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Oh. God.
Elizabeth knew the police would contact her. She’d been expecting a call from Thronson or one of her colleagues, but still, hearing the somber tone of the detective’s voice chilled her to the bone.
Telling herself she had nothing to fear, that she hadn’t caused Court’s demise, that she couldn’t be a suspect in his death, she couldn’t shake the cold that settled deep in her soul and caused goose pimples to rise on her skin. Rubbing her arms, she walked to the window, looked out to the night beyond and felt almost that someone or something was staring back.
“You’re freaking yourself out,” she said, but snapped the blinds shut. As much to clear her head as warm up, she suddenly decided to take a shower. She turned on the taps, stripped off her bathrobe, letting it pool on the floor, then stepped under the needle-sharp, hot spray. Dunking her head under the showerhead and letting the water pour over her, she imagined it washing away the problems crowding her mind. Slowly, she began to feel warm again, but even then a shiver ran beneath her skin, reminding her that nothing was right.
Ten minutes later, she was cinching the belt of her robe again, her wet hair starting to dry a little as she walked into the bedroom and glanced at the television where the crime drama was wrapping up the episode. She’d lost interest in the segment and ignored the program as she picked up her clothes and examined the jacket, wondering if it was time to take it and the skirt to the cleaners. She had some other outfits that needed to go as well, but she hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the money now, but every expense added up and she didn’t want to find herself in a position where she couldn’t afford the mortgage. Court may have given Whitney Bellhard the impression he had money, but in truth, he’d been a terrible spender. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she saw how many allowances she’d made for him. If she had it to do over again—
Her cell phone buzzed on her dresser, sounding almost angry as it vibrated across the wood top. Scooping the cell up, she glanced at the caller with trepidation but saw that it was Jade, not the detective. Pretty late for her to call. While Elizabeth weighed whether she wanted to hear more words of encouragement from her friends, the phone suddenly stopped ringing.
I’ll call her back tomorrow.
Grabbing up the remote again, she walked toward the bed, turning toward the set. The late news was just beginning, so she switched to her favorite newscaster, then tossed the controller onto the bed just as her cell began ringing again.
Detective Thronson again? No, no. It was too late for the policewoman to call. Right?
Crossing the room, she swept up the phone and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Jade’s name and number.
Again.
“Hey,” Elizabeth answered, bracing herself for more that-a-girls.
“Turn on the TV to the news! Oh, God. Oh, my God,” Jade shrieked.
“I’ve got it on. What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Elizabeth demanded in quick succession, her gaze moving to the screen.
“What station are you on? Elizabeth, for the love of God!” But Jade didn’t need to say anything else.
Elizabeth’s heart turned to stone as she watched the local reporter, an older man whose calm demeanor and lack of sensationalism appealed to her, as he stood in the Fitness Now! parking lot. A strobe of red and blue police lights flickered behind him where a slash of crime scene tape had cordoned off some kind of smoking wreckage.
“An unidentified male is in critical condition after the attack around five thirty this evening,” the grave reporter said. “No one saw the arsonist who appeared to have attacked the victim and then poured gasoline over him and his car. The incident was in plain sight of the building, yet no one witnessed anything out of the ordinary until a member just leaving the club saw what he describes as a fireball at the back of the parking lot.”
The camera zoomed in on the blackened, misting hulk that had once been a convertible.
Elizabeth dropped the phone from nerveless fingers.
“Authorities are hoping that someone saw something and can identify a suspect. Perhaps someone walking away with a bag or possibly a gas can? The police are on the scene but not identifying the victim pending notification of his family.” The reporter rambled on, asking for the public’s assistance while Elizabeth, her eyes transfixed, her pulse pounding, her mind silently screaming, No. No. No! stared at the screen.
“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered, a hand coming to her mouth in horror.
There, centered in the frame of the camera’s lens, the torched vehicle’s license plate was visible.
GOODGUY.
Chapter 21
“Elizabeth? Elizabeth!” Jade’s tinny voice sounded from the phone laying on the carpet.
Blinking, Elizabeth found herself on the bed where she’d slumped when her knees had given way. She couldn’t think . . . just couldn’t think.
GoodGuy in critical condition . . . burned by an attacker. . .
You wished him harm. You did. You wished him harm.
“Elizabeth!!”
Climbing to her feet, Elizabeth sank to her knees and crawled across the carpet to where the phone lay like a fallen soldier. Flopping down on her side, she placed the cell to her ear. “I’m . . . I’m here,” she said, not recognizing her own voice.
