Three (Count to Ten Book 3)

by Jane Blythe

  If it wasn’t a suicide, then it could also be a drug buy gone wrong. They already knew that Isabella was proficient with a gun—she’d shot her grandfather, so she was more than likely armed. Especially if she were selling drugs she’d stolen from the hospital.

  Both he and Paige grabbed their guns as they jumped from the car and ran toward the front door of the dark brick house. The door was ajar and the house appeared empty as they stepped inside. Covering each other, they checked out the living room—which turned out to be empty.

  They headed toward the door on the far side of the room. Paige pushed it open and then turned back to him. “There’s a body,” she murmured.

  He scanned the room as Paige knelt beside the tall, brown haired man lying on the floor and pressed her fingers to his neck. “Dead?” he asked.

  “No, I got a pulse,” she replied. “And a gun.” She gestured at a weapon lying about a foot away from the man.

  He retrieved the gun. “Cuff him, and I’ll finish checking the house.”

  Ryan was about to leave the room, when the man on the floor suddenly sat bolt upright, one hand snapping around Paige’s wrist.

  Ryan trained his gun at the man’s head. “Police. You're under arrest. Let my partner go.”

  The man let out a sigh that seemed to be one of relief. “You’re cops?”

  “Yes,” Ryan reconfirmed, wondering whether perhaps this guy had unwittingly gotten himself caught up in Isabella’s games.

  “Me too. Detective Xavier Montague. My ID is in my pocket.” He gestured with one hand at his coat’s front pocket, his other hand was still clamped around Paige’s wrist.

  With her free hand, Paige reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like an ID. “He’s telling the truth,” Paige said to him, then turned to Detective Montague. “Want to let go of me now?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He released his grip on Paige, who flexed her hand and rotated her wrist, wincing. “Let me look at that.” Detective Montague grasped her hand again, gently this time, and examined her wrist. “You should ice that. Again, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just woke up and you were there, leaning over me, and I thought you were…”

  Ryan exchanged glances with Paige when the man didn’t continue. “You thought we were…?” Ryan prompted, finally lowering his gun so it no longer pointed at the man’s head.

  “I thought you were Ricky Preston,” Detective Montague replied.

  “Who’s Ricky Preston?” Paige tugged her hand free from Detective Montague’s grip and pushed to her feet.

  “A serial killer I was forced to let go free,” he explained. Noting the surprise on his and Paige’s faces he added, “It’s a long story.”

  Wondering how this Ricky Preston connected to Isabella, Ryan was about to ask when the other detective attempted to stand. “Whoa,” Ryan put a hand on Detective Montague’s shoulder and held him down. “You got shot, you’re bleeding, maybe you ought to stay still till paramedics get here.”

  He shook his head. “It’s only a flesh wound, just skimmed me.”

  “You were unconscious when we came in.” Paige looked skeptical.

  “I don’t like the sight of my own blood.” Detective Montague looked embarrassed as he stood up. “I'm fine with other people’s, but mine makes me woozy; I just fainted. Were you here looking for Ricky?”

  “No, Isabella Everette,” Ryan answered.

  The detective’s eyes grew wide, and Ryan realized for the first time that the man had different colored eyes; one was hazel and one was green. “The rich girl who killed her family?” he asked.

  “The very one,” Ryan told him. “This is her house, but I have no idea what she’s doing with your serial killer.” Paige was still cradling the arm Detective Montague had grabbed, and Ryan could already see bruises forming and the joint swelling. “You should go grab an ice pack from the first aid kit in the car,” he told her.

  Paige looked like she was going to argue, but then reluctantly nodded her agreement. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Did you see Ricky leaving when you got here?” Detective Montague asked as Paige left the room.

  “We arrived just as we heard shots; no one’s left,” Ryan replied.

  “Then he’s still here somewhere, probably your Isabella Everette, too. I heard voices when I first arrived.”

