Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(89)

I waited, my heart hammering in my chest, until finally, the trunk opened. I squinted against the parking lot light above the car, adjusting my vision just in time to see the man heft another struggling body into the trunk.

Genevieve, gagged and bound, took one look at my face and stilled. We had only enough time to recognize each other before he slammed the trunk closed and the light was gone. We were sandwiched in tight with no room to move even though the trunk was larger than that of any car I’d owned.

With the gags, neither of us could talk. Instead, we both cried silent tears for hours until the car slowed and we were bounced around on a road so bumpy it couldn’t have been paved.

It was still dark when he hauled us both from the car, threatening to slit our throats if we tried to run. With the enormous knife sheathed on his belt, I believed him.

Then he made us walk uphill for what felt like a mile, bringing us to this spot and shoving me to my knees. He untied Genevieve and put a gun in her hand, promising it was unloaded so she shouldn’t try anything. Then he pushed her into position so the gun touched my temple in her shaky grip.

Her gag was stripped. The tape was removed from her wrists and ankles. And he told her to hold still. Stop fucking crying.

After all, Genevieve was supposed to look like my murderer.

He took a few pictures, then taped her up again, setting us both next to this tree. Thankfully, he pulled off my gag too. It wasn’t like we needed them. Out here, no one would hear us if we screamed.

He disappeared for a while, but I knew he hadn’t gone far. If we tried to run for it, he’d see. If we tried to get our hands free, he’d see.

So we sat, both of us in shock, until he returned and stood over us, watching silently.

I kept my head down, not wanting to provoke him. Every minute, we got colder. I was in flip-flops from dinner at my parents’ place. Genevieve was barefoot and in a pair of black silk pajama pants. He must have taken her from the hotel where she’d been staying in Bozeman. Her white top was thin but at least it had long sleeves. The back was open, showing her strappy green sports bra. When she leaned forward, there were angry red scratches from the tree’s bark on her skin.

Her feet were practically raw from the long walk through the forest.

She sniffled. “Why is this happening?”

I leaned toward her, letting my temple rest on top of her head. It was the best hug I could give her at the moment. “I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Her body tensed even as she trembled.

“When I came to Denver, you told me something. You said your mom always called your father Prez. Well, that nickname was familiar and I . . . well, I sort of figured out who your father is.”

Her head pulled away from mine. Her eyes got impossibly wide. “You did? Who?”

“Before I tell you, please keep an open mind. I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’m begging you to trust me.”

She gave me a slight nod. “Tell me.”

I took a deep breath, then blurted, “Draven Slater did not kill your mother. I’m sure of it. I don’t have proof, but from the bottom of my soul, I think he genuinely cared for your mother and would not have harmed her.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The police have evidence. He killed her. He lured her to that motel and stabbed her to death.”

“She asked him to come to the motel because she had something to tell him. He’s your fa—”

“No.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry. It’s true. He’s your father. Your mother asked him to come to the motel to tell him about you.”

“No,” she hissed, the word a combination of anger and despair.

“Draven was the president of a motorcycle club. They called him Prez.”

“That nickname could be for anything.”

“Genevieve.” I gave her a sad smile. “You have his eyes and his hair. You even look a little bit like Dash.”

“Who’s Dash?”

“My boyfriend. And your half brother.”

She leaned away from me, twisting to look the other direction. Either I’d done the right thing by telling her the truth, or I’d pushed her too far. I only hoped that she’d inherited some of Draven’s strength because when I made a run for it, she was coming with me.

“I think this guy, the one who took us, is the one who killed your mom.”

She shook her head, her eyes still squeezed shut. When she opened them, a new wash of tears fell. “Why?”

“I think it has something to do with Draven’s motorcycle club. Some old grudge that never got settled. Somehow, we landed right in the middle of it.”

She swallowed hard, sucking the tears back. “I just wanted to see Mom’s grave.”

“You will.” I scooted into her side. “We’ll get out of here. Dash will come for us.”

I only hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

We sat quietly, Genevieve’s head probably spinning and mine frantic for some way to escape. I could run with my hands bound but not my ankles.

“Do you think he can see us?” I whispered.

“Maybe. But I can’t see him.”

“We have to get our legs free. He used duct tape. We can probably unwind it or cut it or something. But if he can see us, I don’t want to try.”