Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. What if he’d been involved in an accident? He’d left in a hurry. How would she know unless he called? He hadn’t left a message with anyone at the police station, nor had he contacted Mr. Bricker. What if an accident had incapacitated him? Or worse? Jesus, the thought twisted her belly in knots.
She glanced at Mr. Bricker. The steering wheel actually brushed his big belly when driving out of the parking lot. “Do you think we could travel a little faster?”
He removed his gaze from the road and looked at her over the top of those glasses again, his brows raised clearly in disbelief.
“Sorry. I’m nervous about Brock.” She rubbed her hands together before stuffing them beneath her thighs. “This isn’t like him.” She shifted her eyes to the road. Sitting beside an acquaintance she’d met only once who possessed the disposition of a rattle snake added to the unease. No insult intended to the reptile.
She grabbed the handle and swung the door open when Mr. Bricker parked in a vacant spot in front of her building. “Thank you for the ride home.”
“You’re welcome. Call me when you hear from Mr. Halston.”
The concern in his voice took her back a moment, and she blinked before exiting the vehicle. “I will.” She raced inside the building to the management office to ask for a duplicate key then charged upstairs to her apartment. Winded from the two flights, she stopped to catch her breath before unlocking the door.
She turned the handle and stepped inside, then nearly jumped out of her skin when, from the corner of her eye, she spotted someone sitting at the table. “Jesus Christ,” she gasped. “You scared the shit out of me, Troy.”
“Where have you been?”
“I’m having an exceptionally bad day,” she said, removing her purse from a dining room chair and retrieving her cell phone. “So, I hope you’re not here just to question me.”
“I called you three times today. Why haven’t you called me back?”
She held up the phone. “I didn’t have my phone with me. What did you want?”
“Just wanted to chat. I haven’t talked to you in a while.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down, flipping the phone open to browse the missed calls. Three from Troy, none from Brock, plus a missed text.
She immediately dialed Brock’s number, but after four rings, the call went to voicemail. “I’m home. Call me,” she said, and hung up the phone. Damn it, where was he?
She hit the button to read the anonymous message, but an attachment began downloading. Her eyes bulged as a picture of Brock auto-focused on her screen. Oh God. Oh God. No! It couldn’t be. Not him. Not him too.
He lay spread-eagle on his bed, arms and ankles tied to the posts. A pillow beneath his head was covered with blood, as was his shirt. His eyes were closed. He looked… Jesus! She threw a hand over her mouth and raced to the sink to throw up.
“What is it, sis? What’s the matter?”
Unable to speak, she shook her head.
He pried the phone from her clenched fingers. “Wow, is that him?”
Bile crept up the back of her throat. She spit it into the sink, and coughed. “Yes,” she wailed. She grabbed the dishtowel off the counter and wiped her mouth. “I need your car. Brock has my keys.”
“I’ll take you.”
“No. Just give me your keys.”
“You’re not in any condition to drive. Let’s go.” He grabbed her by the upper arm, barely giving her time to take back her cell phone and gather her purse. He dragged her from the apartment to his car.
Fighting tears, she climbed into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door. Before Troy situated himself behind the wheel, she called Detective Gowen. Her call was directed to his voicemail, but she couldn’t leave a message because his mailbox was full. She hung up and forwarded the picture to him along with a text. “Brock’s at home. Hurt. Please help.”
“Troy, I need to dispatch an ambulance. Who do I call?”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “I guess the local police.”
“I don’t know the number.” Nearly panicking, she depressed the number to operator assistance. “I need the phone number for LaVernia, um, Texas—”
“Give me the phone, sis,” Toy ordered, grabbing it from her hand. “I’ll do it.”
“Hi,” he said into the receiver. “Can you connect me to the police department?”
Jesus! Brock looked… She couldn’t even think the word for fear of falling apart. And she needed to be strong. For his sake. Her right leg shook uncontrollably. She balled her hands into fists, digging half-moons into her palms, and stared into her lap.
Dear God, please let him be okay. I swear, I’ll never ask you for anything else for as long as I live. I promise.
“Sis?”
Please! Please let him be okay. How could she possibly live without him? She’d fallen hard and fast, but it was well worth the ride. If she had to bargain for his life, she would. Even if it meant spending the rest of her life behind bars.
“Tiffany!”
Her head snapped upward. “What?”
“Damn it, are you deaf?” Troy asked, stuffing the phone inside his breast pocket. ”It’s taken care of. Calm down.”
Thank heaven for her brother. If he wasn’t present, what would she have done?
Which meant…
And thank you, Jesus!
He hadn’t hurt those people.
Brock had become a victim, yet Troy sat directly beside her. She knew it! Deep in her heart, she knew he wasn’t capable of murder. This was the brother she loved. The brother who was there when she needed help. And she needed him more than ever right now. “I’m in trouble,” she blurted.
“What’d you do, Tiffany?”
“That’s just it. Nothing.” She took a deep breath. “But I was arrested on murder charges this morning, and I spent the day in jail.”
He glanced out the driver’s window then back at the road, white-knuckling the wheel. “You spent today in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That’s…wow.” The color drained from his face.
