Chapter 9
Dane spoke with such confidence, such finality, she almost didn’t question him.
But it went against her grain not to question authority and Dane had never been an exception, from the beginning, no matter how much trepidation it had caused.
Right now, she still had more than enough anger to get past any residual trepidation, so she spoke up with all the defiance in her.
“How can you be so certain?"
“I did some quick research on this character.” Dane didn’t even blink at her animosity. “He wasn’t the only one who got out of prison that day. There was a second guy by the name of Eli Hughes, an older man. Authorities believe the two left together. They were friends.”
“What makes you think his friend followed him all the way across the world to Martha’s Vineyard?” She knew there was more.
“The handwriting.” He lifted a piece of paper from the counter where he stood looking down. With steady hands and a rock-hard gaze, he turned the paper and showed it to her, shining his small light beam on it. It was a note scrawled in felt-tip marker. Signed in two colors. By two people.
She would have lashed out at Dane for holding out, but her heart hammered too furiously to let her do more than snatch the paper and the penlight away from him.
He was no better than Whitey, taunting her.
Wanting to tear the paper to shreds, she held it carefully instead, with shaky outraged hands. She read the note aloud.
“Dear Shana, thank you for accepting our invitation. See you soon. Whitey Nash and Eli Hughes.”
“Damn it, Blaise,” Vendi spoke up, taking his goggles from his face. “What’s the matter with you? Have some decency—”
Shana didn’t mind Vendi standing up for her, but it wouldn’t help them get to Whitey, to find Sassy.
“I’m as decent as I’ll ever be, Vendi.”
“How about if we search the basement,” Joe said. He motioned for Vendi to follow him and they went downstairs.
Shana turned her attention to Ronnie and wanted to say something reassuring to him, but couldn’t think of a thing. He took the note from her.
“You think this is a clue?” Ronnie said.
“Like he’s leading us to Sassy?” Ronnie sounded bereft, had lost most of his cool.
He seemed to be returning to his less-sure-of-himself, sidekick persona the more time he spent in their company, the more time Nash held Sassy.
Naturally he’d rely on their experience, but Ronnie’s regression troubled Shana.
“I don’t know. What do you think?” The words were spoken as gently as she could make them, given that her own muscles were clenched in savage terror.
Dane spoke up, cutting off whatever Ronnie might have said.
“Yeah, kid. Our first clue is that we’re dealing with a homicidal maniac, a certifiable nut job.”
“Damn you, Dane,” she hissed.
Dane brushed past her, his face a granite mask, but she felt his unleased fury as though it were a force field.
A very powerful and nasty one. Ronnie followed him outside.
After a last look around at the mess, noting that all the pies were gone from the open refrigerator, she walked out the door.
She could match Dane’s fury, and then raise it a few notches.
In the street out front, Shana found Dane and Ronnie, silent, with evil intention pouring from them.
There was no outward sign on Dane’s blank face, only her assumption based on her vast catalogue of Dane’s moods and blank stares.
Ronnie was a different matter. A glance at his face showed fury, regret, fear, and shame stood out, but didn’t hide the bold determination.
This was the new dimension to Ronnie, the one he’d revealed first when he took off for West Point.
Joe and Vendi emerged from the front door having found nothing useful in the basement.
Joe said, “It didn’t look as if anyone had been down there. Nothing out of order like upstairs.”
“What now?” Shana said out of habit. Bad habit.
“Never mind. Let’s get out of here and get a drink.
” Another bad habit. Dane’s habit that she’d adopted.
The steady diet of tequila was definitely under the worse column of their maybe impending for-better-or-worse vows.
Shana didn’t know which was getting to her more.
Teetering on the edge of her relationship with Dane, or hunting for Whitey Nash before he had a chance to kill Sassy. Either way, she deserved a damn drink.
He glared at her. He said, “No drinking. Stakes are too high.”
“You know that’s the reason for the drink, right?” She forced the sarcastic tone because she really wanted to scream and swear at him, punch him in his smug face. Kiss his damn sensual lips.
“Buck up, girlie. You’re tougher than you look, remember? Maybe I should get you a knife, remind you of the badass side of your nature.”
“You really want to risk that?” she asked as she walked by him and headed back to the Lucky Parrot. She would have that drink to spite him now, and he probably knew it. The jerk.