“Have you asked the studio for this information?”
“No.”
“My girl going the route of espionage.” Sylvie looked toward the ceiling, blinking back tears. “I’m so proud.”
Only my grandmother. “Let’s move this along before we get arrested.”
“Stop blowing out my happy candles.” But she turned to the task, and before I could say maybe we can be cell mates, Sylvie had unlocked the office.
We slipped inside, shutting the door behind us. We walked past a barren reception area to the main office. We found two desks, a printer, a vintage poster of Olivia Newton John in a wedgie-revealing leotard, and four full-sized file cabinets.
“I was hoping there would just be a file labeled ‘Sign-in sheets’ sitting on a desk,” I whispered.
Sylvie dug into the pockets of her silk kimono, producing two pairs of latex gloves. “Get to looking, Sherlock.”
My grandmother’s outfit was like the Mary Poppins bag of bridesmaids’ dresses. We had to make this quick before she produced homing pigeons, dynamite, or a stink bomb.
“I’ve got nothing,” Sylvie said five long minutes later, extracting her arm from a desk drawer. “Except for some peanut butter crackers I’m confiscating for my trouble.”
I stood next to file cabinet number three, a gray metal thing with little personality. “Mostly bills, invoices, and—wait a minute.” My fingers riffled through one file, then another. “Jackpot.” It was a collection of sign-ins for the entire year. “This could take awhile.”
A voice broke through the hush of the office. Someone was talking on the other side of the door.
“Shoot.” Sylvie tiptoed toward me, cracker crumbs dotting her upper lip. “Someone’s coming.”
“Let’s go.” I furiously looked for another exit.
“No!” She aimed her finger toward the files. “Not ’til you find that sign-in sheet.”
“Sylvie!”
“Just do it! Leave the rest to me.”
Oh, my gosh! This was insanity. Cardiac arrest was as imminent as my criminal arrest.
But I obeyed, flipping through page after page, my ear pealed for the voice getting nearer. Was it wrong to pray for God to help you pull off a theft?
Probably, but I did it anyway.
“Here!” I cried. “Here’s the date!”
The sound of a squeaking door in the outer room had me clutching Sylvie’s arm in a death grip. What do we do?
Taking a page from Sylvie’s playbook, I crumpled up a handful of the sign-ins and shoved them into my bra.
“No! We can’t do that.” Sylvie reached into my top and plucked them out. “The police will eventually confiscate them for evidence.” She whipped out her cell phone and snapped what I thought was way too many photos.
“We don’t have time for this,” I hissed. “We need to go!”
“Come on.” My grandmother grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the back of the room. “You know what’s behind Olivia Newton John?”
“An eight-by-ten glossy of Richard Simmons?”
“A window.”
Her eye for detail was not to be underestimated. “That’s well over my head.”
She rubbed a hand over the bookcase beside it. “Seems sturdy enough. Start climbing.”
“No!” I’d never make it.
“Fine.” She hoisted one foot onto the first shelf and proceeded to scale the furniture like a geriatric Spiderman. “See you on the other side.”
“Wait!”
A woman’s voice grew louder as she spoke in the outer room. “Yes, Janet, I definitely want to talk to the city about our next yoga in the park . . .”
I leapt onto the bookcase, the white shelving wobbling as if trying to buck me off.
“Just a minute,” the woman said. “Let me go into the office and check my calendar.”
I climbed the remaining shelves like a deranged spider monkey, finally reaching the top and catapulting myself to the window.
“You can do it!” Sylvie yelled from the ground below.
With little space to hang on the window, I threw a leg over, my toes touching air. Lord, I’d like to get through tonight without an arrest or broken neck.
My hands clutched the base of the window like a life raft, and I eased the rest of my body over, just as the yoga employee entered the office.
I let my feet dangle for four heartbeats.
Before gravity pulled my fingers loose, and I dropped to the ground.
And took off running.
.