How bizarre that he hadn’t asked about the specific charges. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“How about, gee, sis, who’d you kill, and why? Or something to acknowledge the murders.”
“You previously told me about your neighbor.”
She looked outside just as they exited the highway.
And her stomach plummeted.
How did he know the route to Brock’s without asking directions? How could he have dispatched an ambulance to the correct address? Why didn’t she listen specifically to his words when he placed the call?
“Troy, how do you know the way to Brock’s house?”
After a long pause, he looked at her. “I guess I’ve been there before.”
Been there before? How was that possible? Why would he even do that? Had he followed her? Had he been hiding in the bushes when she’d experiences those uneasy feelings? He had no business spying on her, or prying into her personal life. “For what?”
“For what?” He tilted his head and glared. “Come on, Tiffany, what do you think? Take another look at the picture on your phone.”
He didn’t! How? Why? He couldn’t overpower Brock unless…oh God…all the blood. She gulped.
And latched onto the door handle.
“Go ahead, jump out. Do you think you can get to him before I do? You’ll be on foot. No phone. No houses around for miles to run to for help.”
Oh shit. This was bad. Really bad. She was trapped. Brock was trapped. And if she jumped from the car now, there was no telling what Troy would do. She retracted her hand and stared at the floorboard, her heart beating like a drum. A million thoughts pummeled her brain as she’d tried grasping the reasons why he’d do this. “Is he okay?”
“He’s not dead yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Fear needled h
er spine.
“Karma is a bitch,” he said, glancing at her quickly. Daggers shot from his eyes. “Do you know the hell Mom went through in prison? No, of course you wouldn’t know,” he seethed, his voice growing louder. “Because you’re too fucking good to talk to her. Let me tell you how often she was beat up and raped by the female inmates. They don’t have dicks, Tiffany, so figure it out.”
“Stop the car!”
“If you want out, jump.”
Damn him. Damn him. God damn him. If Brock’s life wasn’t on the line, she would’ve jumped. Why hadn’t she listened to him when he’d tried convincing her of Troy’s involvement in the murders? He was right. Damn it, he was right. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it? Poor little Tiffany, who was locked in a cellar. Get over it.”
“Fuck you.”
He smirked. “It’s you, big sister, who’s pretty much fucked. One day you’ll realize what a horrible mistake you made sending Mom to jail. And I’m thinking it’s going to be sooner than later.”
“People who abuse children should go to jail.”
“Hell, I didn’t realize the cops already had enough evidence to arrest you. Damn.” He glanced at her and smiled. “When you go to trial, the evidence won’t be circumstantial. It’ll be cold, hard fact.”
Her stomach lurched. If she strangled the heartless bastard, it would officiate the murder charges. “Go to hell.”
“You have no idea what hell is.”
Yes, she did. She was sitting beside the devil.
She fisted her hands, digging nails into her palms. She had no doubt he’d try to restrain her when they got out of the car. Her gaze darted across the floor. She needed some type of a weapon.
She glared outside, mentally scrambling through the contents of her purse. She could gouge his eyes with keys. She had no keys. What about manicure scissors? Or nail clippers? Or pointed tweezers? Or a nail file? Or, fuck, anything sharp?
The last time she’d dumped her purse, she’d found empty dental floss containers, makeup, and gasoline receipts. What the hell could she do with those?
When they pulled into the driveway, she jumped from the car before it completely stopped. She glanced quickly around the yard to find a heavy object—but found nothing.
If she ran to the farmer’s house for help, Troy might run inside and kill Brock rather than run after her. Was he even alive? He could be bleeding to death, or have bled to death by now.
If she ran to the barn…what the hell would she do in there? If she didn’t do something fast…shit, Troy would be in control of her. And that would worsen the situation.
Just as he climbed out of the vehicle, an adrenalin rush shot to her core. She dashed to the porch and ran up the steps. His footsteps pounded the sidewalk behind her. By the time she threw open the screen door and charged into the house, he was close at her back.
She was out of breath, and her heartbeat thundered in panic, but she lunged to the counter and grabbed the heaviest object she could find…the leaded crystal vase. Brock, please forgive me.
The second Troy barged into the house she bashed the bottom of it into the side of his skull. He fell into the table then onto a chair, knocking it over, before he dropped to the floor.
It didn’t break. Thank you, God. “Brock?” she yelled, setting the vase on the table before she yanked all of the cabinet drawers open, searching for a knife. When she’d finally found them, she grabbed the biggest one and ran to his bedroom.
“Brock,” she yelled again. Listening to her voice break the wicked silence wasn’t as alarming as hearing nothing at all.
As she approached his bedroom door, she glanced over her shoulder, looking for Troy. She’d hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious, but who knew for how long. It could be minutes, or hours.
Fear pumped through her veins and her heartbeat brutalized her chest as she took a deep breath and stepped into the room. To protect her back, she halted directly in front of a wall. The knife shook in her trembling hand. She prayed she would not have to use it. Then she looked at the bed. And her heart stopped.
