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Again.
Great. Just . . . effing great.
Delacroix didn’t need to deal with him, either.
Not tonight. Not when everything was finally coming together.
He would only get in the way.
She ignored the call as she passed by the Cravenses’ cabin.
A shame about Bronco. He shouldn’t have died. But then, he got curious, snooped around and . . .
She thought about texting or calling Reed.
Lying again.
But then they’d get into it.
And then she might expose herself.
Not yet.
She held on to that mantra as hard as she gripped the steering wheel.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet!
According to the indicator on her GPS screen, Nikki Gillette’s car was parked nearby, so she drove into a spur that dead-ended not twenty yards from the country lane, parked at the base of a live oak, where scrub brush partially hid her vehicle, and climbed out. Snagging her backpack from the passenger seat, she felt the weight of her pistol at her waist, then set off along the side of the road at a brisk pace.
The night was quiet aside from the hum of insects and the lapping of the river.
Undisturbed.
/> Serene.
But it wouldn’t be for long.
* * *
No one was answering!
Reed jammed his phone into the cup holder of the SUV.
He’d called his wife multiple times.
Something was wrong. Really wrong.
He knew it and tasted fear rising in the back of his throat.
What the hell was Nikki doing at the Marianne Inn?
He saw the turnoff for Settler’s Road and hit the gas, cutting in front of a huge semi heading the opposite direction and getting a loud, angry honk from the driver.
Too bad.
The SUV slid a little, then held and he thought about hitting his lights and siren, then held off. If she was in trouble, he didn’t want to warn anyone who might want to harm her that he was coming.
“Son of a—”
