Authors: Kathy Ivan
He wrapped his larger frame around hers tighter. Their gazes met.
“I love you, Alyssa. Whatever it takes, I will make you realize this is the truth.”
He was a stubborn man. He wouldn't give up. He broke her heart a bit more, and she hadn't thought that was even possible.
“Connor, I need time. Everything has been . . .”
His lips covered hers, stopping the flow of words. This wasn't like the kisses from earlier, hot and frenzied with need. No, this was soft, gentle, and filled with promise. The sweetness was a balm to her parched spirit.
“I know, sweetheart. No pressure, I promise. Just tell me you'll think about what we had . . . and more importantly what we can have again.” His fingertip skimmed across her kiss-damp lips.
Alyssa knew she was probably making the biggest mistake of her life, but right at that moment, she didn't give a damn.
“Okay. I'll think about it.”
Chapter Twenty
Sunday
A
fter a crack-of-dawn all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet, most of the group boarded the hotel shuttle, headed for the bright lights, slot machines and poker tables at the New Orleans riverboat casino. As much as Molly wanted to join them, she had bigger fish to fry, namely snooping on one busybody reporter, AKA, Bethany Banks. That blonde floozy kept eyeballing her grandson like he was the last piece of chocolate cake at a Weight Watcher's convention and she intended to gobble him up. But there was something else, something dark, in the depths of Bethany's rapt gaze. It bugged the daylights out of Molly, giving her the heebie-jeebies.
Standing by one of the slot machines just past the lobby entrance, Molly watched Bethany and her cameraman, Eli somebody or other, involved in a rapid-fire conversation by the concierge desk. Bethany poked him in the chest with one blood-red tipped finger, her lips moving in an animated whisper and he shook his head vehemently. Whatever the she-devil wanted him to do, he wasn't having any part of it. Good for him, she thought.
The cameraman stormed off in the middle of Bethany's tirade and she slung her bag across her shoulder, headed for the coffee shop/snack bar area. She sank into a chair before digging out a purple-covered notebook or journal of some sort and became engrossed in its pages.
Wonder what's in there that's got her so fascinated?
Molly watched her in silence for a few minutes as Bethany pored over the pages before furiously writing, her pen flying across the page. Soon page after page was filled. Bethany looked really pleased with whatever she'd written. Molly's fingers itched to get her hands on that notebook. Maybe if she read a couple pages, she'd figure out what Bethany's scheme was. For a reporter who'd traveled all the way from Baton Rouge for an insignificant human interest story on an annual senior citizens trip, she'd barely spent any time talking to anybody but Connor.
“Okay, I've gotta get my hands on that book.”
Bethany finished up her drink and Molly knew she didn't have much time to come up with a plan.
Oh, well, I'll just wing it. What's the worst that could happen, right?
Bethany stood, throwing a couple dollars onto the table, stuffed everything back into her bag and started for the doorway. Okay, here's my chance, Molly thought before she deliberately blundered into Bethany, making sure to knock into the arm and shoulder carrying her purse with the notebook. They collided hard enough that it splattered onto the floor, its contents rolling across the carpet.
“Oh, I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you pick it up.” Molly bent down at the same time as Bethany, tossing her own enormous purse on top of the purple book. She grabbed things up off the floor, two and three at a time, and shoved them into Bethany's already full hands, apologizing profusely the whole time.
Bethany gave an irritated growl before she caught herself, and smiled, her teeth gritted so tight Molly swore she almost heard them crack.
“No problem, Mrs. Scott. Accidents happen.”
“It was my fault. I missed the bus and wanted to catch a cab and meet up with the other ladies. Gosh darn it, I'm getting to be a clumsy fool in my old age.”
“No, I'm sure you're not.” The expression in Bethany's eyes gave lie to that statement, even as she shoved everything back into her bag. She patted Molly's arm. “I'm just glad nobody was hurt.”
“Me, too, dear. Well, you go along now, I'm gonna get the desk to call a cab and go have some fun.”
“You do that. I'm sure I'll see you later.” Bethany slung her bag over her shoulder and stomped toward the elevator. Molly watched her and waved as the doors closed.