  Without a word, the two of them moved back into the living room, scanned it and then headed for the stairs. They had cleared the bathroom and one bedroom when they heard Paige’s voice.

  “Ryan?”

  It sounded like his partner was still outside, so he went to a window to look out. Paige was standing in the middle of the yard. A man, Ryan presumed it was Ricky Preston, was standing behind her, his gun aimed at her head. Beside them stood Isabella.

  “Don’t let Ricky know I'm still alive,” Detective Montague whispered as he darted out of the room.

  “Hello, Ryan,” Isabella looked up at him, her face white in the thin moonlight.

  He ignored the man for the moment. “Isabella, Sofia misses you. She wants to see you. Let me take you to her.”

  “You mean let you arrest me?” Isabella’s voice was serious, yet he detected a hint of sadness.

  “You miss her, too,” he continued. “Don’t you want to see her? She’s so sad that you’ve been gone. She worries about you. She wants to know that you're okay. She’s doing better now; she’s recovering well from the fall. She got her cast off a couple of days ago. Isabella, her stalker came back. He broke into our house two nights in a row. Sofia was there on her own. She’s scared, Isabella. Seeing you will make her feel better. You want to see her, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Isabella acknowledged hesitantly.

  “Then get your friend to let Paige go; Sofia would be devastated if anything happened to her.” Ryan was praying that Isabella loved Sofia enough to convince Ricky Preston to let Paige go and to turn herself in.

  “Ricky,” Isabella turned to him, laying a hand on his arm, “let her go, she’s my sister’s friend.”

  “I'm not going to jail,” he growled.

  “Oh, yes, you are.” Detective Montague suddenly appeared in the yard.

  In a flurry of activity, Ricky Preston slammed his gun into Paige’s temple and then threw her at Detective Montague. Stunned from the blow to her head, Paige stumbled, Detective Montague caught her before she hit the ground. Using that as a distraction, Ricky Preston grabbed Isabella and darted toward the white van parked in the drive. Balancing Paige with one arm, Detective Montague fired off a shot at the van as it rocketed out into the street. The rear window exploded, but the van didn’t stop. Seconds later, it was out of sight.

  Darting from the window, Ryan bounded down the stairs and out into the front yard just as Detective Montague was lowering Paige to sit on the grass.

  “I can't believe he got away again,” Detective Montague roared, stalking between his car and the house as though deciding whether he should try and chase Ricky and Isabella, even though he knew it was pointless. They were long gone.

  He kneeled in front of Paige. “Are you okay?” Ryan asked her. She nodded, but blood was trickling from a wound on her temple and she appeared dazed. Paige made a feeble attempt at standing, but he easily held her in place. “Hey, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You need to stay still right now. Paramedics will be here any second.”

  “I'm fine,” Paige protested weakly, pressing her good hand to her head, the one Detective Montague had injured earlier was resting limply in her lap.

  “She okay?” Detective Montague squatted beside him.

  “She’s a little out of it, but I think she’ll be fine.” He gave the other man an appraising look. “You should sit down, too; you’re still bleeding pretty badly.”

  He sunk to the ground next to Paige. “You never told me your names,” Detective Montague murmured.

  He kept a hand on his partner’s shoulder to steady her. “Ryan Xander and Paige Hood,” he filled in. />
  Sirens filled the air and Ryan let out a relieved breath; Paige and Detective Montague both needed to be checked out. And he wanted Isabella found ASAP. If Ricky Preston hadn't been there, Ryan was sure he could have talked Isabella into turning herself in. As it was, he’d nearly had her convinced. But now she was on the run again. Only this time with a killer. Sure, Isabella was one, too, but he had a bad feeling about Ricky Preston. Sofia’s sister wasn’t safe with him. And as much as he didn’t want to, he cared because Sofia did. They needed to find Isabella before it was too late.

  JANUARY 12th

  12:02 A.M.

