Page 102 of Jane Deyre
“One...” I take another step backward.
“Two...” Another step, but on this one I bend down to retrieve the hardcover book.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m just collecting my book,” I say calmly as I stand up. On my next breath, I fling it at him. It goes flying and—thwack—smacks him hard in the head, just above his scarred, drooping eye. With a thunk and a flutter of pages, the book falls to the floor. The fucker’s hand flies to his face and he lets go of the knife. It lands on the floor next to the book. Stunned, he loosens his grip around Jane’s neck.
“Jane, run!” I yell.
Terrified, she flees from him, but not in time. Coming to his senses, he holds her back by the hood of her sweatshirt. And reels her into him. He loops his free arm around her waist, clutching her tightly. She screams.
“Let go of me!” She stamps her foot hard on his. Then again. And again.
He yelps. “You fucking bitch! You deserve to die!”
Another bone-shattering stamp of her foot and while the bastard whimpers, Jane kicks the knife across the floor in my direction. My smart girl!
“That does it, cunt!” Recovering, Reed moves his other arm back around her neck, squeezing all the air out of her. As she gasps, I make a mad dash for the knife. Gripping it in my hand, I charge at him, and just as Jane is about to take her last breath, I plunge the blade into his chest.Splitch!A fountain of blood spurts from the six-inch-deep gash. His mouth’s agape, his eyeballs rolling like marbles. All the color drains from his face, except for the fuchsia of his butt-ugly scar. His body lolls. For a brief second, his stunned eyes meet mine.
“You motherfuck—”
Gasping for air, he tries to pull the knife out, but doesn’t have the strength. His hand trembles; blood pours from his mouth. He takes his last shuddering breath and, as he spirals to the floor, I lift Jane into my arms. She wraps her arms and legs around me like a child and begins to sob. Convulsively. Her lips quivering. Her body quaking.
I kiss the top of her head, smooth her hair. So happy, so relieved to have her back in my arms. Alive.
“Shh... baby, it’s over. It’s going to be okay.”
I’m about to kiss her again when I feel a powerful thud against my chest.
What the fuck? Jane is pounding me. First one fist. Then two.
“Put me down! I never want to see you again!” she screams as she starts kicking my backside with her heels.
“Jane, what’s wrong with you?” I don’t get it. I just saved her life. She should be thanking me. Kissing me. I’m back.
A bitter mixture of emotions colors her face. Sorrow and rage. Confusion and hurt. One word: “Céline.”
Shit. So that’s what this is all about. She must have found out. I take a steeling breath and the words tumble out.
“Jane, she’s dead.”
She slaps my face.
“Fuck you, you lying bastard!”
CHAPTER 53
Jane
The next few hours are pure mayhem.
For the second time in twenty years, Thornhill Manor is at the center of a major crime scene investigation. The first time a kidnapping. Tonight a murder. Actually, if you count Bertrand Mason’s disappearance at sea, which was ruled an accident though some speculated it was a suicide or a murder, and Georgia Winters’s suicide, it’s more like four times.The Curse of Thornhill,as coined by the tabloids, persists.
Police swarm the property. We’ve been asked to leave the guesthouse, which is now cordoned off with red and yellow tape, a crime scene forensics team working every nook and corner. It’s been hard to let go of the image of John Reed’s blood-soaked body being bagged and carted off. And the crimson pool he left behind on the hardwood floor. The tea Grace Poole has made for me is a comfort, but what I yearn for is a brandy to warm me. To numb me.
The police have already interrogated Ward; he’s gone upstairs to shower. Now it’s my turn. While I’m not looking forward to being questioned, it will at least get my mind off the man who both saved me. And betrayed me.
Wrapped in a blanket, I sit on a couch in the great room facing the lead investigator on the case. I recognized him instantly. Lieutenant Pete Billings, now Detective Pete Billings and the head of LAPD’s homicide division. The now fifty-something crime fighter, who headed up the investigation of Charlotte Mason’s abduction. Who swore on his life he’d never give up until the child was found. Though twenty years older and a bit craggier and stockier, he looks almost the same. The same glossy swath of jet-black hair (not a gray in sight) and dark, bushy eyebrows. Now clad in a crumpled trench coat in lieu of a police officer’s uniform, he’s a dead ringer for Detective Colombo from that old ’60s TV series. Seated next to him is his partner, Lieutenant Mancuso, a gum-chewing, gangly quiet type, who takes notes with his ballpoint pen in a small notepad. Between them, the coffee table holds a plate of oatmeal cookies and some cans of soda, courtesy of Grace. And a recording device.