by Maria Luis
Quinn’s eyes, red with grief, narrowed on me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” I swallowed. “Everything. Shit.” I shoved him back with a hand to his chest. “I gotta go. You”—I met his gaze—“you want to make sure Laurel is safe for the rest of her life? Testify.”
“What?”
Christ, I didn’t have time to explain. Dropping to my heels, I grabbed my trench knife off the floor and, snapping it closed, shoved it at his chest. “It’s monogramed,” I said, kicking my chin toward the knife. “Go to the eighth district station and ask to speak with Lieutenant Stefan Delery. Tell him exactly what you just told me and tell him that Avery—Laurel Peyton—will testify too.”
When he didn’t make a move to grab the knife, I gave it another push at his chest, forcing him to take hold. “If Nat asks where you went, tell her . . . tell her that you brought me out to the Atchafalaya Basin. She’ll know what that means, and here’s to hoping it gives me enough time to go meet you at the station with Avery ASAP.”
She’d been right.
There was a way to end this without total bloodshed—at least when it came to Mayor Jay Foley. Nat would go down, too, there was no denying that. She’d left crumbs throughout the years that made her as much a suspect as the city’s beloved mayor.
Ambideaux . . . Skin tightening at the thought of everything I’d learned, I hurried down the steps of the Basement. I wanted to take him down. Wanted to string him up and feed him to the goddamn gators, the way he’d done to me—his own fucking son.
I thought of Quinn, the way he’d been in near tears thinking of Avery’s mother. He’d loved her—however that had happened, he’d loved her, and he put her first over his own life. His choice had been to save her.
I chose Avery.
She’d entered my life when I’d least expected it, knocked me on my ass with her wit and her perseverance and the goddamn bravery she radiated like a second skin.
I was a man who’d never known love, but I’d fallen in love with her.
Her safety was priority. Her life was priority.
Between me and her, I chose her.
Always.
29
Avery
“He’s not here.”
Katie glanced over at me, then locked her arm with mine. “You don’t know that. He might be.”
He wasn’t. I would have sensed his presence or at least spotted his broad frame above all the people milling about.
Lifting my chin, I scoured the room, taking note of all the black cocktail dresses and black suits. It seemed that the whole of New Orleans was packed in the parlor and dining room of Ambideaux’s house. No matter which way I turned, I was on the receiving end of an elbow to the side or a splash of a cocktail landing on the silk dress I’d borrowed from Katie.
Worry spliced through me.
He had to be at the Basement, then, going after Nat. Dammit. I’d taken a guess and had guessed wrong. By the time we even made it over there . . . I couldn’t imagine the sort of damage he might cause.
Or the death.
I understood his anger, had thrived in that anger for years, but it wasn’t worth risking his life. My life. The life we might have together if we managed to get out of this alive.
“We’ve been here for an hour,” I muttered to Katie. “The likelihood that we missed him is slim to none.”
She nudged me. “What about the second floor?”
I lifted my gaze to the circular stairwell just beyond the dining room. “I doubt he’s up there. He’d be where Ambideaux is, and Ambideaux is . . .” I trailed off, hastily looking for the man of the hour. “He was just there. By the grand piano.”
Katie craned her neck. “Bet he went to the bathroom. The man has been tossing back vodka like he’s going for a liquor baptism session.” Her hands went to her dress and, without even acknowledging that we were surrounded by some of the wealthiest people in the city, shoved her hand down her dress and adjusted her breasts.
My eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”
“Your distraction is here and willing to work.” She tugged on the thin straps of her dress, letting them snap against her skin when she released the bands. “I’m going to stalk Mr. Future Mayor by the loo. You go upstairs. Make sure he’s not there.”
“You do realize you’re not British, right?”
Katie winked. “You do realize that you brought me here for a reason, right?”
Dammit, she was right. Leaning back, I checked out the grand piano again, just in case. Nada. Looked like we were going for Plan B, with Katie leading the breast troops over by the loo.
When she stepped back, I circled her arm with my hand, pulling her to a quick stop. “Be safe,” I told her, giving her a quick squeeze before letting go.
Her lips pulled up in one of her trademark smiles. “Be brave, Ave. Go get your man before he does something idiotic and you’re forced to visit him in jail for the next fifteen years. You’ll be horny for life, and he’ll be getting it up the ass from a prison friend. Don’t let that be your future.”
Well, when she put it that way, there wasn’t a shot in hell that I was leaving this house without turning it over first.
We gave each other a little salute, then went off in opposite directions.
My purse slapped my leg as I hustled to the stairwell. It was heavy, my gun tucked inside for safekeeping, and at the sight of the velvet cord hovering above the third step, I climbed over it and hurried up the stairs. They creaked under my weight, no doubt as old as the house was, and I cursed every wooden whine.
Cursed, also, Lincoln’s damn stubbornness for not setting aside his need for vengeance.
He wasn’t a monster, just a man, and I knew that all men were fallible. But that didn’t mean he should go risking his neck just to ensure that he wasn’t caught unaware sometime down the line.
