And, if she was being honest with herself, she was hoping Seth would be released soon and come back to finish what they’d started that morning.
God, she needed to talk to him. She needed to hear his voice, to make sure he was okay.
“Why don’t I make you some tea?” Paul suggested, nudging her toward the kitchen. “You still have some of that honey chamomile stuff you and my mom like so much?”
“I think so.” She followed him into the warm room at the back of the house, trying not to remember the time she’d spent in there with Seth just that morning.
But the kitchen was no worse than the den, where she’d begun her earnest seduction of the most dangerous man she knew. Or the hallway, where they’d kissed up against the wall for a long, breathless moment before finding their way to the bedroom.
Even after her shower, she’d imagined she could still smell him on herself, a rich, musky male scent that made her toes curl and her heart pound. She wanted him there with her. Where he belonged. If he walked through the front door that very minute, she knew she’d tell Paul to go home and leave her alone with Seth. To hell with what Paul thought about it.
To hell with what anyone thought.
* * *
“P
AUL
B
AILEY
HAS
a record,” Ivy told Antoine. She spoke too quietly for Seth to hear her from his seat at the interview table, but he’d long ago learned how to read lips. Cleve had pounded into him the importance of equipping himself with all the tools necessary to do a thorough con job.
Being able to tell what people were discussing while out of earshot was just one of his skills. Another was reading body language. And Ivy Hawkins’s body language screamed anxiety.
Antoine Parsons looked at the folder Ivy showed him, his brow furrowed. The anxiety seeped from her body into his, setting up a low, uneasy vibration in the room.
Seth couldn’t stand the wait. “Why did you look at Paul Bailey’s record?”
Both of the detectives turned to look at him as if they’d forgotten he was still in the room. “We’ve been looking at everyone at Davenport Trucking.” Antoine sounded distracted. “The records from Mississippi just came through. He had some gambling problems when he was working casinos there. It’s how he lost his job—skimming and setting up some cheats for money.”
Seth sat back in his chair, surprised. He’d never thought of Paul Bailey as a possible suspect. The guy didn’t seem interesting enough to earn suspicion.
“Even if he has a gambling problem, I’m not sure how taking control of Davenport Trucking could help him,” Ivy answered. “I did some looking into the company back during the murder investigation. The CEO position’s compensation package isn’t all that large. Most of the profits are funneled back into the company. If Paul were to be made CEO, at most his pay would go up a hundred thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Antoine murmured.
“It can’t just be about money,” Seth said. “If he’s the guy behind it, he was out there offering twenty grand for the hit. If he’s so money-strapped, how can he pay twenty grand?”
Ivy and Antoine exchanged looks. “If it’s not about money, what’s it about?”
“I never said it wasn’t about money. I said it’s not
just
about money.” Seth stood up from the interview table, bracing himself for one or both of the detectives to tell him to sit back down. But they didn’t, so he continued, “I’ve been trying to figure out why anyone would target Rachel Davenport in the particular way they have, and it’s got to be about Davenport Trucking, right? All the evidence points in that direction.”
Ivy nodded slowly. “Agreed.”
“Whoever targeted Rachel didn’t kill her, because killing her creates a different set of events than just getting her out of contention for the job.”
“What different set of events?” Antoine asked.
Seth outlined what he’d learned about the triggers that came into play depending on how the CEO job came to be vacated. “If she’s dead, control of the company goes to her uncle Rafe, and he makes all the decisions without input from the trustees. But if she’s merely incapacitated, the trustees make a decision based on recommendations already in place. There’s a list of preapproved candidates for CEO. Paul Bailey, by the way, is one of those preapproved candidates.”
“Does he know he’s one of the candidates?”
“Probably. His mama is one of the trustees, and they seem to have a close relationship. Plus, from what Rachel’s told me, Paul hasn’t always been gung ho about working for the company, so I figure there must have been discussions between George Davenport and Paul for the old man to feel okay about including him on that list of candidates.”
“But if the compensation’s not that much better—” Antoine began.
“That’s what’s been bugging the hell out of me,” Seth admitted. “But while I was waiting for y’all to get back in here, I started thinking about what the job would entail besides just money. It’s long hours and a lot of stress, because you’ve got dozens of trucks at your command and you’re responsible for where they go, what they haul, what fines have to be paid if you screw things up, what repairs and regular maintenance have to be done, and suddenly it hit me that I needed to stop thinking about it as a businessman and start considering how I might use it if I had criminal intentions.”
Ivy shot him an amused look. “What a stretch for you.”
