Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“This place is cute,” Callie said, pulling into the carport of the house Daphne had rented.
She needed to pop in and pack quickly. They all agreed that it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to keep driving the Bentley, so she’d scheduled a new rental to pick up in an hour at the local agency.
A Highlander this time, not quite as sexy as her Bentley, but still good in the snow.
A good thing, since a storm was blowing in.
It hadn’t started snowing yet, but a wicked wind already bent the tops of trees, swirling snow into the air, reducing visibility, and making driving conditions less than ideal.
Once she had her new car, she’d make a quick stop at the grocery store, then head to Harper’s cabin and hunker down.
They’d canceled dinner with Mantis and Charley, as no one wanted to be driving tonight.
The roads were passable now, but in another hour or two?
The whole area would more closely resemble a ghost town than a thriving resort area.
Or so she’d been told—weather was a hot topic of conversation during winter in Mystery Lake—and she wasn’t in a position to disagree.
“It is cute,” she agreed. “It was perfect for what I wanted. A fireplace, a comfy bed, a second room to use as an office. Decent kitchen, too,” she said as they slid from their seats. “It won’t take me long to pack, but I need to clean out the fridge and do all the usual checkout stuff.”
Callie yawned. “I can help.”
Daphne smiled as she unlocked the door. “Or you could grab a quick nap. You’re growing a human being, which is so weird to think about, but you are. It must be exhausting.”
“I’m fine,” Callie said, waving her off. Daphne stomped the snow from her boots but didn’t bother taking them off. She wasn’t going to be there long enough to bother.
“Go lie down,” Daphne insisted. “Besides, if you help me, we’ll end up arguing about whether to throw that last cube of cheese, or half a cup of milk, away or bring it home.”
Callie chuckled. “Yeah, we probably will.”
“Guest room is there,” she said, gesturing to a door to the left of the fireplace.
“I hate being this tired,” her sister grumbled as she made her way to the room.
“But you’re grateful you are,” Daphne called back.
Callie raised her hand without turning around. A wave of agreement, then disappeared into the extra room, closing the door behind her.
Daphne stood for a beat, listening to the silence, making a plan.
Clothes and personal belongings first, then she’d hit the kitchen and clean out what little food she had left.
Dropping her jacket and hat on the back of a kitchen chair, she made her way to her room, not bothering to turn up the heat or start a fire.
Twenty minutes later, all her belongings were packed in suitcases lined up by the door to the carport. She paused outside the guest room before heading to the kitchen, pleased to hear nothing but a gentle rustle of the down comforter as Callie shifted in her sleep.
Another ten minutes and the fridge was clean, the garbage tied and ready to be dropped in the bear-proof bins on their way out, and the dishes nearly done.
Daphne stared out the kitchen window as she washed a pot she’d used to heat milk for her coffee the morning of the shooting.
The trees swayed wildly, dumping snow from their branches that landed in big “poofs” on the ground, sending even more snow into the air.
But it was still beautiful. Even at its most inhospitable, it was beautiful.
She turned to set the pot in the drying rack but stilled when a flash of something dark caught her eye. Setting it down, she leaned forward and scanned the forest behind the house. Visibility was shit, so maybe all she’d seen was an odd glimpse of a dark tree trunk?
When nothing appeared through the veil of snow, she chalked it up to the crazy weather and her imagination—which was never lacking—and picked up the final pot for washing.
She’d used it to make oatmeal in the early hours of the morning—long before her second breakfast at Maggie’s—but at least she’d had the good sense to soak it and wouldn’t be scrubbing cement masquerading as hearty fiber.
Her gaze drifted to the hazy view again as she added soap to the pot.
Tracking another mini-avalanche cascading from a tree, her entire body startled when the poof of snow cleared, revealing two figures moving through the woods toward her house.
Stunned into a moment of stillness, she watched them make their way quickly over the powdery snow.
Were they cross-country skiing? No, the movement wasn’t right; their legs were lifting rather than swinging. Snowshoes. They had to be on snowshoes.