  Xavier couldn’t believe that Ricky Preston had slipped through his fingers again.

  Once again, Ricky had managed to make sure that he had a hostage between him and the police. There had been no way for Xavier to get a shot at Ricky without hitting Paige Hood.

  And, once again, Ricky had managed to use a distraction to make sure he could get away. When Ricky had hit Paige over the head and thrown her at him, Xavier had no choice but to catch the woman before she hit the ground and caused herself more injuries.

  By the time he’d maneuvered Paige so he could keep a hold of her with one arm and keep her on her feet, Ricky had already been in the van. He’d still fired off a shot, hoping that he might be able to take Ricky out, or at the very least take out the van so Ricky lost his getaway vehicle. Unfortunately, he’d missed out on both. The van had disappeared before he had a chance to jump in his car and follow it.

  Ryan had insisted that his partner go immediately in an ambulance to the hospital to get checked out. Paige had been too woozy to do more than offer a few weak protests, and had been quickly bundled into an ambulance by some paramedics and taken away. He had refused to come to the hospital until he’d had a chance to confer with Ryan about Isabella Everette and what possible reason there could be for her and Ricky Preston to team up.

  When he’d finally agreed to climb into an ambulance himself a couple of hours had passed by. As he had predicted, the gunshot wound was little more than a flesh wound from where the bullet had grazed his shoulder. Obviously, Ricky Preston was not a good shot, or maybe the dark had messed with his aim. Or perhaps he was simply playing another game—toying with Annabelle to cause her maximum terror and pain.

  First thing he’d done after the gash had been stitched was to go and check on Paige. He felt awful for hurting her, and was hoping he had not broken her wrist. When he’d come to and seen a body hovering over him his immediate reaction had been to assume it was Ricky.

  He’d found Paige dozing in a bed, waiting to be released since she had refused to spend the night, with her anxious husband hovering at her bedside. Thankfully, her wrist was not broken, just badly bruised, and he had apologized a few more times, until she’d cut him off with a tired smile. The doctors had also determined that she did not have a concussion, just a bad bump to the head. They’d given her a couple of stitches to close the gash and some painkillers and told her to take it easy for the next few days. Xavier highly doubted that Paige intended to follow that directive.

  Now he was sitting waiting for Kate and Annabelle to come and pick him up and take him home. When he’d called Kate back at Isabella Everette’s house after the paramedics and officers had arrived, he’d asked her not to tell Annabelle that he’d been shot until he could do it in person. He was concerned that Annabelle would work herself into hysteria about it if she couldn’t see for herself that he was okay. However, it seemed that Annabelle had convinced herself that something had happened to him when he didn’t come home by nightfall and hadn't called to tell her why, and Kate had had no choice but to let her know what had happened.

  A sharp gasp sent him spinning toward the door.

  Annabelle was standing there. Her near white eyes were wide with shock. Even from across the room he could see that her whole body was shaking.

  “Belle, I'm fine, really.” He walked toward her. “Look,” he grasped her chin and tilted her face toward his shoulder; he’d deliberately left off his shirt so she could see that his wound was small and superficial.

  Annabelle didn’t move or utter a sound. It was like she was frozen.

  “Belle, I'm really okay.” He took her gently by the arm and led her to the bed, sitting her down on it. “Honey, there's nothing for you to worry about. I'm completely fine, it barely even hurts,” he told her, not just to reassure her but because it was true.

  Annabelle just stared blankly into space. She was barely even blinking.

  Starting to get a little alarmed, he took her face in both hands and leaned over, trying to force her to meet his gaze. “Belle, look at me. Annabelle,” he repeated more forcefully when she didn’t react. “Come on, honey, you're scaring me.” He had expected her to be upset, but not this upset once she saw that he was all right. When she still didn’t move, he kissed her—softly and gently. At first she didn’t respond but then ever so faintly she kissed him back.

  When he broke away from her, he could see her eyes had cleared a little. She whispered something, but her voice was too quiet for him to hear what she’d said.

