Witness in the Dark (Love Under Fire #1)(18)

Nothing.

What were they doing?

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep, she came up with an excuse to go back out to the living room. Wendy sat right up on the sofa when she came in. Benson wasn’t there.

“I was wondering if you might be able to go to the bookstore again. I finished the last—” Wendy’s phone interrupted her.

Before Wendy snatched it up from the side table, Sam was able to see the name on the tiny display.

Garrett.

Wendy glared at the phone and tossed it back down without answering. “Sure. I can do that tomorrow. You’d better get some sleep now.” She flashed that fake smile again, then glanced at the reality program on the television.

With Wendy’s focus distracted, Sam lifted the cellphone from the table and hurried back to her room.

She muted the phone so if it rang it wouldn’t give her away, and tucked it under her pillow. What would happen if Wendy looked for the phone? What would she say?

It was only an hour later when Sam heard someone at her door. Slowly, the knob turned, then stopped. Thank God I locked it.

Then, to her horror, she heard the quiet scrape of a key in the lock. Of course they have a spare. Her heartbeat went into hyperspace when the door slowly opened. Judging by the light footsteps, it was Wendy who cautiously crept into the room.

Sam stayed very still and did her best to keep her breathing normal. It was all she could do to let Wendy walk up to her while her eyes were closed. Every instinct told her to open her eyes so she would be ready for an attack. But she somehow resisted the impulse, and soon she heard the footsteps retreating and the door close.

A second later, Sam was out of bed with her ear to the door again. She listened intently, hearing heavy footfalls. Deputy Benson was back, then, and from the sound of it, he was pacing.

“I’m taking those Zara jeans,” Wendy said with a laugh as she sat down on the squeaky sofa.

“Seriously? That’s kind of creepy.”

“Why? They’re like, seventy-dollar jeans. No sense they go to waste.”

“I still think this whole thing is a big mistake.”

“She can put Howe in jail,” Wendy said, her voice impassive.

“I know that,” he said firmly. At least he didn’t seem to be happy about whatever they were planning that would leave her new jeans up for grabs.

Sam’s pulse was thundering so loud she almost couldn’t hear the conversation.

“Just make sure to hit me high enough that my hair hides the scar,” Wendy said.

Sam used the noise of the TV to relock the door. Clearly, a futile exercise, but she felt slightly better knowing she would have a few extra seconds to—

To what? Scream? Jump out the window?

Hell, did it even open?

“You’re a piece of work,” Benson said to Wendy. “I’m starving. I’m going to get some real food.”

“Bring me back a coffee, will you?”

When Deputy Benson left through the front door, Sam used the sound to cover the noise of opening her bedroom window—thankfully, yes, it did open. Cold air burst inside and she knew it wouldn’t take long for it to reach the rest of the house.

She quickly threw her few articles of clothing—including the jeans—into her bag and silently heaved herself out the window onto the gravel border around the house. Her elbow stung like crazy. She must have cut it on the window edging going out. She could feel the warm blood soak into her sweatshirt, and let out a small hiss of pain.

But this burn would be nothing compared to what she’d be feeling if she didn’t get away from the Death Detail. She pulled the window closed, wincing when it squeaked twice.

Instincts guiding her, she jumped over the rusty metal fence between the yard and the neighbor’s driveway, and crouched down by the old truck.

“Please don’t let it be a stick. Please don’t let it be a stick,” she muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it.”

She cursed her bad luck as she slid inside and shut the door only hard enough to make it latch.

Long ago, Lance had attempted to teach her how to drive a stick shift. His constant fretting about his car made the lesson challenging…as well as short. Hopefully, she’d remember enough to actually get it to move.

We’ll find out soon enough. She reached for the keys hidden under the visor.

“Push in the clutch to start,” she prompted herself. Thank God for her long legs, so she didn’t need to adjust the seat to push the pedal to the floor. And that her neighbor had backed the truck in so it was pointing toward the street. Every second counted, and once she turned the key, she would need to hurry. She ran over the plan in her mind, twice, before she started the ignition.

Shit. The truck sounded even louder than it had the nights it had awakened her. The thunderous rumble made her flinch.

Swiftly, she pushed the gearshift into first and let out the clutch as she pressed down on the gas. The truck lurched and bucked twice, but then it caught, and she was moving. Down the driveway and out onto the street she went, turning right because she was sure Benson had taken the SUV in the opposite direction.

She stomped on brake, pressed the clutch in again, and whipped the gearshift into second. Or tried to. It made an unholy grinding noise, and she struggled for several precious seconds to slide the stick into the proper slot.

Please, please, please.