But he wasn’t telling the truth. If she hadn’t found that dummy smoke alarm with a hidden camera blinking down at her, she might buy his story—but she had found it, and the bug in her purse, too. And the keys—she mustn’t forget the real keys turning up in her room. “Try me.”
“I wasn’t drinking, and I wasn’t there for the show either. I was looking for Dad. I found several receipts from Lacy’s in his coat pocket—while I was digging for cash. I didn’t want to believe Dad was at a strip club, maybe even cheating on Mom. I thought there might be some relatively innocent explanation. Maybe he was going with work colleagues or something. I had to find out for myself if he’d go there again. So I went to the club a few times.”
“Lying in wait for your father?” Hopefully the incredulity she felt didn’t come through in her voice.
“Celeste didn’t believe me either. She said she was going to tell Dad I’d been out carousing and that then I tried to put the blame on him, and that this time he’d cut me out of his will for real.”
Mia had actually believed that story Isaiah told her up at Torrey Pines, about how Celeste had been the one to get him into rehab. He’d acted like he was grateful she’d tried to come between him and his inheritance. Mia had been so easily taken in by him. Isaiah knew how to get under her skin—playing up his vulnerable side, taking an interest in her, pretending to like her, all the while knowing she had no real friends. She shouldn’t have fallen for his act, not when he’d showed her his real self that day at Pocket Park, and again at the strip club. But she’d been drawn to him, and she hadn’t wanted to believe he was capable of evil. And now, here he was, laying out a motive for murder as old as time—money.
If only she’d brought the recording device up with her. “If that’s true, why didn’t Celeste actually tell your father about any of this? I assume he still doesn’t know about the argument you had with your sister.” And the police didn’t either, but Mia would be sure to tell them if she made it out of this room alive. She reached her arm across the desk and stretched her fingers until they touched the corner of the laptop. There was still one more thing she needed to confirm—that it was Isaiah who’d been watching her.
This would’ve been his last chance to spy on her in her room, so there was a good chance…
“Celeste said she’d give me one more opportunity. I had to swear to stay sober and start going to AA.”
“And then she conveniently disappeared,” Mia said.
He looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Mia pivoted the laptop toward her and gasped.
It was what she’d been expecting, but still, seeing it was like a punch to the gut.
On the screen, she could see the live feed.
“What are you doing?” Isaiah lunged for her, grabbing her by one arm.
With the other hand, she picked up the laptop and swung it with all her might, cracking it against his skull.
Blood gushed from his scalp, and he fell, cursing, to his knees.
Mia didn’t look back, just ran like hell for the door.
Forty
Mia flew down the stairs, the balls of her bare feet slapping against the cold treads, her mind reeling, not registering the approaching ninety-degree bend until it was too late. She fell, face first, onto the landing, and her head smashed against unyielding marble, as she tumbled down the remaining steps. Then, fueled by adrenaline, she catapulted to her feet.
Pain seared through her, but she had no time to catalogue the source.
Blood poured from her nose and drained down her throat, making her retch.
She kept moving.
My keys?
When she’d dumped out her purse in her room, she hadn’t seen them.
On the kitchen table?
For a millisecond, she hesitated.
Should she take the time to retrieve them for a surer escape, or simply keep running?
Footsteps overhead.
Isaiah had gotten to his feet, but he was still upstairs.
She raced down the hall for the kitchen and burst through the doors, but her keys weren’t on the table.
Or the island.
Dammit.
She slammed her hand on the white countertop, and when she pulled it away, a bright-red handprint, like a child’s finger painting, made her gag.
Get a grip.
Were her keys in the car?
Why had she wasted precious minutes?
Her cheek was throbbing and wet.
She kept going—raced out the front door for her car parked in the big, circular driveway.
Go. Go. Go.
She reached her Jetta; yanked the handle, but the door resisted.
She yanked again, and her elbow zinged like she’d stuck her hand in a jar of lightning. She remembered landing on her outstretched arm when she fell down the stairs. Was her elbow dislocated? And, oh dear Lord, there they were—her keys on the passenger seat—locked inside.
No! No! No!
She pounded a bloody fist against the driver’s window, then whirled around in search of a rock.
Powerful arms closed around her.
She pummeled them with her fists. “Let me go! Let me go!”
“Mia, I’ve got you. It’s okay.” Baxter’s voice echoed in her ears, his words soothing. “Shh.”
He loosened his hold, and she buried her head against his chest, while pain, coming from everywhere, flooded her senses. “Help me. Please, help me.”
“I’m here. You’re okay.” Keeping his hands reassuringly on her arms, he stepped back and surveyed her, then sucked in a sharp breath. “What the hell is going on? Who did this to you?”
She turned her head side to side, checking to see if Isaiah had followed her, then looked up. From a third-story window, he watched. She released her breath. “I-I’m not safe here. I need to leave, but I locked my keys in the car.”
“I’ll take you home to your aunt,” Baxter said, the pitch of his voice rising. “But first we need to
