Carter had turned out all the lights hours ago. He’d turned off every phone in the house as well as his cell.
He couldn’t talk to anyone.
Suzi had threatened to go to his parents if this went any further.
And it would go further.
Much further.
Nash had called. From one of those disposable phones. Carter had done exactly as Braddock ordered. He’d told Nash he was ready to give him the money as long as he got the video. Nash hadn’t seemed as overjoyed as Carter had hoped. In fact, he’d made some ridiculous statement about being able to smell Carter’s fear. Then he’d said he would call back and promptly hung up.
Carter was a dead man.
Nash was suspicious.
No matter that Braddock had posted surveillance on Carter’s house. Nash was too good. Too sneaky. Too crazy.
He would find a way in if he wanted in.
Nash would kill him. The police wouldn’t be able to stop him any more than they had all the other times.
Carter pressed his hands on either side of his throbbing skull.
He was so screwed.
There had to be a way to get out of this. All that money and he was afraid to leave his house. Afraid for anyone to know he was here.
What the hell was he going to do?
His father had called twice before Carter had turned off the phones. He hadn’t left a message, which was not a good thing. His father always left messages.
If that bitch attorney had told him a single word about what had happened ...
He’d do what?
He was screwed.
So, so screwed.
He needed a drink. The police had confiscated all of his Vicodin.
A drink would help dull the anxiety.
He made his way to the great room. His mother had been so proud when he’d bought this house.
His first mansion.
Now he was a damned prisoner inside it.
He didn’t bother with a glass. Opened the bottle of Scotch and downed a long gulp. Then another. And another.
He coughed. Heaved.
Had to keep it down. He needed some relief.
A few more swallows and the burn faded into that relaxed sensation he’d longed for. He moved to the leather sofa his decorator had so painstakingly selected and plopped down. Maybe if he drank the whole bottle he would pass out and wake up tomorrow to find that this had all just been a bad dream.
“Yeah, right.” He swallowed another mouthful.
