The Last Invitation (52)

“Is there another problem with her?” the child psychologist asked.

“Possibly.”





Chapter Forty-Four

Gabby




Gabby’s gasping turned to hiccupping breaths. After an hour answering questions about the accident she’d witnessed, she finally got to Liam’s house. She barely made it to the kitchen before throwing up. Now she stood over the sink, mumbling and crying. She rubbed her hands raw. Scrubbed away the blood that dripped down the drain.

“Gabby?”

She could hear Liam’s voice, but the blood wouldn’t disappear. She took the brush and raked it over her skin.

“Wait . . . no. Stop.” Liam came around from behind her. He knocked the brush out of her hands, sending it clanking into the sink, then held her fingers still as he turned off the water. He shifted her to face him. “What the hell is going on?”

“The blood.”

His hold on her upper arms kept her from shifting around. She stayed still as his gaze searched her face. “There’s no blood.”

“Look at . . .” No red. Not this time.

“See?” He nodded toward the empty sink. “Water only.”

“He’s dead.” The answer escaped on a whisper. She didn’t have the strength to add more details.

“Who?”

“The car . . .” She closed her eyes and let her forehead fall against his shoulder. Blocking the vision that ran on fast-forward through her head zapped all her strength. “They killed his fiancée and now him. Two innocent people. All they wanted was to get to the truth.”

Liam wrapped her hands in a kitchen towel and drew her close against his chest. “Who are you talking about?”

“Rob. Tami.” There was no reason to hide his identity or separate herself from him. He’d died at the scene.

Liam didn’t say anything for a few seconds. When he did, he sounded confused. “I’m not sure who Tami is, but Rob is the reporter, right?”

The unwanted movie reel started running in her mind one more time. “The car rammed right into him. Never even tried to brake or swerve.”

“You were there?”

The questions made her head spin. She could no longer separate the facts she needed to hide from the ones she could tell. “I was meeting him.”

Liam’s hands flexed on her arms, but he didn’t drop contact. “Okay, back up. You’re not making any sense. I saw the news. The reporter died in a car accident.”

“Not an accident. A hit-and-run.” She grabbed on to the front of his shirt, willing him to believe her. “The car plowed into him. It was deliberate.”

“Are you sure?”

“I watched it.” The adrenaline had burned off, leaving her exhausted and craving quiet. “How many people have they killed?”

“‘They’ who?”

“There’s a list . . . Baines is on it . . . or was. I think.” She wasn’t sure if she was making sense, but she kept trying. “What if they are getting rid of people who know?”

“Gabby, listen to me. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re safe here.”

She shook her head. “You can’t promise that.”

“I have security. There’s a doorman. Locks and security keypads.” He exhaled. “Now tell me why you were meeting with that guy.”

He stood so close. She could smell that distinct fragrance from his shower gel. The one she bought him every year for Christmas. The heat, the firm voice, his hands—it all comforted her. She’d been so careful, so protective of her secrets, but her defenses slipped. “He said he had information on Baines’s death.”

“Oh, Gabby . . .”

She couldn’t stand to see the pity in Liam’s eyes. It telegraphed how pathetic he found her right now. But she pushed on, trying to ferret out what he needed to know from the bits she needed to hide to protect him. “He has this theory. It’s more than that. It’s all this research about all these wealthy, connected men. They’re all dead, including Baines.”

“You know that sounds—”

“Ludicrous, I know. But I’ll show you.” She looked around and realized that wasn’t possible. “I don’t have the documents here. I had to hide them.”

The now-familiar look of concern spread over his face. “You have been under incredible stress. Baines’s suicide. Walking in on it. The fighting with Kennedy . . . and me. The break-in, and now you watched a man get hit by a car. It’s too much.”

“You think I’m paranoid.”

“No, Gab. I think you’re burying your grief and sadness by running around after . . . I don’t know what. Conspiracy theories? That’s not like you, but I get it. Everything feels out of control right now.”

She let her head fall to his shoulder again. Moved in closer, cuddled against him, promising that she would pull back in a few seconds. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Believe me when I tell you I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered into her ear.

“You hate me.”

“Never.”

“I can’t believe this.” Kennedy’s shout bounced off the kitchen walls. “You’re disgusting.”