Page 92 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“Where’s Cole?” Lars asked, doing nothing to hide the anger in his voice. “It’s time to go after Adams.”

“He hasn’t gotten back from talking to security.” Isabelle looked over her shoulder. “He should be here any minute.”

Leaving the wet cloth draped across Marit’s wrists, Lars leaned forward and cupped her face gently in his hand. “I’m going to find Cole and update security about what’s happened. I promise you, Adams won’t be walking out of here a free man.” Knowing that she was too fragile to be kissed the way he wanted to kiss her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

“It...” Marit swallowed and winced. “It might take me a few minutes before I’m up for walking, but if Isabelle’s here, I’ll be okay.”

Lars looked at Isabelle.

She nodded. “I’ve got this. Go find Cole.”

Chapter 32

Marit lifted the wet sashfrom her injured wrists to dab at the cuts on her ankles. Drops of blood mingled with the water that dripped onto the exorbitantly priced silk jumpsuit she was wearing. Under normal circumstances, she would have been horrified. Now she glanced at the stains numbly.

Kyle Adams had done this to her. And he’d likely planned to do far worse once the show was over. The show. She gasped. It was the first time she’d thought of it since hearing Lars’s voice on the other side of the closet door.

“Isabelle! We have to stop the show. Adams has made replicas of Ralph’s designs and plans to use them in his finale.”

“I know,” Isabelle said grimly. “I spotted them when we were looking for you.”

Marit set one hand on the floor to push herself to her feet. Pain radiated upward from her wrists, and her arm trembled. She rotated slightly, attempting to distribute her weight more evenly. “We have to get in there.”

“We have to do a couple other things first,” Isabelle said, reaching down to help her up.

“We don’t have time.”

“I bought us a little time. I hid the copied gowns Adams was planning to put in his finale. He’s going to be frantic, trying to find them before the show ends.” Isabelle helped her stumble to her feet. “And taking care of you needs to be our priority right now. First, we have to make sure you can stand alone, and second, we need to put Band-Aids on the worst of your cuts.”

“I don’t care how much blood gets on Adams’s outfit,” Marit said, leaning against the wall while she gave her throbbing ankles time to adjust to her upright position.

“Neither do I.” Cautiously, Isabelle released her hold on Marit’s arm and stepped back. “But everyone backstage will, and you’ll be mobbed by well-meaning assistants if you reappear bleeding like that.”

Which would make accessing the runway entrance and the general manager all but impossible. The words went unspoken, but Marit knew she couldn’t risk drawing the attention of Adams before she spoke to someone in authority over running the show.

“My left wrist is the worst,” Marit said. “Maybe I can cover that with the sash.”

Isabelle shook her head. “I have a whole box of bandages in my purse.” She glanced up and down the empty hall. “If you think you’ll be okay for a minute, I’ll run and grab them.”

“I’ll be fine.” She took a small step away from the wall. Already, the unsteadiness in her legs was improving. “Go now. We have to be getting close to the finale.”

Isabelle didn’t hesitate. She ran across the hall and disappeared between the gap in the partition.

Marit released a tight breath and took another small step. The movement pulled at the damaged skin on her right ankle, but she resisted the urge to limp. If she was going to stop the show, she was going to have to ignore the pain.

Staying close to the wall, she managed another three steps, then she retraced them back to the cupboard entrance. She picked up the wet sash that she’d left on the floor and wiped a fresh trickle of blood off her left arm. Hurried footsteps sounded behind her.

“That was fast.” Marit turned around.

“Not fast enough, apparently.” Adams drew his gun from his pocket. “How did your friend unlock the door? And where did you hide the clothes?”

Marit dropped the sash to the floor. The trembling returned to her limbs, but she refused to allow Adams to see it. She also wasn’t going to tell him how she’d escaped. If he knew that three people—maybe more, if Cole and Lars had spoken with security by now—knew exactly where she was and what he’d done, there was no accounting for what he might do now.

She leaned against the wall, grateful for its stability. “I don’t know the answers to either of those questions.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled.

“I’m not lying.”

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