  “What was that, honey?” he asked, brushing her hair back from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

  Her eyes finally sought his, and in them he could see tears shimmering. “It’s my fault,” she murmured.

  He was confused. “What’s your fault?”

  “That Ricky shot you.” Like a switch had been flicked, she suddenly turned frantic, her hands all but clawing at his body. “I'm sorry,” she babbled. “Are you okay? There’s blood. And you have stitches. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

  “Hey, hey,” he soothed, catching her hands and pinning them against his chest. “What do you mean, it’s your fault?”

  “It’s because of me that he’s still out there.” Tears began to spill down her cheeks.

  “Why would you think that?” He cupped her face in his hand and brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, tracing the pale pink scar that Ricky had given her eight months ago.

  “That’s what he told me.” She was crying now. “He used me to get away, and it worked. You came running to find me and he got away. And now he’s still out there. Killing people. Hurting people. He could have killed you. He could have taken you away from me. What would I have done then? What would I do without you?” The last was a hiccupping gulp as she began to sob in earnest.

  Drawing her against his chest, Xavier wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair, attempting to calm her. “Shh,” he whispered, “it’s not true, baby. It is not your fault. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here and I'm fine. No one is going to take me away from you. Not Ricky and not anyone else.”

  Annabelle continued to cry, so he sat on the bed beside her and pulled her into his lap, rocking her gently. He had been so caught up in blaming himself for the fact that Ricky Preston was still on the run that he hadn't realized just how much Annabelle blamed herself. She had told him in the hospital after he’d found her, close to death in her parents’ airtight wine cellar where Ricky had locked her, that it was her fault, but she hadn’t mentioned it since.

  Ricky had abducted her with the express purpose of using her as an insurance policy. If the police had been on to him then he had her locked away where she had a limited air supply so that they had no choice but to let him go to save her life. It had worked perfectly. While he had her tied up Ricky had explained to her his plan to use her as a distraction. His betrayal had been like a sharp knife in Annabelle’s heart. He had been her only friend—at least she had believed they were friends—and she had opened up to him in a way she hadn't with any other person.

  He was furious with himself for being so distracted with his own guilt that he had been oblivious to Annabelle’s. He was determined not to make that mistake again. With Annabelle so vulnerable and fragile right now, he had to make her his absolute priority. “Baby, don’t cry anymore,” he implored her. He hated to see Annabelle a quivering mess in his arms
; it broke his heart.

  But Annabelle continued to sob, her arms wrapped so tightly around his neck as she clung to him that it was pulling painfully on his stitches. Not that he was going to tell her that. If Annabelle needed to be in his arms right now, then that was where she was going to be.

  “Is everything okay in here?” The doctor who had stitched his shoulder earlier suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “She’s a little upset,” Xavier replied, thinking that had to be the understatement of the century.

  “She looks more than a little upset.” The doctor smiled and crossed to the bed. “Let me take a look at her.”

  Annabelle didn’t protest as he slid her off his lap and onto the bed. She just squeezed her eyes closed and clutched at his hand. “I'm not going anywhere,” he assured her.

  The doctor checked Annabelle’s vitals while he watched anxiously. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted Annabelle to find out about the shooting until he could be the one to tell her.

  “Is it unusual for her to become this hysterical?” the doctor asked.

  “No, she suffered a severe trauma a few months ago. She has a Xanax prescription, but I don’t have any on me,” he explained.

  “Okay,” the doctor nodded. “I assume she’s seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Yes,” Xavier confirmed, intending to call Dr. Hastings again first thing in the morning.

  “She needs rest; do you have any sleeping pills?”

  “We have Ambien,” he replied.

  “All right, then take her home, give her some sleeping pills and put her to bed. If she’s not any better in the morning, either take her to her doctor or bring her back here to the hospital. I’ll go and get someone to help you get her to the car.”