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Francesca couldn’t allow Paris to cuff her hands. If she did, she’d have no chance of defending herself. But she was headfirst in the backseat of a car, on her stomach. She had nothing to fight with, not even her fists.
A second later, she heard the sickening catch of the cuffs snapping into place. Then Paris dragged her out of the car and, threatening her with the Taser, told her to walk toward her BMW. And when Paris paused to get the bat out of the backseat, Francesca knew what was coming.
“You don’t feel bad?” she asked as she stumbled across the uneven ground. “About all the women you’ve killed?”
“Why should I feel bad?” Paris held her by her handcuffs. “They tried to hurt me first.”
“Butch is just as much to blame. April didn’t even know he was married. He lied to her, lied until he could get what he wanted.”
“Shut up! That’s not true.”
“You’re going to prison,” Francesca muttered. “And this is only going to make it worse.”
Pain shot up Francesca’s arms as Paris yanked on her cuffs. “We’ll see about that.”
Paris was so used to being overlooked, to not being viewed as a suspect at all, she didn’t even seem scared. She really thought she could pull it off. And Francesca was worried that might be true. She and Jonah had been too busy suspecting Butch or Dean to consider Paris. They’d been looking for a rapist, which made her wonder what she had coming along those lines, too…
They’d nearly reached the BMW when Francesca heard a car down the road. Hope flickered briefly inside her but didn’t last. Paris swung her around to hide the cuffs, and the Toyota Avalon drove right past.
That didn’t really surprise Francesca. Although the driver had glanced over at them, there was no reason to suspect serious problems. With two cars on the side of the road, one of them as new as her BMW, it would be natural to assume the person with the flat was already receiving the help she needed.
After the Toyota was gone, Paris opened the door to the backseat of the BMW, shoved Francesca in and jogged around to get behind the wheel.
Francesca couldn’t tell where Paris was taking her, but she knew her chances of survival diminished with each passing second. Paris would need privacy in order to kill her, so they were probably heading to a motel room or some other place she felt safe. She’d obviously picked this location because it was remote. Maybe they weren’t going anywhere—except farther into the desert.
After checking in both directions to make sure she wouldn’t be seen, Paris eased around the Impala, then abruptly turned off the road, as Francesca had expected. Cactus needles scratched the sides of the car as they bounced along. They wouldn’t get far driving on such rough terrain with low-profile radials, but they didn’t need to go far. Only a mile or two, just out of sight of the road. That was where her life would end.
Desperate to jump out while she might still be able to flag down another driver, Francesca twisted around so she could reach the door latch with her cuffed hands.
Paris cursed when she realized what Francesca was doing and fumbled in the front seat, no doubt searching for her Taser.
Francesca didn’t give her the opportunity. Maybe the fall would kill her, but it would be better than being raped and beaten to death by a woman with a bat. Either way, jumping was her only chance.
Somehow she managed to release the latch and push the door open with her feet. Then she closed her eyes and flung herself out.
Paris had slammed on the brakes, but the jolt of hitting the ground still knocked the wind out of Francesca. She could taste tequila at the back of her throat, could smell car exhaust and dust. It felt as if the sun-baked earth would swallow her whole, suffocate her. Was she really handcuffed and lying in the desert in the middle of a scorching afternoon? Or was this some kind of nightmare?
Dimly she heard Paris turn the car around, knew she was racing toward her in the Beemer and understood that it wasn’t a nightmare. It was as real as real could get; Paris didn’t plan on stopping.
Get up! Now! Francesca’s mind screamed and, somehow, she got to her feet and began to run. All she could think about was putting a barrier between her and the BMW.
With mostly flat terrain and no large rocks anywhere close, the Impala seemed to be her only option. At this point, it was barely six feet away, but she didn’t believe she’d reach it.
She thought of Jonah and regretted that she hadn’t really forgiven him as she’d promised. Holding a grudge suddenly seemed so contrary to her own happiness, so pointless. What good was it? No good, because it kept them apart. She wished she could tell him she was finally ready to start over and make it work, to forgive Adriana, as well. But it was too late. The BMW was bearing down on her. At most, she had a second before it struck—a second she used to dive beneath the Impala.
As Francesca landed she heard an earsplitting crash.
* * *
A man’s voice registered. Francesca wished it was Jonah’s, but knew instantly it wasn’t. Struggling to raise her eyelids, she moaned his name, hoping he’d somehow hear her, come for her. Instead, the person who’d spoken a moment earlier touched her shoulder.
“It’s okay, ma’am. You’re going to be okay.”
It was an EMT. She recognized his uniform through her eyelashes; she couldn’t open her eyes any wider. The sun shone too brightly, seemed to be slanting directly into her face. “Where am I?”
“The desert outside Wickenburg.”
Right. She remembered now. “Wh-what’s wrong with me?”