Brock lay as if asleep, still bound, the blood on the pillow now dried. A gag was placed in his mouth. “Brock?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”
His unresponsiveness brought tears to her eyes, and she sprinted to the bedside. She knelt on the floor and gently placed a finger on his neck. Although he was pale, he had a pulse, and his skin felt warm. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.” She laid the knife beside her knee, patted her lips against his forehead then removed the gag. His lids opened slowly. He gazed at her with so much admiration, her heart flipped. Then his gaze shot upward, above her head, his eyes widening.
“Tiff,” he shouted.
Reacting quickly, she dropped to the floor and rolled, purposely landing on her back. Troy towered above her, a foot planted on both sides of her ankles. Tiffany’s gaze settled on the black sneakers, then inched higher to denim covered legs, scaling yet higher to a dark blue tee-shirt. A pistol came into view, gripped by fingers smeared with blood. She gasped and held her breath.
Was it loaded?
And cocked, ready to fire?
Did he know how to use it?
She trembled while conjuring ways to escape, but staring into the silver barrel stole all rational thought. Undeniably, she could not outrun a bullet.
When she released the air from her lungs, the breaths came loud and shaky, and she inhaled deeply, gathering courage to gaze into Troy’s feral eyes. If she didn’t, he’d never be haunted by her last dying look.
With her heart racing wildly, she glanced higher, anticipating the contortion of his rage-plagued features. But he was smiling, as if enjoying putting her through this hell. A hand covered a bloody wound on the side of his head.
Her stomach vaulted. The gun shook as if he didn’t know whether to shoot her or beat her with it. She couldn’t image his next step, but she would not underestimate the man. But neither would she lie there as if she were his puppet.
Vulnerable and disadvantaged, she slowly sat up, eyes glued on the gun. “If you shoot me, you’d better make sure I’m dead.” It wasn’t the wisest thing to say, and it carried undertones of a threat, but she loathed the idea of her fear empowering him. He’d played on that long enough.
“I’m not going to kill you, sis,” he said, his voice tight and controlled. He then squatted down and grabbed a handful of her hair. He yanked her head back hard, and wouldn’t stop pulling until she screeched in pain.
Brock tugged at his restraints. The bedposts creaked as the headboard banged the wall. “Leave her alone, you son of a bitch. Untie me. We’ll handle this man to man.”
Troy’s lids narrowed, his lips becoming a thin line smashed against his teeth. “I think you fucked up, Tiffany.”
She grabbed the hand clutched tightly against her scalp, praying the tugging and pulling would stop. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you—” He forced her to her feet by the hair and shoved her down on the bed at Brock’s waist. “To kill him.” The gun clicked and he held the barrel to her head.
Brock yelled, “Put the safety back on.”
Troy shook his head slightly while he bent down and picked up the knife. As he stood, he slapped the handle against her palm. She dropped it onto the bed.
Did she hear the screen door creak? She glanced over her shoulder, but in that second, Troy yelled, “Pick it up.”
She jumped when he crammed the cool tip of the gun against her scalp. “Now!”
She felt the color drain from her face as a cold chill raced up her spine. She would never hurt Brock. Ever. She’d rather take the bullet. Tears blurred her vision. “You’ll have to kill me.”
Troy cracked the gun into the side of her head.
“You motherfucker,” Brock shouted. The bed shook as he fought against the ropes. “You’re a dead man.”
Debilitating pain accompanied the r
inging in Tiffany’s ears, and her eyesight faded to gray. She had to stay awake. To…protect…him. She…needed…the…knife.
She swayed side to side, fighting to keep her eyes open, but instead, she toppled onto Brock’s chest. Warm skin slapped her cheek, and his thundering heartbeat surpassed the high-pitched ring, keeping her conscious. Just when she’d start the descent into darkness, the thumping heart gave her a jolt.
“You’re the dead man,” Troy bellowed. “You’ll be the fourth murder on her hands. That should be enough to lock her up for life.”
“I knew it was you, you son of a bitch. How could you set up your own sister?”
“Hey, shut your face. This is a family matter.”
Tiffany moaned and tried sitting up, but the room spun and she dropped back down.
“Get up, sis,” Troy demanded, yanking her upright by the arm. Her head drooped forward and she teetered, but he prevented her from falling. “You can’t die. You’ll ruin everything, and you’ve got one more murder to commit.”
She blinked until she could keep her eyes open. She tried focusing on the surroundings. The haze started to clear and she vaguely saw Brock’s outline on the bed.
“Why don’t you kill me and plant evidence like you did with the other three?” Brock asked, his tone unnerving.
“Her killing you will be the ultimate revenge. For the rest of her life, she’ll regret having sent my mom to prison.”
“From what I hear, she belonged there.”
The haze clouding Tiffany’s vision cleared simultaneously with the ringing in her ears. “Give me…the knife, Troy,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
When he placed it in her open palm, she gazed into Brock’s eyes and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
“Tiff,” he whispered, shaking his head subtly, as if knowing her next move. Desperation oozed from his fear-laden eyes, clearly discouraging her from taking action.
“What are you waiting for?” Troy yelled. “Kill him.”
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