The second floor was carpeted, but I stripped off my high heels anyway and hooked the back straps over my finger. Cocked my hip as I walked and gave a little stumble—Katie wasn’t the only one good at performing. If someone caught me up here, I’d rather they think I was a drunk wandering than, well, doing what I was actually doing.
Ensuring Sergeant Lincoln Asher didn’t commit murder and end up somebody’s personal friend in prison for the next twenty years.
Peeking into one room, I came up empty and went for the next.
Did the same with the next two rooms, one of which led to a bathroom.
Also empty.
Heart pounding, I neared the end of the hall. There was only one door left. Like the others, it was tugged shut. The ratio factor told me that Lincoln wasn’t in there, but I couldn’t leave without checking first.
On silent feet, I approached it, hand moving toward the doorknob. Pressed my cheek to the door. Hearing nothing at all, I twisted the handle and glanced inside.
“Who’s there?” snapped a feminine voice. “Who is that?”
Don’t go in there.
Leave.
Turn around!
I’d never been good at following orders, not even my own.
I stepped inside. Shut the door behind me.
And stared at the woman who couldn’t be anyone but Lincoln’s mother.
30
Lincoln
My townhouse was empty, the front door unlocked but closed shut.
Desperation crawled through me, weighing down my limbs as I stalked down every room, hoping that I was wrong. That she hadn’t left. That she hadn’t gone looking for me.
“Fuck!”
Fury ricocheted through me, and I twirled around on impact and slammed my fist into the nearest wall. The plaster cracked. My knuckles cracked. My damn heart cracked as I tried to clear my thoughts and assess the situation.
In thirty-four years, I’d always managed to operate with a clear head because I had nothing to lose. No one to lose. That wasn’t the case now—hadn’t been since Avery entered the picture and tossed my life into a
blender and flicked the switch to ON.
I couldn’t think beyond the stampeding of my heart and the blood thundering in my head.
If she wasn’t here, and she hadn’t gone to the Basement, then there were only two other options: Big Hampton’s or Ambideaux’s cocktail party that she’d received an invitation to attend.
Laying a hand on the now-fractured wall, I dropped my chin and inhaled sharply.
If I had more time, I’d go to the Sultan’s Palace in the off chance she’d stopped by there to meet with Katie.
But I didn’t have time. It wasn’t on my side.
Swiping a hand over my face, I pushed away from the wall and beat it to the still-running SUV on the front drive.
I had to take a lucky guess, and my guess was that she’d gone to Jason’s.
My father’s.
Stomach churning at the thought, I climbed into the SUV and fumbled for my new cell phone. Flicked through the sparse number of contacts until Delery’s name was blinking across the screen.
He picked up on the second ring. “What do you want, Ash?”
For the first time in my life, I would try to play by the rules. “I need units at Jason Ambideaux’s house.”
There was a minute pause. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that today.
Palming the steering wheel, I whipped the SUV down along the bayou. “Units, L-T. Police officers. Trust me on this.”
Laughter echoed in my ear. “Ash, man, you feeling okay? I’m telling you that—”
“No,” I bit out, “I’m telling you that unless you want shit about one of your officers being blasted all across the news tomorrow morning, you’ll send me some backup so things don’t get that far.”
“Well, shit.”
Yeah, that about summed up my day.
“L-T?”
Delery breathed into the phone. “Please tell me you don’t have anything else to say.”
Swinging a right, the SUV went airborne when I hit a massive bump crossing the intersection. “Yeah,” I grunted, gunning the car once I’d hit the back road that would lead me to Jason’s, “I sent someone over to you. About the Foley case. Turn him away and I’ll shoot your dick off the next time we see each other.”
“That threat’s been old since we were in the East.”
“Yeah, well, I never said I’ve gotten more original with age.”
Canceling the call, I tossed my phone onto the passenger’s seat.
Hold on, sweetheart. I’m coming for you.
31
Avery
She was blindfolded.
Shock skated down my spine as I took in what had to be Lincoln’s mother.
Posted up in bed, her wiry arms were crossed over her chest, her legs hidden beneath swaths of comforters and sheets. A TV sat opposite her, on top of a waist-high table. Large murals graced the walls, turning what would have been an ordinary room into something resembling a rainforest. And, to the left of the bed, a wheelchair waited, angled toward the mattress.
“Jason?” she called, her arms jolting into action. Shaky fingers reached up, up, up, searching for the scrap of fabric over her eyes. “Jason, is that you?”
If I said nothing at all, she’d know in three seconds when she whipped the blindfold off and spotted me by the doorway.
I cleared my throat. Swallowed, hard. “No, not Jason.”
She stiffened in the bed. “Who are you?”
Seeing her like this, all trussed up in the bed, made pity beat a steady pace in my heart. Handicapped or not, no one deserved the pure isolation of being unable to see—because someone else wanted to remove that ability from you.
Dropping my heels to the plush carpet, I moved to her side and did the honors—sliding the black fabric up and off her face, until she was blinking up at me with eerily familiar-colored eyes.
Haint-blue, the same as Lincoln’s.
