Chapter 50 #2
The blood pounding in her head made it difficult to think. She set the photo aside, splashed water on her face, and rubbed her eyes hard. She turned off the water, grabbed tissues from the box on the toilet tank, and prepared to rejoin her hostess.
The picture! Emily grabbed it off the counter. This was far too private and absolutely none of her business.
What the hell did she do with the damned thing? If she left it behind, Justine would most likely find it. She’d just have to take it with her. She slid it inside the waistband of her panties. Gross but necessary, since she didn’t have any pockets.
Okay. Now. She took a breath and opened the door. Justine was standing in the hall right outside.
Emily yelped.
“I’m sorry,” Justine said. “I thought something was wrong.”
Emily dabbed at her eyes. “I guess talking about everything . . .” She shook her head, blew her nose. “Sorry.”
“Oh, Em, I understand.” Justine put her arm around Emily’s shoulders and escorted her back to the living room. “Would you like a brandy or something?”
Emily prayed the photo wouldn’t start slipping downward. She flashed Justine a weak smile. “I should go. Let you get to your shopping.” She grabbed her purse from the arm of the couch and tried her level best not to look nervous or guilty. “I hope I didn’t cause you to rush away your company.”
“It was nothing,” Justine assured her. “A persistent salesperson.” She placed her hand on Emily’s arm as they walked to the front door. “I’m so glad you stopped by, Em. I’m sure I’ll see you at the funerals.”
“Of course,” Emily promised. Her knees felt weak with relief as she crossed the threshold toward freedom.
“Emily.”
Slowly, Emily turned to face Justine. “Yes?”
“Did you forget something?” Justine waited expectantly.
Emily’s fingers tightened on her purse. Justine couldn’t know. “Did I?”
“I need your address,” Justine said. “So I can mail you a new necklace if I locate one.”
“Oh. Right.”
Emily gave her the address, thanked her again, and somehow managed to walk, not run, to her car.
Justine waved as Emily backed out onto the street.
As she drove away she passed a black car that looked vaguely familiar.
Emily did a double take. Was that Misty Briggs?
Too late to tell without driving past again.
She damn sure wasn’t driving back that way again.
Emily didn’t breathe easy until she had gotten back to her room at the inn. She’d had to make a stop by the office for a key, since she’d given hers to Clint.
She took the photo from her panties, grimaced. She’d taken a hell of a risk going into Justine’s bedroom.
And the pictures. Talk about unexpected.
Not that Justine’s sex life was any of Emily’s business.
Still, she was almost sure she knew one of these two guys in the photo.
She peered at the photo in her hand. But she couldn’t be positive.
In this one a naked, younger Justine watched two men.
One had his back to the camera; the other’s profile was visible.
The whole setup was very similar to the other photos.
Emily shook her head. Some folks were just kinkier than others, she supposed.
But it was the photographing of the activity that struck her as odd.
But what did she know? Maybe the photography was part of the excitement for some.
Whatever the case, she had to hide this photo.
She had no idea how she would get it back to Justine and she certainly couldn’t leave it lying around.
Glancing around the room, she realized there weren’t that many good options for hiding anything.
In the end, she tucked it beneath the bedside table.
Her throat felt like sandpaper. She needed water.
As she got to her feet, the light blinking on the telephone distracted her.
She snatched up the receiver and went through the procedure for listening to the message. If this was Clint, that could only mean things had gone worse than expected. The voice that rasped in her ear was one Emily knew well. Her chest tightened.
“Emily, this is Troy. I need to talk to you. I’m desperate, Em. I need your help.” Silence. “Please help me, Em. I’m at home all by myself.”
Her fingers trembling, she dropped the receiver back in its cradle. She knew Troy was hurting. Keith had been his best friend. Ray had been like an older brother to Troy.
If Troy needed her, she had to see what she could do to help. He was Heather’s brother. Emily couldn’t let him down. Maybe this would make up for the way he’d been hurt by her change of heart where Clint was concerned.