“Whew.” She bent down and retrieved her bag—along with the purple notebook she'd just purloined from Ms. Nosey Parker. Instead of heading to the desk, like she told Bethany, she headed for the elevators herself. She had some reading to do.
# # # # #
The dread in the pit of Molly's stomach built, roiling like an overflowing witch's cauldron as she poured over the pages of what turned out to be Bethany's personal journal. Or maybe a better thing to call it was her book of hatred. Directed solely and entirely at Connor.
The vitriol spewed across page after page, dating back weeks. From the looks of things, the familiarity of the way Bethany wrote about Molly's grandson, this probably wasn't her first journal.
The diatribe continued as Bethany's anger and loathing for Connor sprang forth from the pages. The further Molly read, a pattern to her madness began to form. Plots and schemes were outlined in minute detail, vicious and heinous acts of violence that Bethany wished upon her grandson.
One thing was abundantly clear. If Bethany ever had the opportunity to hurt Connor, in any fashion, she'd take it in a heartbeat.
Finally, she read today's entry, the one Bethany had written in the coffee shop that very morning. Molly's blood ran cold at Bethany's words.
“Oh my stars, no.” Molly scrambled off her bed, stumbling across the room for her purse. She had to call Connor right now. The things Bethany wrote, she had to warn him.
Before she could dial, a knock sounded on the door. Great. Connor said he'd take her to the riverboat to meet up with everybody. Thank goodness he was early. She swung open the door, expecting her grandson, then tried to shove it back closed when she saw Bethany standing there, but she wasn’t strong enough.
“Back inside, you meddlesome old bitch.” Bethany shouldered her way into the room, shoving Molly back and slamming the door closed behind her, before flipping the deadbolt with a snap.
“You read my journal, didn't you?”
“Damn right I did,” Molly snapped back.
“Weill that's too bad. Now I'm going to have to speed things up.”
“I won't let you hurt Connor. You're insane. I've already called him—”
“No, I don’t think you have, or he'd be here, wouldn't he? Or, the authorities would be.” Bethany advanced on Molly, and Molly backpedaled, keeping space between them. Unfortunately there wasn't much space left before she'd run out of room and there was no place else to go.
“You have caused nothing but problems since the day we first talked, Molly. But I do have to thank you. You've given me the one thing I've been wanting for years. A way to get closer to Connor Scott. I have a score to settle with your grandson. Since you've been so obliging with facilitating our reunion, I'll go easy on you.”
Molly frantically looked around the room, gauging what she could use as a weapon. Anything. There wasn't a damn thing that wasn't nailed down or easy to grab. Bethany laughed as she watched, knowing her struggles were in vain. When Molly looked back at Bethany she froze.
Held firm in Bethany's steady-as-a-rock hand was the last thing Molly expected—a pistol—and the barrel was pointed directly at her head. Bethany motioned toward the bed. “Take a seat, Molly.”
“Why? If you're going to shoot me, get it over with.”
Bethany laughed aloud, and Molly heard the taint of madness behind it.
Oh, crap. She is gonna kill me
.
“Sit.” Molly perched on the edge of the bed trying to control the trembling in her hands. Fear left an acrid taste in the back of her throat and she swallowed to keep from throwing up. Nothing in her entire adult life had ever terrified her as much as the insane bitch standing two feet away from her. Even without the gun, Molly knew Bethany was quite capable of killing her. She was bigger, stronger, faster, and younger. But Molly had one thing in her favor. She was smart—if she was going to die she'd make damn sure to leave some clue, a way for them to find this psycho assassin and fry her ass when they caught her.
“You really should have minded your own business, my dear. You could've finished up the trip, gone back to Boca with the rest of the old farts, and died in your sleep.” Bethany paused a moment, before a huge smile spread across her face.
“In fact, that seems like a great idea. Don't move.” Keeping the gun trained on Molly, Bethany backed up toward the sink, grabbed the glass Molly had used earlier that morning, and filled it with water. With a purposeful stride, she closed the distance between them.
“Here.”
“I'm not thirsty.” Instinctively Molly grasped the glass as it was thrust at her, water sloshing over the sides.
