Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(87)

The memory—and all its associated betrayal—clarified in her mind.

Fear and nausea rose in her throat. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, willing her stomach to settle and her panic to subside, but hysteria bubbled inside her chest. Perhaps choking on her own vomit would be preferable to what lay ahead: multiple stabbings, a knife slicing through her throat, fire eating at her flesh. The wounds on Riki’s body played in her own private slideshow.

How much would it hurt to bleed to death?

A wave of grief spilled over her. Conor. She’d finally fallen in love, finally found a good man, only to die before they could enjoy any happiness. Before he even told her he loved her.

Did he? Would he be devastated by her death?

A scuffing sound prompted the involuntary reopening of her eyelids. A floorboard creaked overhead. She strained to see something, anything, in the darkness. A faint glow descended toward her. She blinked to clear her blurry vision. There were stairs on that side of the room. With another bout of queasiness, she remembered tumbling down, her head striking a tread, her vision blackening.

The light flickered over her. She closed her eyes and braced herself for more pain. Fear swept through her. Her numb, restrained limbs trembled.

“Louisa?”

Conor!

Relief rolled over the pain in her head. The glow crossed the cement toward her. He set his cell phone on the floor beside her and checked her binds.

“Hold still. The plastic ties are digging in.” Keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket and sawed at the zip ties. A few minutes later, her hands and feet were free. Conor gently peeled the tape from her mouth. She gulped air.

“Can you sit up?” he asked in a whisper, his hands running over her arms and legs. She winced at every movement of his fingers. Every inch of her body felt bruised from head to toe. “Do you think anything is broken?”

She tried to answer, but all she could do was cough. Her voice was an unintelligible rasp.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” He lifted her upper body until she was sitting up.

Her head protested the change of position. Her stomach heaved. She twisted sideways and vomited on the cement. Conor’s strong arm supported her until she was finished. His fingers went to her head, sweeping gently through her hair. When he touched a spot on the back of her scalp, her vision turned red. She nearly blacked out.

“I’m going to pick you up.” He scooped her under the knees and back. Muscles strained as he stood.

Conor froze as footsteps thudded on wood.





32


A bright flashlight beam blinded Conor. He set Louisa down on the cement and stepped in front of her. One flashlight. Did that mean one person? Was he armed?

“Drop the phone.”

The familiar voice stunned Conor. He released his grip on his cell. It clattered to the cement.

“Now step on it. Hard.”

Conor stomped a heel on the screen. The display went dark.

The flashlight beam dropped, playing over Louisa’s still form. Then the light moved toward the wall. With the click of a switch, the soft light of a camp lantern illuminated the basement.

Six feet in front of him, Zoe stomped her foot. An oversize sweatshirt concealed her slight frame. A gun shook in one hand. A large duffel bag dangled from the other. “You can’t have found me. It’s impossible.”

Conor didn’t point out the obvious.

Zoe shook the flashlight. She was wearing the same miniskirt she’d been wearing the night of her disappearance. It was wrinkled and grimy. From the smell wafting across the space, Zoe hadn’t showered that week. Her dark hair hung in a greasy ponytail. “I only needed twenty more minutes. That’s it. Then everything would have been in place.” She gestured toward Louisa. “She would be dead. The scene would be staged. You would walk right into my trap.” She dropped the bag on the concrete. Metal clanged. She pulled what looked like a disposable camera from her pocket. Two wires protruded from one end. A homemade Taser. “A quick zap with this would render you immobile enough for me to get you into position to shoot yourself in the head.”

He shifted his weight, judging the distance between them. Could he tackle her before she shot him?

Probably not. If Louisa were able to run, he’d try it. But the crack on the back of the head had rendered Louisa helpless. If Zoe killed him, Louisa would be next.

“Zoe, put the gun down,” he said with authority. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

“No way. And don’t even try to tell me everything will be OK,” Zoe spat. “Because it won’t. You two screwed everything up. I was supposed to escape this week. I would be the sole survivor of your killing spree.”

“So Isa is dead?” Conor asked, sadness rolling through the turmoil in his gut.

“Yes. Now there’s no one in my way.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Pendleworth grant,” Louisa breathed.

No way. “You killed three women and planned to frame me for murder and suicide over a grant?”

Louisa had mentioned academic competition, but she’d had the players backward. Of course, the major assumption of her theory had been that Zoe was a victim.

Zoe rolled her eyes. The whites gleamed in the dim. “Of course. It was no accident I went to your apartment and the police found the evidence I left. It would have worked perfectly if the cops hadn’t been completely incompetent. They should have arrested you that first night.”