She wadded the old note she’d written to Clint, then hurriedly prepared another telling him where she’d gone so he wouldn’t worry if he got back here before her.
As she drove to Troy’s she kept replaying the way his voice had sounded. Definitely drinking heavily and definitely desperate. She hoped she wasn’t too late.
First she went to the front door and tried the doorbell. She knocked a couple of times.
No answer.
He’d said he was home. His truck was here.
The possibility that he’d hurt himself had her going around to the end of the house where a garage door stood open.
She wove around the lawn mower, tricycle, and mountains of beer cans and made her way toward the door that led from the garage into the house.
The smell of oil, gas, and stale beer wasn’t a pleasant mix.
Cabinets and shelves lined every wall—all cluttered with stuff from Christmas decorations to old buckets of paint.
Rapping her knuckles sharply on the door that led into the house, she shouted, “Troy! It’s Emily!” She knocked again and again, pausing to listen each time. Still nothing.
She should just give up, but he’d sounded so desperate. She reached up to knock again. Pain exploded in the back of her head as she slammed face first into the door.
She crumpled onto the cool concrete steps and the darkness closed in on her thoughts.
Her mind fought the plunge toward unconsciousness. She heard the sound of a car engine starting. Heard the rasp of rubber against concrete and brakes engaging tire tread. The smell of exhaust brushed her senses.
Wake up! She couldn’t.
Open your eyes! Too heavy.
She was moving . . . sliding across the floor. She bumped something and cans rattled. Hands pulled at her, lifted her, then dropped her. Her face pressed against something soft . . . fabric?
What was happening?
A car door slammed. Then another. Movement. Music. The radio? Yes. The call letters of the local station she always listened to as the deejay promised ten songs in a row. Emily inhaled, tried to analyze the smells. Her SUV?
She licked her lips. Moaned. Told herself to wake up! Open your eyes!
Her stomach roiled and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back. Had no idea how much time passed with the car moving . . . her head throbbing with pain so sharp she had to breathe shallowly to fight it. She floated in and out of awareness.
The forward momentum ceased with jarring force.
She groaned at the ache in her head.
A door slammed. The sound reverberated inside her skull, causing ripples of pain.
Silence.
Another thump . . . like the trunk closing.
Water sloshed on her clothes. Emily tried to open her eyes again . . . tried to reach up and block the splashing but couldn’t make her arms move.
Not water, her mind argued, chemical . . . gasoline?
Her heart stumbled.
Get up!
Her body was too heavy. She couldn’t move.
But the car was moving . . . rolling. Or was it?
Smoke?
She smelled smoke.
Get up!
Metal smashed; something popped as she lunged forward. She flopped onto the floor.
Had she crashed?
Was there a fire? She could smell something chemical . . . something burning. Her throat convulsed. She coughed. “Ms. Wallace? Emily?”
Was someone in the car with her?
Was she even still in the car?
Her head hurt so bad . . . her lids felt too heavy to budge. Her lungs burned. The darkness tugged at her. She needed to go there . . . escape the pain.
“Ms. Wallace, this is Safe&Secure. Our monitors indicate that your airbags have deployed. Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace?”
Emily tried to answer the woman, but her mouth wouldn’t form the words.
“Ms. Wallace, if you can hear me, don’t be afraid. We’re sending help. Our monitors also indicate there may be a fire in the passenger compartment. Can you move, Ms. Wallace? Can you get out of the vehicle?”
Fire?
Fear detonated along Emily’s nerve endings, sending a surge of lifesaving adrenaline through her veins, urging her body to react. To move.
She forced her eyes to open. Couldn’t focus. Her lungs seized and her head spun. She coughed and gagged.
“Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace? I can hear you coughing . . . Ms. Wallace?”
Emily couldn’t answer. Her entire focus was needed to try to make her body move. To reach for the door. She had to get out of the car. It was on fire.