The Last Invitation (38)

She yanked her hands out of his hold. “So, the real Tim finally showed up.”

“You don’t want to mess with me, Jessa.”

He was weak and pathetic. Lacked staying power. Things got a little rocky, and he bolted. She saw that now.

She forced her trembling insides to calm and let the rage running through her pull her out of the emotional drowning. She would show him. Show Covington and the other partners. Show Darren Bartholomew.

She did not lose. “You know what, Tim? You aren’t worth it.”





Chapter Thirty-Three

Gabby




Gabby stepped into her foyer, arms loaded down with bags of groceries, and kicked the front door shut behind her. She bought food, thinking she could take meals over to Liam and Kennedy, maybe lure them into talking to her, or at least sitting at a table with her. She’d be happy for any contact right now, even the yelling kind.

She walked into the kitchen and set the bags down, ignoring the apple that rolled across the counter. She had much bigger problems than runaway fruit. The two days of silence ate at her, chipped away at her hope and intensified every worry.

She turned to the refrigerator, about to open it, when she saw a flash of movement reflected in the stainless steel. She spun around and stared into the quiet dining room. Stayed completely still, thinking she might be able to pick up on a stray sound.

Nothing.

She groaned, frustrated by her wild imagination. “Nerves.”

Rob’s theories had her spun up. Her mind raced with conspiracies. Trying to figure out how and if the hidden bid letter fit in, she’d looked up Loretta and Earl Swain and fallen down a rabbit hole of charity dinners and magazine features. One article included photos of her house, and Gabby doubted she’d ever look at her own backyard with love again. The Swains had a yard, with a pool and fountains and . . .

Her laptop was closed.

She stared at where it sat on the kitchen table. She’d packed up all the files and papers from Rob before stepping out, but she’d left the laptop open because she was doing a full-system backup and didn’t know if closing the laptop would accidentally end it. It was one of those tech questions she usually asked Kennedy, who then rolled her eyes and treated her old mother as if she were born before the invention of electricity. Kennedy would have lectured her for hours if she’d realized Gabby hadn’t done a backup in almost eight months.

But the laptop was closed. Habit, maybe? Even though she specifically remembered the internal debate about closing or not, she did tend to shut down everything when she stepped away, so maybe Rob’s dire warnings didn’t have her daydreaming nonsense.

“Kennedy?” A fourteen-year-old’s anger either burned out fast once boredom or hunger set in, or the need for money called . . . or the anger lasted for a lifetime. Gabby hoped for the shorter version.

She was about to walk back to the bedrooms and call out in one last, desperate hope that Kennedy had returned home. She passed the knife block and cursed her silliness as she pulled out the biggest one. She’d seen enough horror movies to know how this ended, but she had an alarm . . . Wait, had she put it on? Now she tried to remember if it had chirped when she’d walked in.

She stepped into the hall and listened for footsteps. She couldn’t hear anything over her own panicked breathing. Reinforcements sounded good. She pulled her cell out of her pocket and debated calling Liam. He was her emergency contact. If she hit the SOS, he’d get a call and so would the police. Then she’d probably be fined for wasting law enforcement time on her paranoia.

“This is ridiculous.” She blew out a long breath, hoping to leave some room for common sense to seep into her head.

The hit came from her left side. A blow to her back sent her flying into the wall. She pawed and slapped, trying to grab on to something, but there was nothing to hold. She blinked, desperate to keep her bearings and stay on her feet. With a primal scream, she turned around and slashed out with the knife. She heard a grunt then a flash of dark clothing passed in front of her.

A hand clamped down on her wrist and started twisting. A burning sensation raced up her arm.

“No, no, no,” she pleaded.

With a squeal, she dropped the knife and heard it clank against the hardwood floor. She tried to see the attacker’s face, but the room blurred around her. Fingers wrapped around her arm and yanked. Off-balance, she crashed into the small hall table. A bang rang out, and she fell, hitting the floor and covering her head as a lamp toppled over on her.

This cannot happen. I will not die this way.

Adrenaline pumped through her. She kicked out and yelled. Screamed for help and shouted, “No,” over and over. The knife. She needed to find it. Reaching out, she searched, frantic and wild, and felt a shoe. A man’s shoe. Her attacker.

She punched his ankle as hard as she could. When he swore under his breath, she hit him a second time. Before she could grab on to his leg and try to trip him, he kicked her in the stomach then in the chest. Pain burst behind her eyes as she doubled over. She could feel the air leave her body while she curled into the fetal position without any signal from her brain.

More stunned than hurt, she tried to keep her eyes open. Be ready for the next shot. She scooted back, trying to evade the slicing of the blade.

Her attacker stepped closer. One second, then two . . . He stabbed the knife into the floor next to her face.