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As she turned the page to finish the story, her gaze fell on a third photograph.
Willa gasped. It was the same man who’d come into her art studio the night before her gallery show.
The caption under the photograph read Undercover Cop Simon Renton Found Dead.
Willa was shaking so hard she had to put down the newspaper. Simon Renton was the man who had come into her studio the night she was finishing the last of the framing for her gallery show the next night. Now he was dead? Murdered? She shuddered. His body mutilated.
She dropped the newspaper. Simon and Landry were both cops, both working undercover on the same case. An icy chill wrapped around her neck. One man had come into her shop saying he needed a painting for his wife for their anniversary. The other had come to her gallery showing saying he was interested in the artist and her work.
Her pulse jumped. Both had lied. According to the story, Simon wasn’t married. And a man like Landry wasn’t interested in Willa’s art—or her.
What had Simon Renton being doing in her shop that night? She shivered, remembering how he’d almost pushed his way in. He’d made her uncomfortable although she had the feeling he’d been trying to do just the opposite.
Something connected her with the two men. But she had no idea what. Both men had supposedly taken an interest in her artwork and now she was running for her life.
Not just from the police who were apparently doing their best to protect her, but from Landry Jones and organized criminals who it seemed might have a reason also to want her dead. It made no sense.
According to the paper, the safe house had been attacked by two known organized-crime hit men, the article said. Percy “TNT” Armando and Emilio “Worm” Racini. Both were being sought by the police after appearing on media cameras at the scene.
Was it possible that no one had seen Landry Jones but her? She’d just assumed he’d killed her two guards. If not, then what was he doing at the safe house?
Chasing her, she thought with a shudder. Making sure his buddies got the job done.
She had to get out off the island. She didn’t know where she’d go—just that she had to keep moving. She’d been a fool to think she could hide out—even here—for a few weeks until Landry was caught.
But she’d run out of highway. Out of luck, as well. Landry could find her here. He was a cop, a renegade cop, but still he was trained for this. He had resources that ordinary people like herself didn’t have. And he had organized crime behind him. She didn’t stand a chance.
She wanted to curl up in a ball. Hastily she wiped at her tears. She didn’t have the time to break down let alone feel sorry for herself. And giving up wasn’t an option. She would go across the island to where Odell said the old man fished in his boat.
She’d ask him to take her back to the mainland. If he agreed, she’d come back and pack.
Now that her picture was in the paper, she wouldn’t feel safe anywhere.
Just the thought of Landry Jones sent a chill through her. Look how close he’d come to getting to her at the safe house. She could still remember the murderous look in his eyes. She felt another wave of hopelessness. If she had any hope of surviving, she had to be strong. She’d stayed alive this long, hadn’t she?
At the window, she peeked out. The courtyard was empty. Odell’s door was closed. Willa let the blind fall back into place and opened her door, listening for a moment before she started down the stairs.
She heard music, this time coming from Blossom’s apartment. Some awful loud band yelling obscenities over the scream of guitar strings.
Willa took the stairs, stopping partway to check to see if Henri’s door was closed. It was.
Something told Willa that Henri wasn’t in her apartment—not with that horrible music blasting into her south side wall.
As Willa hurried out of the courtyard through the back arch, she caught a glimpse of Henri and Odell walking down the beach. They had their heads together as if they’d known each other longer than less than an hour.
The conversation looked pretty serious for two strangers.
Willa put the two of them out of her mind. Soon they wouldn’t be a concern. Soon, she would be off the island. She would go to Miami, maybe catch a boat to anywhere it was headed, anywhere far from here.
She found a narrow path through the thick vegetation, hoping this was the way that the elderly man had gone and that the path would lead her to the boathouse and Carlos Lazarro.
Not far into the dense undergrowth the air became thick and humid. Mosquitoes buzzed around her. She swatted at them and tried to keep moving, her bare limbs glistening with perspiration.
At a turn in the trail, she stopped to wipe the sweat from her eyes and thought she heard a sound behind her on the trail. Quickening her pace, she wound through the trees and brush, the island becoming denser. She felt turned around, no longer able to see the sun, and had no idea which way she was headed. For all she knew she could be going in a circle. The island wasn’t large. She should have reached the other side by now.
Willa stopped to catch her breath. The trail forked ahead and she wasn’t sure which way to go. This time there was no mistake about it. She heard the brush of fabric against a tree branch. Someone was following her.
Fear paralyzed her. She looked back but could see nothing through the underbrush. After reading the newspaper articles she now knew that it wasn’t just the cops and Landry Jones after her—but possibly organized crime killers who didn’t want her testifying.
