Reckoning (Wolfes of Manhattan 5)

“That’s it, love. Give me some more shoulder. There you go.”

I stepped to the side again. Stop. Step. Stop. Step.

Closer and closer I came to the door Fonda had emerged from.

Step. Stop. Step. Stop.

Something hit my left shoulder. I stifled a gasp.

I’d been watching Fonda instead of looking to my left. I’d bumped into another bystander.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Shit, now someone knew I was here. Plus, I’d have to get around him to keep going.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

I pretended not to hear him.

“Hey,” he said again, his whisper louder this time. “Who are you?”

I didn’t have a choice. I turned toward his voice. Even in the shadows, I had to do a double take.

Rock?

Dark hair, a little silver at the temples. Eyes like my husband’s. Were they green? Maybe blue. I couldn’t tell in the dark.

Whoever this was, he was a dead ringer for Rock Wolfe.

A dead ringer for Derek Wolfe.

I flattened myself against the wall and stepped the other way, my heart thundering. Derek Wolfe? Alive? No. Couldn’t be. DNA had been checked. His organs…

I was really going to puke.

“Shit,” the man said. “How’d you get in here?”

I stepped away again, but he grabbed my arm.

“Help!” I shouted.

The clicking stopped.

“What the hell’s going on back there?” one of the photographers shouted. “You okay?”

“No! This guy’s manhandling me.”

“What the hell?” The studio lights dimmed. “Who are you?”

“I’m—”

“Not you, ma’am. Who the fuck are you?”

The man grabbed me and forced me toward the door.

“Help me!” I screamed again.

Once we were out of the studio, he pushed me against the wall. “For God’s sake, shut up!”

I squinted, adjusting to the office lighting in the hallway. That voice. That face. My God. It was true.

He was alive.

“Derek?” I rasped out.

“Derek’s dead.”

“Who the hell are you, then?”

“Damn. None of us wanted this to happen.”

“Let me go. I’m Lacey Wolfe. Mrs. Rock Wolfe. My husband will—”

“Shut up.” He clamped his hand over my mouth. “We weren’t going to let you go down, okay? We weren’t going to…” He looked around.

Footsteps echoed.

“Shit.” He grabbed me and dragged me to a door at the end of the hallway.

We ended up in a stairwell. I stumbled in my pencil skirt and spiky heels.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Go.” He nudged me toward the stairs.

“We’re twenty-five flights up.”

“You think I don’t know that? You got a better idea?”

“Yeah. We go back up there and I have you arrested for assault and battery.”

“Nice idea, but you’re accused of murder. Who’s anyone going to believe?”

“Whoever’s up there isn’t stupid. They heard me scream for help. They’re going to know we went for the stairs.”

“They’re in the middle of a shoot. They’re on deadline. Money talks, honey.”

“I’m not your honey. Who are you?” I blinked, trying to see him more clearly. But he was already clear in my vision.

He looked exactly like—

“Jordan. Jordan Wolfe.”

My jaw dropped. “Who?”

“Jordan Wolfe. I’m Derek’s son. His oldest son.”

“Irene Lucent.” The words seemed to come out of my mouth without any thought on my part.

“Is my mother. Yeah. Now go!”

I started down the stairs, nearly stumbling, but Jordan steadied me.

After a couple flights, he stopped. “Here.” He opened the door.

“What floor is this?”

“Shh. Trust me.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “but I will if I have to. Understand?”

My stomach churned. Crap. Literally. I had to go to the bathroom. I inhaled. Exhaled. Tried to get my body to relax. To chill.

Not happening.

Then I noticed it. The gun. It was strapped to his ankle, mostly hidden by his jeans.

Rock had been right. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t—

I retched, and my stomach emptied right there in the stairwell. Right there on the man’s shoes.

“Jesus…” he said.

I retched again, but nothing came up.

“For the love of God…” He pulled me into a restroom.

A men’s restroom. Urinals lined the wall.

Oddly, the restroom appeared to be empty. Jordan grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped off his shoes. “Clean yourself up.”

I didn’t want to obey him, but he was right about getting cleaned up. Miraculously, I’d missed my own clothes when I threw up. I wet a paper towel in the sink and wiped my mouth and face. Then I held my face under the faucet and rinsed out my mouth. Splashed water on my cheeks.

Should I apologize? No. He took me by force. He’s lucky all I did was puke on his shoes.

“Listen to me,” he said.

“Why should I?” Though I had every intention to, as I eyed the gun once more.

“Because I’m trying to help you, Lacey.”

“By assaulting me?” I looked around. “Help! Help me!”

“There’s no one on this floor,” he said. “It’s why I stopped here.”

Of course. I should have known.

“Fonda killed your father,” I said, “and I’m going to prove it.”

“Would you shut up?”

“Help!” I screamed again. “Help me, please!”