“I’ve actually got a couple reasons,” he admitted. “The first is that after you and your husband disappeared—”
“Me and my husband?” she interrupted.
“Yes, after—”
“He left, too?” The dread that had temporarily abated came flooding back.
“You know that.”
“No.” She shook her head and swallowed with difficulty. Dear God, she was back to where she’d started. “Why would he leave?”
“You two had a major fight. The neighbors heard it.”
Her knees went suddenly weak at the memory and cold terror slipped through her veins. She dropped back onto the mussed sleeping bag covering the couch.
“My name came up,” Ryder said.
Of course. Oh. Sweet. Jesus.
“So, you both go missing and guess who’s left holding the emotional bag? Yours truly.”
“But you had nothing to do with it.”
“As I tried to explain, but the police had a different idea. A guy by the name of Detective Montoya? He’s pretty sure that somehow I’m involved in both disappearances.”
“What? No!” She couldn’t believe it. “But that’s insane.”
“Insanity to you and me. Motive to the police. The theory is that I might have been so damn pissed about the affair blowing up in my face the way it did, that I went into a jealous rage and got rid of you both.”
“You’re lying.”
“That’s your department, darlin’.” Ryder’s voice was cold. “The police are grasping at straws, and I told them that. But my alibi of being on the road that night didn’t hold any water with them. That hotheaded homicide detective? Montoya? He’s a real piece of work and he never quite believed my story. The only good news was that he didn’t have a body, not even one . . . with two people missing, so they couldn’t build a case against me. Not that he isn’t trying. So, it would be a big favor to me, if you’d go prove that you’re not dead.”
“That still leaves my husband,” she whispered.
“Your problem. Not mine.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, believing Ryder’s story, knowing she’d left a mess behind her when she’d worked so hard to disappear. And the mess kept following her. The only good news was that she was more convinced than ever that the two women who’d been recently killed around Grizzly Falls had nothing to do with her.
“So pack up because we’re leaving.”
“There’s a storm outside,” she reminded.
“Always a storm of one kind or another, always a road block.” He cast a glance in her direction. “We’ll take our chances.”
“That’s nuts.”
“All relative, especially where you’re concerned.” He pocketed yet another camera, then walked into the kitchen and small bath.
He’d even seen her showering or on the toilet or . . . “You’re a pervert, Ryder,” she yelled, but her eyes were on the front door. She only needed her keys and she could race to the Tahoe and peel out of there. Or—Crap! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Her cell phone. It was . . .
In the pile of clothes where her switchblade had been hidden. She quickly tossed her jeans and sweater aside, but, of course, the tiny phone wasn’t where she’d left it. Her keys . . . no, they were gone, too.
“Son of a bitch,” she hissed just as he returned from the bathroom. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” She was standing in the middle of the living room, trying to come up with some kind of option because no matter what he thought, she was not returning to Louisiana.
“You know, I try my level best.”
At the news of a potential suspect in the Cantnor and Pope homicides, Blackwater wanted an up-to-the-minute report on everything the department knew about the new suspect. If the lead panned out, he would order a BOLO—Be On The Lookout—bulletin for the woman.