“I don’t give a damn if you're thirsty. You'll need it.” One-handed Bethany dug into the front zipper section of her shoulder bag, fingers scrambling around in the compartment, her eyes never leaving Molly. Molly considered tossing the water into Bethany's face, but what good would that do other than to piss her off even more? The damning lavender notebook sat on her nightstand, where she'd tossed it in her frantic dash for her phone. If she could somehow hide it . . .
“Don't even think about it. The book's going with me when I leave.” Bethany's almost friendly tone sent chills skittering along Molly's spine, the tiny hairs standing up on the back of her neck. It didn't sound like they'd both be leaving the room—which meant her life was over.
“Ah, ha!” The sound of triumph filled Bethany's voice and spelled doom to Molly. Holding up a prescription bottle, Bethany chuckled. “These will do the trick nicely, I think.”
“What is that? Poison?” Try as she might, Molly couldn't keep the quiver out of her words, her heart racing.
“Do I look like I carry poison around with me, Molly?”
“How would I know what a psychotic bitch like you keeps in her purse? For all I know you've got baby rattlesnakes in there.”
Bethany snorted. “Really. Baby rattlesnakes?”
“Yeah, you know, your children.”
“Tut, tut, Molly, now is that nice? Nope, I'm not carrying poison—or baby rattlers. Just good old fashioned sleeping pills. I think maybe you need to take one or two. Or maybe the whole bottle.”
“No!”
Bethany strode forward, flung the pill bottle onto the bedspread next to Molly's leg. Gripping Molly's chin, she forced her head up.
“You've got two choices here, old woman. One, take the pills and have a slim chance of somebody finding you before you croak. Or two, I put a bullet into your feeble old brain and you die instantly. Your choice.”
Molly tried to wrench her head away from Bethany's hold to no avail. Her grip held. Swallowing down the bile rising in her throat, Molly nodded.
“Excellent, we'll go with door number one.” Bethany grabbed up the pill bottle, unscrewed the top, which was a feat in itself while holding onto the pistol. “Go, climb back into your bed, under the covers.”
With a sinking heart, Molly prayed while following Bethany's instructions. Think, Molly, how can you leave a message, some clue to let Connor know what's happening?
“Gimme your hand.” Trembling so hard she could barely breathe, Molly reached her hand forward, palm up, and Bethany poured the entire contents of the prescription bottle into her hand. So many pills. Molly tried swallowing past the lump lodged in her throat, dread and a sense of inevitability swamping her. Bethany lifted the glass of water, shoving it toward her, again sloshing some over the sides as Molly took it.
There's no way around this
, she thought.
Either I take the pills and hope Connor or somebody misses me and comes looking before its too late, or Bethany blows my brains out. Some choice.
“Swallow them.” All Molly could focus on was the gun pointed straight at her head. This close, there wasn't a chance in hell Bethany wouldn't splatter her brains all over the hotel wall. Closing her eyes, she sent a quick prayer heavenward before stuffing the pills into her mouth, and washing them down with the water. Defiantly, she slammed the empty glass on the nightstand, crossing her arms over her chest, glaring at the psycho bitch standing their smirking.
“There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now, crawl under the covers and get comfortable, dear.” Bethany's gaze darted around the room, lighting on the phone. She frowned and Molly wondered again how nobody else saw the evil in Bethany that she'd noticed ever since she'd arrived for their television interview. Chills ran down her arms and she snuggled down deeper beneath the covers.
Why didn't she leave?
Molly bit back the yawn that threatened to crack her jaw.
No, fight it. Stay awake. Can't let her win . . .
She flung her hand out, smacking into Bethany's arm. It felt like she struck her hard but realized it barely touched her.
Bethany ignored her as if she were an annoying fly buzzing around, with barely a flick of her wrist. “Stop it, Molly. Time to go nighty-night. Close your eyes and go to sleep—forever.”
Molly watched Bethany sit the empty pill bottle down and reach for the phone, yanking the cord from the back and sticking it beneath the base so it looked like it was still connected. Damn, she thought, I can't call out now unless . . . wait, what? Oh, yeah, phone. Need to call . . . somebody.
Molly's hand flopped back, boneless against the bedding as Bethany turned away, the pistol grasped in her hand. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Molly frantically searched again for some way to leave Connor a clue, a message so he could protect himself since she wouldn't be there to help him.