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“But why James? And trying to kill me and Greer? That’s crazy.”
“You…too close…Greer… Didn’t…kill…James.”
Dalton frowned. “What do you mean you didn’t kill him? Wait, if you were just supposed to cause an accident for Moore, then who gave him the drugs? Who killed James?”
The rescue squad reached the car and came around. Jack made a gurgling sound. The men pulled Dalton back, but they were too late. Jack was gone.
Who the hell was his partner?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
To ward off the stiffness growing in her limbs, Greer tried to stretch her legs and arms again. It was hard to tell for sure, but she thought she’d been tied up in this closet for at least an hour. Lyle had to be taking a big chance by leaving her there, but for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a way to get help. She had tried yelling and flailing around, but neither worked and now her body just hurt more.
It still galled her that she hadn’t connected Lyle to this mess sooner. Would’ve been nice to do it before she came face to face with the killer. She let out a breath and tried to stay calm. The adrenaline was wearing off, and she was really starting to hurt. Her neck where he’d put her in a headlock was damn sore. The rest of her was going numb, except her ribs which still hurt from the other day. That pain continued to scream through her. She closed her eyes. There had to be a way out of this.
Suddenly, the door opened. She yelled into the cloth and flailed around as best she could. The door closed again, and then the room lit up. She blinked against the harsh light. Lyle was standing over her. Bastard.
“You are a rather large problem,” he mumbled as he squatted next to her. “Good thing I am a great problem solver.”
She yelled into the rag, but it was still so muffled.
Lyle was wearing a sweater, jeans, and loafers. His skin looked sallow in the overhead light. Being this close revealed the roots of his hair beginning to show white. It was mussed, and he ran a hand over it to smooth it out. She’d been right. He was older than he looked. She’d also gotten him good with one of her nails. A thin jagged scratch marred his cheekbone. A small victory, but it buoyed her spirits.
“Yes, you cut me but don’t get too excited,” he said as he pulled a small bottle of water out of a large bag he had beside her on the floor. It was a racing gear bag. It was the same size and shape as a hockey bag with wheels on one end. No. No. No. She shook her head. She was not going in that bag.
Lyle had other ideas. He sat down and took the cap off the water. “Now I’m going to take the rag out of your mouth, and you’re going to drink this. If you don’t, I will stab you.” He pulled a long blade out of his pocket and held it to her throat. “It’s not ideal, but don’t think I won’t do it.”
She stared at him. He wasn’t joking. He would kill her right there if she didn’t drink the drugged water. The question was, which scenario was worse? Drinking the drugged water and being taken somewhere else? Or having Lyle kill her there and then probably move her body somewhere else? Neither option was appealing. But being alive was better than being dead, she reasoned.
“I’m going to take the gag out. Make a sound, and I will kill you.” He pulled her into a sitting position and removed the gag.
She wanted to yell, to scream at the top of her lungs, but chances were good no one would hear her anyway. The hotel was filled with racing people, who were likely all at the track, and if she made noise then Lyle would kill her.
He held the water to her lips. She drank a little bit but then turned her mouth away. It was horribly bitter and gritty. Some water spilled down the front of her and onto the floor.
“I told you I would kill you. I’m not joking.” He leaned forward and pressed the knife to her neck, drawing blood. She could feel the droplet running down her collarbone.
“I’m going to be sick. I’ll drink it, but I have to do it in bits. The rag. The smell. It makes me want to throw up.”
Lyle glared at her. He held the bottle up again and forced her to take a large gulp.
She sputtered and he had to pull the bottle back. “This would be easier if you let me hold the bottle,” she said.
“If you try anything, I’ll hurt you,” he said pushing the knife into her neck enough to draw a bit of blood. She could feel the drop run down her neck. She nodded to confirm she understood. Then he untied the rag around her wrists and yanked her arm around in front of her. “Give me the other one,” he demanded.
She wanted to refuse but he would hurt her. There was no mistaking the glint in his eye. She gave him her wrist and he re-tied them in front of her.
He put the bottle in her hands. “Drink,” he snarled.
She raised the bottle to her lips and took a few swallows. It was awful and she was having a hard time keeping the liquid down. “Why?” she croaked.
He laughed at her. “What, am I supposed to confess my sins now?”
Greer bit her lip. Maybe if she could keep him talking, it would buy her some time, but to do what, she had no idea.
She tried again. “You needed the money. Wouldn’t Moore just give it to you? You were all good friends.”
“That bastard. He didn’t understand the meaning of friendship. I asked him for help, and he laughed at me.” Lyle’s nostrils flared. “Drink,” he commanded.
