Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(59)

“I have to end this before someone gets hurt,” he says.

“If the chip is fake, won’t this be over?”

“In theory. But who goes to these elaborate measures to f*ck with someone’s head? And what else are they capable of?”

Somberly, I nod. And shiver.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Ella

THE PROBLEM WITH my taking this schoolteacher job, and trying to seem nice and normal, is that I meet nice, normal people like Skye who I can inadvertently lead into trouble, or who get into trouble on their own and need help. And I simply can’t ignore that trouble. Regardless of the order to stay detached by the Powers That Be, I won’t look away from a friend in need.

Parking next to the curb around the corner from Skye’s town house, I glance at the clock on my Ford Fusion’s dash. Three in the morning. Thank God I didn’t stay the night with the new “boyfriend,” or rather my newest assignment. It kills me to play lovey-dovey with that man, and I needed a break from the way he’s always touching me—and my freedom comes with the added plus of no one knowing where I am right now. If all goes well, I’ll be in and out of Skye’s place in fifteen minutes, back home and investigating this blackmail plot in thirty.

Killing the engine, I slide my keys in my jeans pocket and step out of the car, thankful for the cool night air that hides the shoulder holster I have under my jacket. I start walking, the San Francisco wind whipping my red hair around my face, a few crickets the only sound in the silent night. Obviously, my idea of doing auction hunting to kill the boredom of my filler teaching job has clearly backfired in a big way.

Forced by the absence of a back entrance to Skye’s place to head to the front door, I round the corner to her street. Overhead lighting illuminates my path down the cookie-cutter rows of side-by-side town homes, and a sense of being watched tingles down my spine. At this hour, no matter how grand the lighting, I shouldn’t be garnering attention. But then, the word blackmail doesn’t exactly come with positive connotations.

Easing onto the short walkway to Skye’s door, I’m instantly aware of a bulky form at the left of the porch, a male in all black. My lips quirk, a surge of adrenaline and excitement mixing with a little guilt that I find fighting to save Skye from trouble I created exhilarating. It’s just been such a long, quiet stretch with nothing but the “boyfriend” to investigate, and he seems like a story going nowhere.

I step onto the porch, the soft rasp of clothing telling me my little playmate is following me, and he’s not a very skilled attacker. Which kind of sucks, because I can always use the practice, and the rush, of a good one-on-one matchup. Only the door is very slightly ajar, telling me someone is inside—so it’s more like a two-on-one party, which at least is more challenging. I play my role, pretending to grab the key Ella told me is by the planter. Once I’ve gone through the appropriate motions, I enter the town house, the whisper of a twig telling me the fun is about to start. Once inside the dark foyer, I glance up the dark stairs leading to the main living area, noting a glow from above.

Rounding the door, I flatten against the wall, cautiously removing the knife hidden at my belt line, which makes for a less noisy, and sometimes less messy, attack. And this isn’t my house to dirty. My visitor seems to take his time following me, driving home how poorly trained he is, but when he finally does appear, giving me his back as he looks up the stairwell, it’s clear that he’s really damn big. And big guys fall hard.

The gun in his hand is a real problem, though, one that says this blackmail is the real deal. I step forward and shove the knife in his hand, which earns me a howl and the reward of his weapon falling to the ground. He also grabs my damn leg. “Bitch,” he hisses.

“Thanks for the compliment,” I say, planting my boot in his face. By the time he’s grabbed my other leg, which is damn irritating, I’ve picked up his gun and bashed him on the head. He passes out. And that’s when someone in all black storms down from the second level and leaps, clearly meaning to land on top of me. I step to the left and watch in disbelief as the man lands against the wall and knocks himself out.

“Well, this is disappointing,” I murmur, and sigh, retrieving the small flashlight and utility tape I keep handy in my pockets for just such occasions.

I stick the light between my teeth and quickly tape the big dude’s legs and wrists. Moving to Mr. Graceful, I grimace at the odd angle of his neck. I kneel beside him and check for a pulse. Unbelievable. The guy actually killed himself. “Damn it,” I murmur, because yeah. I’ll kill a killer in a heartbeat, but this dude wasn’t a killer. He was just a fool.

With flashlight in hand, I rush up the stairs, cringing at the mess that is now Skye’s living room: the couch, carpet, and pictures are all shredded. Skye, who lives on pennies, and who I hope has insurance, because I can’t fix this for her without getting attention I simply can’t risk. Going into her bedroom, I find the light on and more of the same mess.

Crossing the room, I open the closet and find the box I’m supposed to grab, untouched. I then locate and search the designer bag Skye told me to look inside, and find the Baggie with the poker chip and the nasty note. Flipping off the light, I use my flashlight to head down to the front door, cautiously shining my light on my playmates. The one who’s alive is still on snooze. And I still can’t believe the other one actually threw himself to his death.