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That much was true. She was never supposed to have known what his true plans were. He’d taken the girls to the mansion, and there in the basement, choked them before placing their limp bodies together, lacing their fingers together in Beulah’s old hiding spot, room for a third when he caught h
er. And only he knew about the secret latch as he’d watched his grandmother open the hidden door in the bricks on more than one occasion. It had been the perfect crypt. Except one of his victims—the important one—had gotten away.
Unfortunately, he’d admitted as much to Ashley years later when he’d had too much to drink at Ashley’s fucking wedding reception, an event he’d attended as his family had been invited. It still galled him that she’d gone so far as to marry Jefferson and on the day she’d said her vows, Tyson had made a point of taking her hand at the reception and pulling her behind the vine-clad archway where she’d exchanged “I dos” less than an hour before.
“Just remember,” he’d reminded her as he’d brushed a kiss across her cheeks. “You’re mine. People have died so we can be together.”
“What?” she’d gasped, her eyes rounding in horror as she’d backed away from him, her arm scraping the latticework laden with white roses. The June day had been bright, sun not yet setting, the sky an unreal shade of blue as he’d dropped that particular bomb on her. “No one died,” she’d whispered, but the sudden horror in her gaze had told him believed him.
He’d smiled then, knowing it was an evil, drunken leer, but not caring as he’d teased her. “Oh, come on, Ash. What do you think happened to those girls?” He hadn’t explained anything more and avoided her during the rest of the reception, but he’d felt her appalled gaze on him as she’d stood with her new husband, a smile pasted onto her perfect pink-tinged lips. There had been horror beneath her supposed happiness, a darkness hidden deep behind her pure white dress and veil.
He’d loved it.
And he’d felt a greater sense of satisfaction when not a month later, she’d called and demanded answers. Tanned from a honeymoon in the Bahamas, she’d feigned fury and outrage as they’d met in this very lodge, where he’d admitted that two of the Duval girls were dead, but Rose, their intended target, had somehow escaped, probably, he assumed, due to Owen fucking Duval, who had put it together that his youngest sister was still in danger.
Tyson didn’t know for certain but believed somehow, probably inadvertently, Ashley had tipped Owen off.
In many ways, she was a liability.
As much as Holly and Poppy Duval had been.
And now she was acting all high and mighty. Noble. Well, it wasn’t flying. Not with him.
“Well, you’re in it now, aren’t you?” He felt the old rage flare up and as she stared at him he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he just grabbed her, pulled her close and let his hands circle her throat, his thumbs pressing hard, cutting off her air, hearing the tiniest of snaps as he choked her like he’d done with that stupid spying Holly Duval and her sister.
Tyson felt a sudden rush of adrenaline in his bloodstream, the anticipation as tempting as sex. Maybe more so. He felt himself growing hard, itching for release of a different kind. He licked his lips and rubbed the tips of his fingers as he fantasized.
But a noise brought him up short. A loud creak that was more than the old lodge settling on its ancient foundation.
“You hear that?” he asked suddenly, his cock shrinking, his gaze narrowing on the window.
“Hear what?”
He strode to the French doors and peered out at the night, to the darkness and a faint ribbon of moonlight seeming to float on the restless water of the river. His eyes narrowed. His ears strained. He felt it then . . . unseen eyes. Boring into him. He held his pistol tight and strode to the window. “I’m telling you, Ash, someone’s out there.”
* * *
Nikki gasped.
She flattened herself to the old floorboards as she heard footsteps approaching the window. Biting her lip, she inched her body sideways and caught a glimpse of Tyson staring out into the night; she didn’t dare breathe. She’d heard enough, she could leave now. If she risked retrieving her phone from the ledge.
That would be tricky.
Sweat from the heat of the day and her raw case of nerves trickled down her forehead and nose.
She felt the seconds of the night ticking away with each of her heartbeats, smelled the scent of cigarette smoke and dust flowing out of the small opening beneath the window. And something more. The musky scent of male sweat. Tyson was anxious, worried and now, she knew, had a hair-trigger temper and a lust for killing.
Her throat closed.
The realization that she had drawn her husband into danger struck a terrifying chord in her. What had she written him in her text?
At the Marianne Inn. Settler’s Road. Get here fast. Be careful!
But she hadn’t said anything about danger, that she was chasing down a psychopath. Reed would be careful, wouldn’t he? He was a cop, a detective, and had been in tight places before. He’d know what to do. His instincts were razor sharp, his intuition spot-on.
Inadvertently she crossed her fingers. Despite trying to tell herself otherwise, she couldn’t fight the overwhelming sense of dread that she’d lured her husband into desperate, fatal danger.
* * *
