They didn’t move correctly; what should have been self-defense ended up a feeble fish-flop.
“Easy does it.” He repositioned her so she again lay on her back. “Almost done here. Why don’t you sleep? Close your eyes; take a nap.”
“Don’t . . . Skyler . . . don’t kill me . . .”
“Don’t worry about that. Just rest.” He gripped her bare arm, twisting it against the zip tie so the inner surface was accessible. A sting. A second sting. A third sting, more painful. Sh
e winced. Warm liquid tickled her skin. Blood.
“Done.” He wiped her arm with the towel, then wrapped the towel around her elbow and left it there. He tossed the syringe through the bathroom door. “You take it easy while I get your stuff in the car.”
He walked away. She was alone. She could escape. Could escape . . . How? . . . Roll over . . . hands and knees . . . Crawl . . . No . . . that wasn’t working; her legs wouldn’t move. Army crawl. She dropped her body to the ground and inched forward on her elbows. Where was she going? The door. The front door. She could open it . . . scream . . .
Jeans and athletic shoes and her suitcase moved past her eyes. Dimly, she heard a door open. The door to the garage. He was putting her suitcase in her car.
The keys. She had to get her cars keys, hide them. They were in the entryway, on the table. She scooted forward another inch. If she hid the keys, she’d slow him down, disrupt his scheme. Skyler’s scheme. He was a nice guy. She pillowed her cheek on the carpet, wondering why she’d never napped in the hall when it was softer than her mattress.
Move! Get the keys.
“All right, let’s see how you’re doing.” Skyler was kneeling next to her, unwinding the towel from her arm. She was lying on her back again. When had that happened? “Yikes, sorry about that. That’s a prize-winning bruise and more blood than I wanted, but we were aiming for amateur attempt, right?” He pulled her sleeve down. Blood trickled beneath the fabric.
He dropped the bloodied towel so it lay across the threshold from the hallway to the bathroom. “Time to go.” He worked his arms beneath her and picked her up. “We’ll leave the lights on. Adds to the effect.” He carried her toward the garage. “You doing okay?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Hope that needle didn’t hurt too much.”
“It’s fine.” Blearily, she tried to remember why she was scared of Skyler.
He set her in the passenger seat of her car. “I’ll drive, okay?” he said. “You rest.” He pulled her seat belt across her body and clicked it into place. From the backseat, he picked up her long winter coat and draped it over her like a blanket. Why was her winter coat in the car?
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