Chapter Thirty
My car wheezed as it inched into the driveway, as if she, too, were only capable of crawling at this late hour. After hurling ourselves out the yoga studio window, Sylvie and I had sprinted to the party bus, still idling from its recent arrival. We seated ourselves in the back, me—completely freaked and out of breath, and Sylvie—eating the last of her stale crackers. When the ladies were finally released from their yoga class, they stepped onto the bus in a painfully slow fashion.
“Zoey’s alibi seems to check out.” Sylvie discreetly slid me her phone.
I enlarged a picture to see clearer. The lighting was terrible, but Zoey’s name was unmistakable. “She signed into a yoga class—just like she said.”
“We’ll find the killer, shug.” Sylvie slipped the phone back into her purse. “Don’t you worry.”
I was starting to have some serious doubts. Everywhere we turned—a dead end.
As the zebra bus drove us back to Enchanted Events, I kept looking over my shoulder, fully expecting to see blue lights. Surely the studio employee would know someone had broken into the office. Was it simply a matter of time before the police came knocking on my door?
By the time I drove home and pulled into my own driveway, the dashboard clock said it was ten minutes after midnight, yet the air still sweltered with the heat of the afternoon. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I lifted bleary eyes to the porch—
And froze.
My front door swung wide open, flapping in the night breeze like an ominous invitation.
What do I do?
Reason screamed loud and shrill in my ear, telling me to put the car back in drive and go directly to Sylvie’s.
But this was my house.
And it could be nothing.
Though it sure didn’t feel like nothing.
I slowly stepped from the car, my high heels long discarded in the backseat. My feet slip-slapped on the driveway as I shined my phone’s flashlight along the path, entering the carport. In the dark of night, every shadow loomed, menacing and predatory. Chill bumps scattered along my arms. I grabbed Beau’s shovel and propped it on my aching shoulder like a baseball bat.
Creeping toward the front door, I whispered a quick plea for protection to a God who hopefully hadn’t tired of my Hail Mary prayers. Then I took one step inside, my shovel locked and loaded.
A wasteland of debris surrounded me.
My TV broken and tossed on the floor. The couch cushions in tatters, as if someone had slit them with a blade. The drawers of my coffee table emptied, papers and Post-its scattered everywhere. My ears on alert like a coon dog’s, I heard nothing but my own ragged breathing as I took a few more steps into the space so I could see the kitchen. Anger overtook fear as I beheld the sight of my beloved great-grandmother’s dishes resting in a pile of shards on the wood floor. Every cabinet hung open as if screaming for help. The drawers had been yanked out and cast out to join the dishes, making a mess of silverware, tongs, and no end of knives.
I knew I had to get out. I had to call the police.
I swiveled on my bare heel as I turned, giving a small arc of the shovel for good measure, and bolted for the door.
Three steps from my escape and I heard it.
A crash from outside, like someone playing cymbals with trash can lids.
“Who’s out there?” I ran outside, shining my weak beam of a light. “I’m calling the police!” I saw a faint shadow round the cor
ner of the house and took off in pursuit. Rocks and grass bit into my feet as I ran, but it didn’t slow me down.
The tree root did.
In cheap horror-film fashion, my body went airborne and my arms reached out for the ground, the shovel landing somewhere nearby. “Ow!” My knees struck with a hard crack, and my hands slid into landscaping rocks that bit into my skin. With no time to lose, I pulled myself back to my feet, shook off the pain, grabbed my garden tool, and gingerly walked the length of the side of the house, where I stopped and peered into the night, watching and listening like an avenging superhero.
When I felt the very human tap on my shoulder, I’m pretty sure super girl tinkled in her pants.
My scream rent the air, and I lashed out with the rusty shovel. “Get back!”
“Paisley!” Beau stood wide-eyed with his hands up. “What in the world is going on here?” He jerked his shovel from my grip. “What do you think you’re doing? You could’ve brained me.”
