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He rounded the corner and spied the spur leading to Bronco Cravens’s cabin and whipped past. The Marianne Inn was less than a quarter of a mile ahead and he slowed. Nikki’s last text came to mind:
Be careful!
This, from the most careless woman he knew. Oh, God, what had she done? His mind flashed to the other times he’d thought he’d lost her, how she’d barely escaped with her life. Too many times to consider and just recently in the river near the Beaumont manor where she’d nearly drowned, how he’d watched her sink below the surface, how Sylvie Morrisette had given up her life while trying to save Nikki. His jaw clenched and his heart was cold as ice. He recalled Nikki in the hospital and how relieved he’d been that she’d been saved, only to hear that his partner had died. Wasn’t that enough?
And now? Now, dear God, he knew that Nikki was in danger again. He might lose her all because of her reckless need to ferret out the truth.
His phone rang and he snagged it from the seat. “Reed,” he spat out irritably as the call hadn’t come from Nikki.
“Yeah, this is Austin Wells.” Owen Duval’s attorney. “You called me.”
“Right.” He nodded as if the lawyer could somehow see him through the connection. “I’m looking for my partner. She’s not answering her phone. Thought I could catch her through you if she’s still at your place.”
“Your partner?” Wells repeated.
“Detective Delacroix. I need to talk to her.”
A beat.
In that instant Reed felt a new, unnamed dread.
“Detective Delacroix?” Austin said. “She was supposed to be here?”
“To discuss Owen Duval’s will.”
The attorney snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen anyone from the police department.”
The concerns Reed had been having about Delacroix congealed. Dear God.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Been here all evening. You all have got your wires crossed.”
“Thanks,” Reed said automatically, but his mind was racing, his jaw set, guts twisting. Where in God’s name was his partner?
And more importantly, why the hell had she lied to him?
* * *
A floorboard on the old porch squeaked loudly as Nikki reached a window on the back side of the lodge’s great room, a window that was open slightly, as if it didn’t seal correctly. When she dared peek over the sill, she saw the cavernous great room of the Marianne Inn. The ceilings soared two full stories with a balcony visible on the second floor. A rock fireplace dominated one end of the room and faced a staircase at the far wall. She was able to see all this because of a lantern set on the mantel, over a firebox large enough for a small child to stand inside. The unnatural light cast the Georgia pine walls in an unnatural glow and displayed the remains of a couch, its stuffing tumbling from ripped arms, the pillows scattered haphazardly on the dusty floorboards near the hearth. In the pool of that weird light, Ashley Jefferson squared off with Tyson Beaumont.
So he was behind it all.
Ashley’s boyfriend in high school.
Why was Nikki not surprised?
Tyson, the privileged only son of one of the most prestigious and wealthy families in the area. Tyson, born with a silver spoon delicately cemented in his mouth.
Now, they were obviously fighting and Ashley was even more disheveled than the last time Nikki had seen her on Tybee Island, her makeup nearly nonexistent, her hair mussed and falling into her eyes. While her dress was wrinkled, her eyes swollen, her face flushed, he, dressed in camo pants and a black T-shirt, looked military-sharp. He wore a belt, where a gun and what appeared to be a taser, flashlight and some kind of baton were anchored. A pair of night-vision goggles hung from a strap at his neck, and Tyson was as poised as Ashley was emotionally strung out.
Without making the slightest sound, Nikki hit the record button on her phone and gently placed it on the sill next to the open window while silently praying she would not only be able to hear their conversation but also record their every word.
“You crossed the line,” Ashley charged, obviously upset, her voice cracking, her eyes shedding tears, an accusing finger jabbing at Tyson’s chest. “Owen was off-limits,” she said, glowering. “We talked about this over and over.”
“And I made myself clear: No one is off-limits.” He eyed her harshly. “Admit it, Ash, you were always hung up on him.”
“He didn’t need to die!”