He made a face at her. “If I was criminally inclined these days, there’s a hell of a lot I could do with a fleet of trucks. I could move drugs back and forth. Illegal arms. Hell, I could traffic in people. Sex slaves, illegals, anything and everything. I could haul a dirty bomb from Central America to Washington, D.C., if I had my own fleet of trucks.”
“I’m glad you don’t,” Antoine murmured.
“My point is, control of the trucks is control of a lot of potential income. If someone was inclined to use even a tenth of the fleet for illicit purposes—”
“They could make a fortune,” Ivy finished for him.
There was a knock on the interview room door. Antoine grimaced at the interruption and went to answer the knock.
“If Paul Bailey still has a gambling problem, maybe he owes somebody very bad a lot of money,” Ivy said grimly.
“It could be the mob, the Redneck Mafia, South American money launderers—”
“Could be anyone who wants to control a fleet of trucks for the small price of forgiving Paul Bailey’s gambling debt,” Ivy said. “Good God.”
“And he’s there with Rachel right now,” Antoine said from the doorway, his expression dark. A uniformed policeman stood behind him.
Seth snapped his gaze up. “What?”
“Jerry just talked to her on the phone. Her stepbrother is there with her. She said he was going to stay there so she wouldn’t be alone.”
“Damn it!” Seth started toward the door, ready to bowl them both over if they tried to stop him.
Neither of them did.
Chapter Sixteen
The chamomile tea was a little sweet for her taste, but Rachel wasn’t going to complain. After the day she’d just survived, she wasn’t about to be picky when someone gave her a little uncomplicated pampering.
Paul settled into the chair across from her at the kitchen table and sipped his own cup of tea. “I closed off that trapdoor to the attic while the tea was brewing.”
“Yes, I know. I heard the hammering.” She smiled.
“Speaking of the attic, I was actually planning to come here today before I talked to Jim Hallifax. Feel up to a little scavenger hunt?”
She raised her eyebrows over her cup of tea. “Scavenger hunt?”
“Mother called from Wilmington. She meant to take her wedding album with her to her sister’s place but left it behind. I was planning to carry it with me when I visit her later this week, but I have no idea where she kept the album. She said she thought it might be in the attic?”
Rachel grimaced at the thought of going up there again. “I’m sure it’s probably in an obvious place.”
Paul gave her a teasing smile. “Oh, right, you’re scared of high places, aren’t you? Still haven’t outgrown that?”
“It’s not that, exactly.” She stopped short of telling him what her phobia was really about. Funny, she thought, how she’d been able to share that deep, dark secret with Seth but balked at telling a man who was practically family. “And you’re right. I should have outgrown it by now. Did Diane give you any idea where in the attic it might be?”
Paul smiled helplessly. “She said something about a box on the top of a bookshelf?”
Oh great,
Rachel thought.
A high place within a high place.
But this was a good test for her to prove, to herself if no one else, that she wasn’t going to let her past define her any longer.
She put down her cup and pushed to her feet. “Fine. But you’re coming with me to hold the stepladder.”
* * *
“I
KNEW
YOU
weren’t involved with this.” Delilah told Seth as they sped along the twists and turns of Copperhead Road, part of a three-vehicle rescue mission. Ivy’s Jeep was in the lead, with Antoine right behind her. Delilah and Seth took up the rear, to his dismay, forced to go only as fast as the vehicles ahead of them.
“You knew?” He shot her a skeptical look.
“Okay, I wanted to believe.” She looked apologetic.
“I’m in this to help Rachel.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”
“There was a lot you had to look past first.” He tamped down a potent mixture of frustration and fear as he tried Rachel’s cell phone again. It went directly to voice mail. “Why the hell isn’t she answering?”
“Did you try the home phone?”
“Yeah. I get a busy signal.”
Delilah didn’t respond, but he could tell from the grim set of her jaw that she was worried.
“I think I love her,” he said, even though he’d meant to say something entirely different.
Delilah’s gaze flicked toward him. “What?”
“I think I love Rachel.” He shook his head and corrected himself. “I know I love her.”
“Oh my God.”
“Why do people keep saying that? You think I’m not capable of loving someone?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just—surprising.”
He slammed his hand against the dashboard. “Can’t we go faster?”
“These mountain roads are treacherous at normal speeds,” Delilah said. “At high speeds, we could all end up dead, and how’s that going to help Rachel?”
His heart felt as if it were going to pound right out of his chest. “I shouldn’t have let y’all leave there without her. I should’ve protected her better. Damn it!”
“When did this happen? This thing with Rachel?”
He stared at her. “We’re going to talk about my love life in the middle of all this?”
“You brought it up.”
