CHAPTER FORTY
C HAPTER F ORTY
Claire stumbled, falling to her knees—again—in the shallow water. He’d made her run in six inches of water since they left the woods. To hide their trail, he’d said. She didn’t think that would work, but she kept her opinion to herself. Denver didn’t like to be told anything. He’d been clear about what he wanted from her. Do what you’re told and shut the fuck up.
And he had a gun—so that’s what she was doing.
Or at least trying to do. But her saturated sneakers were awkward and heavy, and the shore of the lake was alternately slippery and rocky. She didn’t dare go barefoot. Her bound hands hit the lake and plunged to the slimy bottom. Water splashed into her eyes. Weeds and mud oozed between her fingers. She’d fallen three times and couldn’t tell if the wetness on her face was water or tears.
“Get up!” Denver grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked. Instead of helping her regain her footing, the backward momentum threw her further off balance. She fell sideways, landing on her hip. Her butt struck a rock, and pain zinged through her hip and leg.
“I said get up, you stupid bitch!” Instead of any show of assistance, he lost it and kicked out at her.
His foot struck her side and knocked the air from her lungs. White-hot agony forced her body to curl. Her face went under for a second before she forced herself to her knees. “I’m trying.” She spit out a mouthful of nasty lake water.
“Do you want to lie down and quit!” Denver grabbed the back of her neck. “Because I can make that happen.” He thrust her head under. She wasn’t prepared. Water flooded her mouth and nose, and her sinuses filled. She pushed against his grip, but he had leverage and strength on his side. Her lungs burned.
Panic bubbled in her throat. She clawed at the hand on the back of her neck, desperation making her sloppy. Her coordination flagged and her claws became slaps. Bubbles escaped from her mouth.
That was it, then.
I’m going to die.
Maybe I deserve it.
She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She was going to inhale. Her arms went limp. Her hands dropped into the water.
The pressure on the back of her neck released, and Denver hauled her up like a drowning puppy.
She gasped and fluttered. Her stomach clenched, and she vomited lake water. Over the sounds of her own retching, she could hear Denver laughing.
A tiny sliver of hate sliced through her anger. She was his only sister. His blood relative. Wasn’t that what he’d told her? They were family. All they had was each other.
He’d lied to her. Just like everyone else.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Her whole life was lies.
He jerked her arm. “Now get the fuck up and move or I’ll drown you for real.”
Claire rose to her feet and stumbled forward. She wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace for long.
“It’s not too much farther,” he said, as if reading her mind. His hand hit the center of her back, shoving her forward. She barely stayed on her feet.
“Shut it.” Denver yanked her sideways, hauling her behind a tree that leaned over the water. A few kayaks floated past. Men laughed and talked. A beer-can tab popped. Claire wanted to jump out, to swim toward them and yell for help. She drew in a breath, preparing herself.
Denver wrapped a hand over her mouth. “I’ll kill them all.”
She forced her body to relax. She may as well accept her fate. She was doomed. It was her own fault. She should accept that too.
The boats passed, and Denver pulled her out from behind the tree trunk.
“You have a plan?” She put a hand on her queasy stomach. A light shimmered on the lake. Not moonlight. Artificial light at the end of a dock.
“Of course I have a plan,” he snapped, clearly insulted. He grabbed the back of her hair, turning her head.
A house sat on a rise—a big, expensive house with lots of glass overlooking the lake.
“We’re here.” He pulled her from the water, taking her hand in an almost-friendly grip. His moods shifted faster than she could keep up.
A few lights inside the house let them peer right into it.
“Looks like a fucking fishbowl,” Denver said, dragging her up the back lawn. He ducked behind a planter and pulled her down to the grass with him. Then he glanced over his shoulder. The sheriff wouldn’t be far behind. Claire knew they’d come after her. They wanted to save her. Wanted to help her. And all she did was make things worse.
Denver turned his attention to the house above them. Two decks, multiple sets of sliding doors, and lots of windows spanned the back of the house. A great room and big kitchen were visible through the clear glass. A slim redheaded woman in blue pajamas in the kitchen poured water from a kettle into a mug. The woman carried her mug out of the room, turning off the lights when she left. Another light turned on behind a different set of sliding doors on the upper deck. The blinds were closed, making Claire think the woman had gone into her bedroom. Denver tugged her toward the house. At the base of the wooden steps, he said, “Ditch the shoes. They’re squeaking.”
She toed them off, and he dragged her up the stairs.
Claire had left the Zuccos’ house so they didn’t get hurt. Now, Denver was going to hurt—or kill—this other innocent woman.
All my fault.
She’d been so stupid. Falling for his lies like a child.
We’re going to be a family. I’ll take care of you.
All bullshit.
But resisting was pointless. Denver was stronger than her, and he had a gun. He pulled Claire forward. He took the gun from his waistband and started across the deck. Instead of heading toward the woman, he steered Claire toward the sliding doors that led into the great room. The main lights had been turned off, but there were a few small night-lights plugged into outlets at knee height through the space. They emitted enough light for them to see through the glass from the darkness outside. The great room and kitchen were empty.
He shoved the gun into his pocket, then placed both hands flat on the glass and lifted the entire panel. To Claire’s surprise, he lifted the whole glass door out of its track and slid it to one side.
She stood, stunned by how easily he’d broken into the house.
“Come on,” he hissed.
She glanced back. She could jump off the deck. She wouldn’t die, but she might break a leg. If she ran, would he shoot? Would he give himself away by firing at her? He could miss. It was dark. She’d be moving.
If I can’t have you, no one can.
If she weren’t a coward, she’d run and take her chances on his aim in the dark. The gunshots would warn this unsuspecting homeowner. Claire tensed, readying herself to lunge away. Before she could move, Denver grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her into the house. Pain screeched through her scalp.
She’d waited too long. Again. She and the woman were doomed. Her cowardice would be the end of them both.
Claire’s feet stumbled over one another as she tried to keep up with Denver. He used her hair to guide her movements, forcing her to march through the big room. They moved into the kitchen. She eyed the pots and pans hanging from a rack. They passed a full knife block, but she couldn’t reach it.
Denver steered her toward a doorway that led into a short hall. Leaning close, he whispered “Shh” in her ear and gave her hair a tug for emphasis. Her scalp was beginning to go numb from the pain. His grip pulled her slightly off balance. They shuffled closer. Light glowed from a room at the end.
Just like the Masons’ bedroom.
And Claire knew without a doubt that Denver was going to kill the woman in her bed.