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He’d been a fool. Not just once, but again! He swore and pulled at the cuffs, but they were locked solid. “Shit!” he yelled. “Shit, shit. Shit! Anne!”
But she was gone. Through the windshield and falling snow, he watched her leap over the step, not slowing an inch, her self-inflicted injuries all part of her disguise. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared into the cabin.
God. Damn. It.
With a sickening sense of what was happening, he realized that he’d been duped. She was never in any real danger of dying. Her whole suicide attempt had been a ruse. And he’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.
Chapter 29
Anne-Marie worked fast. There wasn’t much time. She found Ryder’s phone in the bathroom where the stupid 9-1-1 operator was still bleating out instructions. She turned the phone off, severing the connection, then disabled it completely, ignoring the smeared blood on the bathroom floor—her blood.
Heart thumping, hating herself for her deception, she changed quickly, but didn’t remove the damn bandages. She was still bleeding a little bit but wasn’t worried. She hadn’t cut an artery or even a major vein, just sliced the surface over and over again, a trick, considering the restrictions of those damn handcuffs, but one she’d researched on the Internet long ago. She had become a master of disguise and deception, two traits of which she wasn’t all that proud, but sure as hell came in handy.
She thought of Ryder trapped in the truck.
It wouldn’t be for long.
The damn cops were on their way.
So she couldn’t waste a second. She changed quickly, tucked Ryder’s Glock into the back of her jeans, the waistband holding it snug against her back. “Here we go,” she said and started loading her SUV.
“Anne!” Ryder yelled. “Anne-Marie!” Shit! Fuck! Damn! “Anne! Oh, for the love of . . .” Pissed beyond pissed, he yanked at the handcuffs holding him fast to the steering wheel.
Wait a second!
The key!
“Where the hell is the key for the cuffs?” He’d put it on the ring . . . then he saw the tiny notched piece of metal dangling from the key ring still in the truck’s ignition.
He couldn’t believe his good luck. Tantalizingly close, he reached for it, but it hung just out of his reach. No matter how he strained, leaned, and twisted, he just couldn’t get it.
His mind started spinning with options, none of them possible. As cold as it was, he started to sweat with his efforts. He’d been such a fool to let her, a known criminal, a major liar, and a master of deception, get the drop on him. Letting his breath out in frustration, he glanced in the rearview again to that damn SUV blocking his escape. No doubt it was part of Anne-Marie’s plan.
How had I been so stupid?
How had I let her lie to me?
He took another swipe at the keys and swore when his fingertip brushed the bottom of the ring. But that was it. Not good enough. Too far away by less than an inch. If he could just reach the key ring, if he could slide the handcuffs up the steering wheel to give him just a bit more leeway, then maybe he could . . . Crap. The steering wheel wasn’t an unbroken circle, of course. The braces holding the wheel to the column prevented him from sliding around it completely. He stretched, trying to reach the keys with his free hand, but the most he could do was tick the key with the tip of his middle finger.
“Son of a bitch.” He strained, the cords of his neck distending, his muscles stretching to their limits, but no go. Through the fogging windshield, he watched as she loaded her SUV with essentials and her bag. Even a wig was tossed into the back seat. Swiftly. Efficiently. Something black and bulky was tucked into the belt of her jeans at her back and he realized it was a gun—his damn Glock. She never once looked in his direction, just packed her truck with singular efficiency and climbed behind the wheel.
Damn her.
Where did she think she could go? How could she drive around his truck and that damn vehicle parked behind him? And where was the driver of the truck? The bad feeling that had been with Ryder when he first saw the Explorer blocking the lane burrowed a little deeper in his soul. Though he told himself he was imagining things, that the truck was just a coincidence, he didn’t quite believe it.
He felt the weight of her tiny pistol in his pocket, a practically useless weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. Of course, it was lodged deep on the opposite side of his body as his free hand but, just to be on the safe side, he decided it was worth the effort to retrieve it and her damn switchblade. But of course, he was thwarted. The weapons in that pocket, like the keys dangling in the ignition, were just out of reach. No matter how he twisted and contorted his body, he couldn’t slide his free hand near the pocket. However, he could, just maybe, shrug out of the coat, at least on the side of his body that wasn’t clamped to the wheel. If he got his shoulder free and slid the jacket down his back, partially off his cuffed arm, he might be able to twist the fabric enough to be able to reach the gun. Then, at least, he’d be armed. Trapped, but armed.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
Try as he might, all he could do was free up his left arm, the padded sleeve of his jacket no longer binding, which gave him a little more wiggle room. Not much. But he didn’t need more than another half an inch. He reached for the keys again, finally able to touch part of his house key.
Maybe he wasn’t trapped after all.
Maybe he could—
Through the snow collecting over the windshield, he saw the very same kind of shadow he’d viewed from the porch only minutes earlier. He squinted and his heart stopped.
The shadow was a man. A tall man.