“I don’t know,” he growled. “I always thought she was pretty, of course. And I guess when I started suspecting the murders had something to do with Davenport Trucking, I started paying more attention to her.”
“You suspected a connection all along?”
“After the second murder, when it was clear that both of the dead women had worked at Davenport, yeah. I did.”
“This is so crazy. Her stepbrother.”
“If he’s in debt to the mob or someone connected like that, his life is on the line. He’s already proved he’s willing to kill to stay alive. He’s not going to stop just because his stepsister is next on the list.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but inside he was raging.
If, God forbid, they arrived too late—
“Oh, no,” Delilah murmured.
He looked at her and found her gazing through the windshield ahead, her brow furrowed. He followed her gaze and saw what she had.
Smoke, rising in a black column over the treetops.
Something straight ahead was on fire.
And the only thing straight ahead was Rachel’s house.
* * *
T
HE
SLAMMING
OF
the attic door had caught Rachel by surprise. Already nervous, she’d jumped and whirled at the sound, ready to scold Paul for scaring the wits out of her.
But Paul wasn’t there.
“Paul?” She’d been certain he was right behind her on the ladder. She’d felt his footfalls on the rungs below her, making her cling all the more tightly to the ladder as she climbed.
He hadn’t answered, but she’d heard noise on the other side of the door. Reaching down to push the attic door open again, she’d discovered it wouldn’t budge. “Paul, damn it! This isn’t funny!”
More sounds of movement had come from below, but Paul hadn’t answered.
Then she’d smelled it. The pungent odor of gasoline.
“Paul?”
She’d heard a faint hiss, then a louder crackling noise on the other side of the door. The smell of smoke mixing with the fuel odor had spurred her into full-blown panic mode.
She’d grabbed the metal hasp of the attic door again to give it a tug and found it hot as blazes, making her snatch her hand back with a hiss of pain.
Fire. The house is on fire.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d stood frozen in place after that, trying to think. Long enough to realize there was more than just panic going on. Her brain seemed oddly sluggish, as if it took thoughts a longer time than usual to make it from idea to action.
Had she been drugged? Had he given her something in the chamomile tea? Something to slow her reaction time, to muddy her thinking so that she couldn’t escape his trap?
She needed help. She needed—
She needed her phone. Digging in the pocket of her jeans, she’d expelled a soft sigh of sheer relief at finding it there. But when she tried to make a call, there was no signal.
That’s crazy
, she’d thought, trying to quell her rising fear long enough to think past the cottony confusion swirling in her brain. The house was one of the few places in Bitterwood where there was almost never any trouble getting a signal.
Unless, she realized, someone had a jammer.
Paul. Oh, no. It couldn’t be.
Okay, okay. Think.
She obviously couldn’t get out the way she’d come in. Smoke already poured into the attic through the narrow seams in the door. Even if Paul hadn’t wedged it shut behind her somehow, the fire would make getting out that way impossible.
But there was another trap door by the window.
She was halfway there before she remembered that Paul had already nailed it shut. Stumbling over the last few steps, she came to a stop against the window frame, sagging in despair.
He’d planned this, she realized. He’d come here today not to protect her but to kill her.
But why? Did he want to run Davenport Trucking so badly that he’d kill her for it? How did that make any sense? He’d never seen the job as anything more than a paycheck. He didn’t even go to Christmas parties or participate in any of the interoffice morale projects.
But his interest had picked up in the past few months, hadn’t it?
Why?
She felt certain the answer was somewhere just beyond the mists in her brain, so close she could almost feel it.
She banged her hand against the wall in frustration. “Paul!” she shouted, wondering if he could hear her over the rising din of crackling flames. “Paul, if you want the CEO job, I’ll give it to you. Right now. In writing. Paul!”
Hell, he was probably nowhere near the house by now. The police knew he’d been there as recently as thirty minutes ago. He was probably already gone, off to set up an alibi for himself.
She turned and looked out the window, staring down the dizzying twenty-five-foot drop to the flagstone patio below.
Paul was gone, and she was trapped in her worst nightmare.
* * *
A
DARK
SEDAN
swept past them on Copperhead Road, traveling in the opposite direction. So intent was Seth on the expanding column of smoking rising ahead of them that he almost ignored the passing motorist.
But a faint flicker of recognition sparked in his brain as the sedan reached them and passed. “That’s Paul Bailey’s car!”
Delilah’s head twisted as the other vehicle passed. She shoved her cell phone at Seth. “Hit the
S
button. Sutton’s on my speed dial.”
Sutton answered on the first ring. “What?”