I bent over, hands on my knees, my breath heaving in rapid gusts. “What . . . what are you doing?”
He settled a hand on my back. “Checking on you. I saw your door open and went in. I got worried when I couldn’t find you.” He stepped closer, and the faint scent of his cologne was an instant comfort. “What happened in there?”
“Someone broke into the house. I think the intruder just left.” I flailed a finger toward the backyard. “Went that direction. I saw a shadow. Heard somebody moving.”
“Are you okay?” Beau glanced beyond me, into the darkness.
“I think so.” I straightened my spine. “We need to call 911.”
He swiftly guided me back to the porch and pressed a key into my palm. “Lock yourself in my house.”
“But—”
“Get inside, Paisley.”
Adrenaline slam-danced in my head. “Stop telling me what to do. I’ve had an insane night and—”
He leaned down. His mouth was so close to my ear, I felt his lips graze my skin. “Either you get inside and lock yourself in, or I tell your grandmother you’d like her to be your full-time bodyguard.”
“Going inside.” The jerk. I twisted his key in the lock. “No need to mention this to Sylvie. Feel free to scurry along now.”
“I’ll go when I hear the click of the lock.”
“Beau?”
His sigh could’ve shaved the bark from the trees. “Yes?”
“Be careful, okay?”
He gave me that flash of a smile, then, with a pronounced limp, tore off the porch like a man on fire, his dark form swallowed up by the night.
With trembling hands, I called 911, reported the break-in, then collapsed on his couch. I pulled a thick-yarned afghan around me and proceeded to shake and startle at every noise and shift of light.
I could’ve died tonight. A few times.
What if I’d been home? Would the intruder have come in anyway? Were they armed?
And what if they were still out there, and Beau was running right toward them?
Ten different variations of Beau’s demise played out in my head like cinematic tragedies, until my nerves nearly overheated. Pacing seemed like a better idea, so I wore out the floor, walking back and forth across his living room, sending up even more prayers. Please let him be okay. Please let him not get shot. Please let him not get maimed because that boy has one pretty face.
Minutes and eons later, footsteps thudded on the porch, and I stilled mid pace.
Then came the knock. “Paisley? It’s me.” Beau’s beautiful voice. “Let me in.”
He was alive!
I flung open the door, grabbed Beau’s left hand, and pulled him inside. “Thank God, you’re alive.” He barely had the door closed before I launched myself into his arms, my hands snaking around his back and hugging him to me like my missing piece, the source of my next breath, the hero who’d rescued me.
“Can’t breathe here, Sutton.”
I pressed my cheek to his chest and closed my eyes, drawing my first easy breath since I’d pulled into the driveway. Tears pressed at my lids, and I was helpless to stop their escape. I was so tired. So scared. And so tired of being scared.
“Paisley?” Beau pulled back, running a hand over the back of my head, his touch featherlight. “Hey.” His gaze studied my face, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “What’s this?” He brushed a finger across my cheek. “Why are your arms covered in blue paint?”
“Bridesmaids’ paintball war.”
“Perfectly logical explanation.”
“And to think it was the easy part of my evening.”
“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
I released my hold and stepped away, sniffing as I averted my gaze. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, just nerves. And worried about you.” I blindly reached out, my hands fluttering over his face, his shoulders, his chest. “You seem to be in one piece. Well done, Beau. Well done, indeed.”
He captured my shaking hands in his own. His hands were so warm, strong, and steady. “There wasn’t anyone out there.”
“Right. Of course. I’m sure I scared them off. Shovels show you mean business, right? Who needs a gun? I mean, Sylvie does, I guess, but she knows how to work those things. Keeps at least two or three on her person at all times in really uncomfortable places.” A traitorous tear slipped past my nose. “My house is trashed.”
“Look at me.” Beau gently lifted my chin, his eyes searching mine. “Are you crying?”
“Allergies.” I shook my head. “Pollen. Mold spores. Arkansas.”