God, I hurt for them both. Lincoln, who’d been forced, through no fault of his own, to put up with the moods of a woman who was clearly in pain. For his mother, who clearly had been held here like some sort of captive.
Everything was in perfect order. The wheelchair, the TV, the paintings on the wall. But who blindfolded a woman with a condition like hers? Someone cruel, like Ambideaux.
“I’m so sorry for intruding,” I whispered, my tongue swollen with nerves. “I’m a . . . guest downstairs. Of Jason’s.”
Her mouth firmed into a thin line. “This is a private room.”
There were so many things I wished to say, the most important being: did Lincoln know how she was kept here?
I balled the scrap of fabric in my hand. “Yes, I’m sorry.”
What else was there to say? I needed to go. Lincoln’s mother wasn’t like the strays I picked up or the homeless that I brought food to whenever I could. She wasn’t in need of a savior, and she certainly didn’t need me—but I couldn’t turn away.
“You need to go.”
Yes, I thought, you’re completely right.
My feet wouldn’t budge.
“Does Jason treat you well?”
Her thin, dark brows lifted. “That’s not your business.”
No, it wasn’t.
The blindfold tangled in my fingers as I held it up. “Do you like this?” I asked softly. “If so, then there’s no concern. None. But I can’t help but feel as though you’re kept blinded on purpose. You’re not . . . are you?”
Her already fragile-like features winced, pinching at her brow and then again in her jawline. Her fingers fluttered in her lap. “He said it would help me to focus when I want to think about something. I have a hard time focusing. Always have, but especially after—”
“Lincoln was born?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
I saw it immediately, the way her gaze shuttered, and her chest heaved with a big, uneven breath. “Get out.”
“Ma’am, I’m—”
“Get out!”
She shrieked the words at the top of her lungs. I knew it was only my imagination, but it seemed like even the walls shook with the force of her rage. There was no doubt that even the party downstairs had heard her bellow, and I backpedaled, feet tripping over the carpet in my haste to get the hell out of dodge.
“Get out!” Her coloring turned red, the color of the murals on the wall. The color of blood. “Get out! Get out!”
Her arm shot out to the left and she smacked something on her bedside table. When her hand came away, I saw that it was a button. A button that was clearly important to her because her palm came down again and again and again on it.
Oh, shit.
The straps of my purse swung left as I went right.
Lurching toward the door, I ripped it open to the chorus of Lincoln’s mother losing her shit behind me. Slammed it shut to another verse of “Get out!”
The music downstairs was still playing. Thank God.
Maybe no one had heard her catastrophic shrieking.
Please, let no one have heard her.
Shoeless, my feet padded over the floor. It was time to go. Maybe Lincoln had gone to the Basement or maybe he’d developed a lick of sense and had gone straight to the police station. Maybe—
Footsteps that weren’t mine drew my attention up off the floor and to the end of the hallway.
Jason Ambideaux stared back at me, his black hair slicked back, his suit pristine.
Then, his mouth curved in a smile that made me sick. “How wonderful of you to join us, Miss Peyton.”
My gaze jerked to the left and to the right—there was nowhere to go.
Nowhere to escape.
Like when I’d heard Momma die, I was stuck. Frozen. Unable to move.
He took a step toward me.
I wouldn’t be my mother, dead on the floor with the blood coating my hair.
I spun on my bare heels and ran.
“There’s nowhere for you to go, Miss Peyton,” Ambideaux said, hi
s voice a pitch above a menacing murmur. “Or should I call you Miss Washington?”
The rooms were prison cells on this floor. There were no fire escapes that I’d seen from the outside when walking up. No big bushes to catch my fall if I leapt out.
Be brave.
Be bold.
My gaze caught on Lincoln’s mother’s room. She was still shrieking, still yelling at the top of her lungs. There was no other option, and I didn’t dare take the time to risk looking back at Ambideaux.
With my shoulder, I burst the door open like a battering ram, which did nothing to calm the woman’s shrieking from the bed.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
“Sorry, lady,” I muttered, turning the lock and stumbling backward, “we’re stuck together for the time being.”
The doorknob jiggled a second later, and then there was Ambideaux’s voice, no longer so smooth or cajoling. “Victoria!” The door visibly shook on its hinges, like he’d thrown his body against it from the other side. “Victoria!”
Behind me, Lincoln’s mother didn’t miss a beat: “Get out! Get out!”
The door creaked. And then, beyond it, again: “Victoria!”
My head swirled from the cacophony of noises. Heart thudded against my ribcage. Stomach churned as I clutched the strap of my purse and turned in a slow circle, assessing my surroundings. The closet was an obvious—and dumb—choice, and so I shot toward the window as the next best thing, hoping, praying . . .
Forehead kissing the glass, I glanced down and bit out a curse. No fire escape. No bushes to catch my fall. If I didn’t break my neck, I’d be lucky to be the recipient of a bum leg, which would do me no favors when I couldn’t flee.
Taking the time to move furniture to the door might work in the movies but wouldn’t do me much good. I didn’t have the time.
I was a sitting duck.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
Gaze snapping to the woman panicking in her bed, I swallowed.
Don’t do it.
Don’t you dare fucking do it.