A series of thoughts flashed through her mind in rapid sequence.
She considered the possibility that it wasn’t Weeks and Beeker coming for her, then dismissed it.
She calculated the odds of being able to dig her phone from her jacket pocket and call the police before they arrived and didn’t like them.
And most of all, she thought about her sister.
Daphne could not, would not, let either of those men anywhere near Callie and the baby growing inside her.
Not even if her sister still carried a service weapon, which she’d stopped doing after joining HICC.
Knowing Callie would likely kill her when this was all over, she set the pan in the sink, then dashed to the small kitchen table and grabbed her coat, thankful she’d left her boots on.
Pulling her hat and phone from the pocket, she tugged on the fleece cap and tapped a button on her home screen. She didn’t have time to make a call, not if she wanted to intercept Weeks and Beeks, as she’d decided to call them, but she did have time to hit Record on her favorite transcription app.
Tugging on her jacket as she opened the door to the back porch, she feigned a nonchalance she didn’t feel. She didn’t want to get hurt, or worse, die, but more importantly, she wanted Weeks and Beeks far, far away from Callie.
“Oh!” She startled in mock surprise at seeing two men less than five feet from the steps leading to the covered porch where she stood.
Then pretending the movement caused her to slip, she flung her arm out.
Reaching for the back of the heavy timber love seat pushed up against the house, she managed to set her phone on the window ledge out of sight from Weeks and Beeks.
“You,” she said, once she had her balance again. She glanced down at her phone. A third of it hung over the ledge, but if no one made any sudden moves, she didn’t think it would fall.
“Us,” Weeks said, the large mole covering his jaw joint moving as he spoke.
She pulled her jacket tight across her torso, crossed her arms, and leaned against the house. “You found me.” That actually did surprise her. She really had thought the chances of them coming after her were low, made even lower by her use of aliases when she traveled.
“Hard to forget a car like yours. Not the one out there now, but the other one,” Weeks said.
“We noticed it a few days ago while we were driving around,” Beeks added.
Well, fuck. She hadn’t thought about that. The perils of having a carport and a unique vehicle.
“So, what now?” she asked.
“Now we go inside and you call your boyfriend to come rescue you.”
She tilted her head. “No, I don’t think so.
First, he’s not my boyfriend, and I have no idea how to reach him.
” Now that she thought about it, she didn’t have Lovell’s number.
Sure, she could reach him, but that would be through Gabe and then the whole cavalry would show up.
Not a bad idea, if only it didn’t include Weeks and Beeks coming into the house first.
“Second, you have no reason to keep me alive after that, so why would I agree?” she said.
Weeks pulled out a gun. Predictable and trite, but no less effective.
Panic clawed at her chest, and she hoped her coat hid her shaking hands.
Taking a deep breath, she grounded herself, thinking only of protecting Callie.
It didn’t take away the fear, but it gave her something stronger to focus on.
“Interesting weapon. Is that a Laugo Alien?” she asked. She knew all sorts of random shit—most writers did—and she recognized the expensive, and not very common, pistol.
“It is,” Weeks said with a lilt to his tone that was either respect for her knowledge or pride in his possession.
“Very efficient,” she said.
“It is,” he said again, lifting it in her direction. A strong gust of wind blew, and both men took a step to the left. Thankfully, she and her phone were protected on the porch.
“Why are you after that guy?” she asked.
“Not your concern,” Beeks replied.
“Since you’re holding a gun on me, I’d say it is my concern.”
“It’s cold as fuck out here. Get inside,” Weeks demanded.
That wasn’t going to happen. “My brother-in-law and eight of his brothers, all of whom are former Special Forces, are coming for dinner in—” She made a show of looking at her watch.
“Forty-two minutes.” A lie, but one she hoped would work.
In the last four minutes, she’d accepted the fact that she was going to allow/convince them to take her to a secondary location—the one thing women are told over and over to fight against.