“The dark blue Toyota Camry that just passed us going south—that’s Paul Bailey’s car. Go after him.”
A moment later, Ivy’s Jeep pulled a sharp U-turn and headed off after the sedan. Antoine’s department sedan braked and turned, as well. He slowed as they started to pass, and Delilah put on the brakes, rolling down the window at his gesture.
“I’ve called in Fire and Rescue, but they’re across town. It may be up to y’all to get her out.” He gunned the engine and swept off in pursuit of Ivy’s Jeep and Bailey’s Toyota.
Delilah pressed the accelerator to the floor, forcing Seth to grab the dashboard and hang on.
The house almost looked normal at first glance, but smoke was pouring from somewhere on the second floor, rising over the slanted eaves to coil like a slithering snake in the darkening sky. Seth jumped out of the truck before it stopped rolling, racing for the front door at a clip.
Delilah’s footsteps pounded behind him on the flagstone walkway. “You don’t have any protective gear!”
He ignored her, not letting himself think about what lay on the other side of the door. Tried not to smell the smoke or hear the crackle of the fire’s hissing taunts. The heat was greater the closer he got, but he pretended he didn’t feel it, because if he let himself feel it, if he let himself picture the licking flames and skin-searing heat, he wasn’t sure he could do what he had to do.
“Rachel!” he shouted, taking the porch steps two at a time. He reached for the door handle.
“No!” Delilah’s small, compact body slammed into him, knocking him to the floor of the porch. He struggled with her, but she was stronger than he remembered, pinning him against the rough plank floor. “Stop. There could be a back draft if you open the door right now! We have to do this right.”
He stared at her, his heart hammering against his sternum, each thud laced with growing despair. “What if she’s already dead?”
Delilah’s gaze softened. “We’ll find a way in. I promise.”
She let him up, holding out her hand to help him to his feet. He gingerly put his hand on the doorknob and found it sizzling hot to the touch. Fear gripped him, a cold, tight fist squeezing his intestines until he felt light-headed. He could see the flicker of flames already climbing the curtains of the front windows and tried not to collapse into complete panic.
“Maybe the fire hasn’t reached the back,” Delilah said, her hand closing around his arm.
The back. Of course. If the fire hadn’t gotten to the back of the house—
He forced his trembling legs into action, speeding back down the porch steps and around the corner of the house.
The back of the house showed no sign of fire yet. Even if the rest of the house was in flames, if Rachel was holed up somewhere the fire hadn’t reached, he might be able to get her out through the trapdoors in the mudroom and closet.
But to do that, he had to go inside.
Where the fire was.
“Seth!” Delilah caught up with him and grabbed his arm, pointing up.
He followed her gaze and saw a pale face gazing down at him through the open attic window. Smoke slithered out around her, coiling her in its sinister grasp.
“Rachel,” he breathed. She was alive.
“The trapdoor’s nailed...shut...” She swayed forward, grabbing the window frame in time to keep from toppling out. “I think...I’m drugged.”
“We need a ladder,” Delilah said urgently. “A tall one.”
“Rachel, do you have a ladder? A long one?”
“No ladders!” She shook her head, sagging against the window frame. “No ladders. Please, no ladders.” The last came out weakly, and she disappeared from the window.
“She’s terrified of heights,” he told Delilah. “But that may be the only way to get her. Go check the shed over there for a ladder.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, her dark eyes wide.
“I’m going to see if I can undo whatever Paul did to the trapdoors and get her out that way.” It would still involve ladders, but shorter ones, not a rickety steel nightmare.
He could spare her that much, couldn’t he? Even if it meant facing his own worst nightmare?
“You’re really going into the fire?” Delilah stared at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.
“I have to,” he answered, and put his hand on the back doorknob. It was only mildly warm to the touch. Taking care, he opened the door. Heat billowed out to greet him, but it didn’t trigger any sort of combustion. He looked at his sister. “Go find a ladder, in case I fail.”
She gave him a final, considering look before jogging off to the shed.
He entered the mudroom and tried the trapdoor, surprised but relieved to find it unlocked. He climbed into the second-floor bedroom closet, coughing as smoke seeped in under the bedroom door and burned his lungs.
It was a lot hotter in the closet, but he didn’t let himself think about it. He turned on the closet light, which made the thick cloud of smoke in the small room all the more visible. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he reached for the ladder to the attic trapdoor and stopped, gazing up in dismay. The door wasn’t just nailed closed. It had been anchored in place with at least two dozen long nails. Even if he had a hammer—which he didn’t—it would take long, precious minutes to pull out all those nails. And the police had confiscated his Swiss Army knife.