A strand of hair had escaped the constraints of my updo, and Beau slowly tucked it behind my ear. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Good heavens, were there any sweeter words? “It’s just . . . everything. Moving back, my career in the toilet, the murder, an intruder. Then you.”
That sultry frown could’ve melted a snow cone. “What about me?”
“You just ran out there without any concern for your own safety. What if they’d had a gun and—”
He shrugged as if it were a totally normal thing to do. “I’ve dodged a few bullets in my day.”
And still carried those scars. “Thank you, Beau. I’m glad you were here.”
“Me too.” His gaze lingered. “You’ll sleep here tonight.”
“Wait, what? No, I’m fine.”
“It’s too late to call your grandma and worry her at this hour. Take the guest bedroom.”
I couldn’t imagine sleeping a wink. “I’m going to go assess the damage.”
“Just wait ’til the cops arrive,” Beau said. “You don’t want to mess up the crime scene.” He smiled. “I learned that on TV last week.”
I went to the living room window to watch for the police. “If there’s one bright spot about tonight, I did manage to see the yoga studio’s sign-in sheet for the day of Sasha’s murder.”
“To confirm Zoey’s alibi?”
“Exactly.”
“How’d you get that?”
“It’s best you don’t know. I will say this: Sylvie and her Bra of Wonderment were involved.” I updated Beau on what we knew so far.
“Zoey could’ve left the class,” Beau said.
“But it’s looking unlikely.” On one hand I was glad she didn’t do it. On the other, her innocence did nothing for my possible conviction.
And then another dreadful thought hit me like a meteorite. “I’ll be back.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, as I bypassed Beau and ran out his door.
“Paisley, wait!” he called.
Ignoring the blue lights in the distance, I barreled into my own living room, making a beeline for my bedroom.
And I knew.
I just knew.
Diving to the floor, ignoring the sound of ripping satin, I held the shattered pieces of Sasha’s iPad in my hands.
It had been smashed to dust particles.
Chapter Thirty-One
“No, Aaron, stop!”
My eyes shot open, and my brain fought wildly to orient myself. My heart galloped like a derby horse as I sat up, the puzzle pieces shifting into place.
The break-in. My ransacked house. I was at Beau’s.
And he was . . . yelling?
I heard it again—Beau’s voice. Anguished. Tormented.
And distant—slurred. Not the voice of someone addressing an intruder. But the sound of someone in the tight grip of a nightmare.
I rubbed a hand over my face, my fingers trailing over the swell of my sleep-deprived eyelids. Then I swung my feet over the side of the four-poster bed. Padding out of the room and down the hall, I stood in front of Beau’s room. The door was ajar, so I eased it open and stepped inside.
Beau was sitting up in bed, his lamp glowing. His gaze glowering.
“Hey,” I said softly, uncertain where to go from here.
“Paisley?” His hair tousled from sleep, he blinked a few times, trying to focus. “Everything okay?” He reached for the phone beside his bed. “Almost four o’clock.”
I stood there in my Golden Girls T-shirt and running shorts, looking like a gym flunkey. “I was just checking to see if you were all right.”
He said nothing, but his face pinched in a severe frown.
“I think you were having a nightmare.” I took three more steps into the room.
“So you came to check on me?” He was clearly less than thrilled for me to see this side of him. “Tuck me back in?”
“And to make sure it wasn’t actually an intruder in the house.”
“What would you have done? Brained them with a heel?”
“I’m glad you’re finally acknowledging the efficiency of my shoe choices.”
He dropped his head back to his pillow, his back hitting the mattress with a thud. “You can go away now.”
“It happens a lot?”
“What? Finding annoying women in my bedroom?”
“These nightmares.”
“Go back to bed, Paisley.”
“Maybe I can help.”
He propped his elbow behind his head and cracked open an eye. “Your hair looks Medusa met a hurricane.”
Engaged in Trouble (Enchanted Events Book 1) Page 21
