Page 88 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Isabelle looked over her shoulder at Lars, who had already disappeared behind the racks of clothes and the crowd of models waiting to walk.

Isabelle resisted the urge to break Olivia’s hold on her. Perhaps Adams’s assistant could give her some much-needed information.

“I was looking for Marit,” Isabelle asked. “Where is she?”

“She’s sick,” Olivia said. “Mr. Adams pulled her from the show.”

“Mr. Adams told you that?”

“Yes.” Olivia continued to propel her forward.

Isabelle reached the opening of the curtain as a panicked assistant waved her forward. “Hurry!”

Even though Isabelle didn’t care about Adams’s line or his fashion show, the walk down the runway and back would take two minutes tops. It was highly improbable, but maybe Marit was out there. She certainly wasn’t backstage.

Isabelle fell into line and moved through the curtains as though she had been waiting her turn the whole time. She scanned the crowd, spotting Peter Wade in the front row. A few other faces were familiar, but Marit wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Isabelle pivoted halfway down the runway, her hand on her hip as she did so. She made it to the end and turned, Cole rushing into view as she continued back toward the curtains.

Cole was here. Marit wasn’t. Somehow, together they had to find her because there was no doubt Adams was behind the theft of Ralph’s designs,andit was highly probable that he was also guilty of murder.

***

If Marit didn’t escape before Adams returned, the designer would kill her. It was that simple. And that terrifying. She was simply an expendable pawn in his dangerous and illegal game. Just like Brinton James had been.

Battling the rush of fear that threatened to immobilize her, Marit swallowed against the sash gag. It didn’t seem to matter how hard she pulled; her bindings refused to give a millimeter. She’d tried twisting her wrists, but the slight movement had only resulted in the extension cords digging more deeply into her skin. With her arms trapped behind her back, it hadn’t taken long for her fingers to start swelling. She flexed them, grateful that they still responded, albeit weakly.

Leaning her head against the closet door, she closed her eyes. She was enveloped in darkness regardless of whether her eyes were open or closed, but closing them helped her pretend that she wasn’t locked in a janitorial cupboard. Of course, the pretense would be easier if the smell of cleaning chemicals weren’t so potent. Or if her jaw, wrists, and ankles weren’t pulsating with pain.

She’d been sitting on the floor ever since Adams had left her, and the intense cold of the floor tiles had long since penetrated the silk jumpsuit she was wearing. The chill was now spreading to the rest of her body. Swinging her knees, she banged them against the door again. There’d been no one in the foyer when Adams had forced her into the closet, but she’d made a concerted effort to hit the door occasionally, not only to signal anyone who may be looking for her but to help keep the blood circulating in her legs.

For at least the hundredth time, she wondered how long it would be before anyone did start looking for her. Cole wasn’t even in the building. Isabelle would be racing from the runway to change into her next outfit and then back onto the runway again. She may wonder where Marit was if she didn’t see her backstage, but she’d have no time to hunt for her. Lars would notice when she didn’t immediately appear on the catwalk, but would he just assume there was a last-minute change in the show’s order, or would he go backstage to check on her?

Even if Lars still believed that there was no reason to suspect Adams of any wrongdoing, she didn’t think he’d believe the designer if Adams told everyone that Marit had become ill and left. Lars knew Marit would call him if something like that happened. He would try her phone, and if she didn’t reply, he’d start searching for her. She knew he would. She could only hope that he would find her before Adams returned.

***

Cole flashed his badge at the security guard and rushed backstage. He could kick himself for eliminating Adams as a suspect prematurely. He tried to find solace in the fact that he had spoken to Marit only twenty minutes ago, but since she knew about Adams’s guilt, it had very likely put her in the danger zone.

He spotted Isabelle exiting the runway and passing through the curtains. Bypassing the dozens of backstage workers, he hurried toward her. “Where’s Adams?”

Isabelle looked to her right and then her left before she motioned to an area that was cordoned off. “He’s over there, in the backstage viewing area, but he didn’t show up there until a few minutes ago.”

Cole stepped closer to the area Isabelle indicated so he could get a better look. Several assistants stood beside Adams, a partition at his back and the open space near the front runway area visible through a gap in the curtains. A security guard occupied the open space between the private viewing area and the rest of the backstage space.

Isabelle leaned close. “Do we push past his security to get to him or try to find Marit on our own?”

Cole’s instinct was to beat the information out of the smug-looking designer in his tailored suit, but his intelligence training dominated. Demanding information without the right incentive would be counterproductive.

“We need to find Marit,” Cole said. Her safety took priority. If anything happened to her, Cole would never forgive himself. Neither would Lars.

That thought had barely formed when Cole spotted his cousin rushing toward him.

“I can’t find her anywhere,” Lars said.

“Where have you looked?”

“The entire backstage area, except the dressing rooms.”

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