Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(47)

“No,” I said. “Stay here. Take care of Lane and Maia.”

Garrett didn’t look pleased, but the fact that I’d included Lane made it difficult for him to say no. Lane was curled on the bed, staring forlornly at the wall as if it would blow apart any moment.

“All right,” Garrett said. “But, little bro, nothing crazy, okay?”

“On a night like tonight? Of course not. Nothing crazy at all.”

Alex’s room was just down the hall on the left. The door was locked, which was a first. I’d started to think nobody at the hotel ever locked doors.

“Alex!” I yelled.

No answer.

The noise of the storm was louder on this end of the hall. It almost sounded like it was inside his room.

I pounded on the door. Still nothing.

Imelda stood next to me, twisting her apron. Jose’s body was turned away from me, like he was trying to evade me, though I wasn’t sure why. It seemed odd that just a few hours ago, I’d thought of him as a man with a perpetual smile. That smile was long gone.

“You have the key?” I asked them.

Imelda’s eyes widened. “Señor Huff is the owner. He told us never to enter without permission.”

“You don’t clean his room?”

“Never.”

“But you have to have a master key.”

“I…Back downstairs,” Imelda said.

“Downstairs.”

She nodded halfheartedly.

I looked at Jose. “You?”

“No, señor. I’m just the cook. I have no master key.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll break down the door.”

Jose tensed. Imelda started to say, “Señor—”

I put my shoulder to the door and smashed it open.

Inside, the room was a wreck. The window had been demolished, but the wood splinters and glass shards pointed toward the storm, as if something had been hurled out. A strip of torn red cloth fluttered from one jagged tooth of glass. The curtain was sprinkled with pink spots, like diluted blood.

I tried to come up with some other explanation, but I kept coming back to the same conclusion. Someone had been pushed out the second-story window. And whoever it was had been wearing a shirt the same color as Alex Huff’s.

26

Maia couldn’t sleep. The pangs had passed, but they’d scared her worse than she’d let on. She lay on her side, trying to keep still. Lane Sanford was also awake. She was curled in the other bed with Garrett sitting at her feet.

“We used to have storms at the ranch,” Lane said. “Once lightning hit a tree and it burned almost an acre. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Your family ranch?” Maia asked.

“No…Bobby rented the place.”

Lane spoke his name like a cuss word she’d trained herself to say, a word proper ladies weren’t supposed to know.

“You should get a restraining order,” Maia said. “I’d be happy to help.”

“I can’t,” Lane said. “Thank you.”

Her tone was final. There was a secret there she wasn’t ready to share yet. Abuse, probably. Something else, too—something Lane thought she couldn’t bring to the police. The problem with working criminal cases so long: Maia could come up with a whole array of depressing possibilities, all equally plausible and horrible. And yet she could still be surprised. The worst violence, the most awful forms of depravity, always happened in a so-called loving relationship.

At least that made it easier for her to count her blessings. Whatever faults Tres had—however much he tortured himself with guilt or wrestled with his own demons—he was kind. He was a good man. He’d make a good father, Maia had no doubt, whatever happened with the baby. She depended on that. She counted on him so much it scared her. And she tried to tell herself Tres would be safe. They would make it through this weekend.

The storm rumbled overhead like an endless train. Noises from the other rooms eventually died down. Lane closed her eyes and began breathing deeply. Garrett stayed at his post at the foot of her bed, his hand protectively on her ankle.

Maia studied Garrett’s face, looking for similarities to Tres. The hawkish nose and green eyes were the same. Garrett hid his chin behind a scraggly beard, but she imagined it was the same as Tres’s—a strong jawline, hinting at stubbornness. Time had not been as kind to Garrett, though. He was the same age as Maia. She remembered they had talked about that when they first met, how both of them were just turning forty. His complexion had turned sallow from too many years of hard drinking. His eyes were constantly bloodshot. His hair was frosted with gray. But he was still handsome in an unkempt way. He looked at her and smiled, and Maia couldn’t help feeling a little better.

“You doing all right, darlin’?” he asked.

“Worried about Tres.”

“Ah, hell. He’ll be fine. That bastard will drive you crazy if you keep worrying about him.”

“You have a point.”

“I’ve known him longer, darlin’. I just hope that baby gets some of your good looks.”

“He’ll be beautiful, I’m sure.”

“He?”

“The last few days, I’ve started to think of the baby as a he.”