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The fear spread like a black cloud over her, tempting her to zone out. Find that spot. Where dark-haired Andrew Fairchild would smile at her like she was pretty and precious. No, no. She couldn’t zone out, couldn’t find her nook in her mind. She needed to stay here. Anxious and afraid. Waiting for the bomb to go off.
Chilled to her bones, she touched the lapel of her shirt with clammy fingers, and she wanted to vomit as his thumb once again grazed her jaw, then ran across her lips.
“Such a lovely girl,” he cooed. “I can see why he’d do time for you.”
“My binds are too tight, could you please loosen them a little for me?” Breathing slowly, she used one trembling hand to unhook the spider from her lapel, trying not to draw attention to her hands. But bound as she was, how was she going to get the spider’s belly on him?
“Why would I care about your fucking comfort when you killed my father, you cock-sucking whore?” He spat nearby, and she winced in terror as his footsteps echoed around the room. They became more distant first, and then returned, stopping ominously close.
“I didn't kill him,” Whitney fiercely whispered when he stopped close enough for her to smell him.
“Oh, I know all about it. Your bloodied dress. You left the scene so your boyfriend could take the blame for you. You planned to murder him all along. You lured him into your house and you were ready to kill him, strip him of his money—strip me of my money! And then your fucking boyfriend makes his little deal with the government and nobody’s the wiser.”
Denial flew through her. “He died in my house, yes, but it was an accident!”
He struck her. One second she was speaking, the next something cold and hard plowed into her jaw and swung her head around with jolting force. Stars sputtered in the back of her eyelids, and for a second, her lungs turned to rocks.
Icy fear paralyzed her as she fought to straighten herself back in the chair, and all she could do was focus on breathing. This was too unreal. Too familiar. This helplessness. This awful, soul-sucking dread.
“I’ve wanted to punish you all these years. All. These. Years. Cousin . . .”
Panting, she licked her lower lip and tasted her own blood, thick and metallic, seeping out of the corner of her mouth.
“Donahue’s should be mine, too. Not just yours. My father was to have a part, for guarding you. Your boyfriend took care of stripping that from us, too. I had to wait for that asshole to return so I could get the fucking proof of what you did, and now I’m going to drain him out of every last drop!”
“We didn’t do anything!”
“Why then . . . did he go and serve three years’ time . . . hmm? If it not because either you . . . or he . . . killed him?”
Confusion warred inside her.
Her pulse beat erratically, her vision blurred from the force of his hit. Her panic was filtering into every cell of her body, deep into her
voice. “Your father died in an accident. An accident happened that day.”
“No! It was no accident. I compensated your loyal little driver very generously to keep me informed. He gives me details. Lots of details. I only intended for you to pay me some money . . . Whitney. What I deserve. But you anger me, Whitney. Ignoring my note. He’s going to pay me cash now, and you’re going to pay me with every bit of that body. My father had it bad for you, didn't he? Did you enjoy it when he visited your room?”
A suffocating sensation tightened her throat as he grabbed her breast and squeezed, and a cry of real fear tore out of her as he abruptly pulled off the blindfold. She stared into his eyes. Identical to his father’s. A green that was almost yellow. Mean, awful eyes she never, ever, in her life, wanted to see.
“Deny that you killed my father to my face, little cousin.”
Whitney wanted to kick and scream and claw, her muscles clenching as she fought her binds. She kept telling herself she was not a victim anymore. Not a victim anymore, not a victim anymore.
Not a victim anymore.
She had the spider in her hand but had no way of gaining access.
“I. Didn’t. Kill him.”
He smiled cruelly. “Then why was your man in prison for three years? Hmm?”
“He wasn’t in prison.”
He slapped her. “Liar! I talked to the air marshal! I pretended I knew what the hell I was talking about and he couldn’t stop talking about the big goddamned fifty-million-dollar jet he has! He. Was. In. Prison. For murdering my father! Because of you! I know it was you because Jerry told me. He told me you couldn’t stop chattering in the car, saying, ‘He was dead, he was dead, it was an accident, the knife just went in.’ How can a fucking knife just go in? Huh?”
Whitney blinked.
She trembled. Cold. Hot. Her teeth chattered as the possibility of his words hit her. She wasn’t thinking of being taken away from the scene of the crime in the back of Andrew’s Bentley. No. She’d stopped really hearing when he claimed Andrew had been in prison.
