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Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Incensed, sick at the thought that Reed had given his life for this shit show, Delacroix had tried to put Tyson down, but her own shot had missed and now she was hiding in the shadows, knowing that he’d seen her in his night vision.
Too bad.
Come on, you son of a bitch, I’m ready.
He was the killer? Tyson Beaumont? Why?
She tried to remember, forcing the jagged memories that had propelled her back to Savannah, to this very spot, to make sense.
Tyson Beaumont. Son of Baxter.
For a split second she closed her eyes and ears, cutting off the harsh shouts, the distant wail of a siren, trying to force the distorted pictures in her mind into clarity. But there wasn’t time, and the partial memories refused to meld into anything that made sense.
Move! There’s no time for this. Not now. You can piece it together once you’ve settled the score.
Delacroix took a deep breath and, mind racing, darted through the underbrush. She’d figured that Nikki Gillette was onto something, and had thought by following the reporter, she’d get a new insight into the mystery, but she hadn’t expected this. Not a showdown with the killers.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
She threw herself onto the forest floor. Tasted dirt. Felt the shudder of trees as bark splintered off from the shots. Tyson was on to her. She rolled quickly, settled behind a pile of rocks and chunks of rotting wood.
She felt more than a twinge of guilt that she’d gone behind Reed’s back, but she’d known he wouldn’t approve of tracking his wife. Delacroix had intended on following her and facing off with her, forcing her to tell what she knew, but she hadn’t been prepared for this shit show.
Damn that Gillette.
If she’d only backed off.
Delacroix had tried to run her to the ground first and deter the pushy journalist however she could. The idea had been to catch her trespassing, handcuff her, find out what she knew, then, if Gillette was onto something, she would be neutralized and Delacroix would take down the killer herself.
Because she had her own reasons for dealing with the maniac. Personal reasons.
But she hadn’t known that Tyson Beaumont was the murderer.
If only she had.
Maybe they wouldn’t be in this no-win, deadly situation.
And now Pierce Reed was down.
Possibly bleeding out.
No way.
Not on Delacroix’s watch.
She got her feet beneath her and lifted her head to spy Ashley and Tyson moving to the front of the building. No doubt to finish Reed off. Well, it wasn’t going to happen.
Delacroix aimed.
Tyson, backlit by the window, turned.
Too bad. Delacroix was ready to fire into the cocksucker’s back, her finger on the trigger.
He twisted his head and looked over his shoulder.
His silhouette was thrown into relief and in that moment, Delacroix’s heart nearly stopped. A ragged piece of memory rose to the surface. Nothing distinct. But . . . She blinked, remembered hiding under the seats of the theater, seeing sandals, and feet in flip-flops, purses and candy wrappers and popcorn everywhere. She could almost feel the sticky stuff on the floor as she’d slid beneath the rows only to lose track of her sisters.
