Page 88 of Dead Girl Running

“Are you frigid?”

She laughed in his face. “Because I don’t want to sleep with you? I suspect if you looked around this world, you could find a great many people, both women and men, who don’t want to sleep with you.”

“I’m only interested in the one.”

Most of the time, she didn’t like him. Then he was charming and self-deprecating, and she did. “You can leave now.”

He pulled on his winter gear. “Let me know if you remember anything I need to know.” At the door, he turned and asked, “Who’s the guy with the big feet?”

Your competition.But he wasn’t. She didn’t want to kiss him, either. “Max Di Luca. He’s come to handle security. He’s smart, he’s tough and he’s fast. You’d better figure out this investigation quickly, or he’ll figure it out for you.”

Nils took a step toward her.

For the first time since that first night, she pulled her pistol and pointed it at his chest. “Don’t.”

“This is not a game,” he said. “Let’s end this before it gets deadly.”

“Priscilla Carter is dead. Lloyd Magnuson is dead. Your Jessica is dead.” She slapped him with words, with truth. “How much more deadly do you want it to be?”

“I want it to end with the good guys alive.”

“Then you’d better go out there and see that they do.”

* * *

Kellen barricaded herself in her cottage, set a trap beneath every window and in front of the door and slept the sleep of the pure.

In the wee hours of the morning, her phone vibrated and lit up, and she woke from a dream of something about sex and Max and…sex.

Caller ID placed the number inside the resort, and for one moment she couldn’t imagine who among the guests would have her number, and who among the staff would call her when they could text.

Then she knew. She leaped to her feet, swayed as she fought for her equilibrium. “Mr. Gilfilen?”

No sound. Only the faintest breathing.

“Mr. Gilfilen?”

His voice was almost nonexistent. “Depend…you.”

“I’m coming,” she said. “Hang on. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

32

Kellen’s ATV swayed as she leaped in. She drove through a blistering cold wind and past the occasional snowflake toward the west wing, toward the suite Vincent Gilfilen had appropriated for his investigation, and all the time she prayed she was in time. Mr. Gilfilen had undertaken this mission because he believed he could make a difference. He should not die for his efforts.

She parked and grabbed the first aid kit. She used her pass card to open the outer door, pulled her pistol and proceeded cautiously into the empty living room. Across the eating bar, a light shone over the range top in the kitchen.

She listened but heard nothing, only her own breath, harsh and broken.

She looked but saw nothing. Then…a dark blot on the rug. A trail of wet crimson into the bedroom, into the bathroom. She followed that trail, pistol clutched in one hand, first aid kit in the other. The bathroom light was on. She stepped into the doorway. And saw him—Vincent Gilfilen, smeared with blood, unconscious, stretched out on his back. The throw rug was rolled and thrust under his neck, tilting his head back, revealing a dark throat bruised darker in a long thin line. Someone had used a garrote on him.

The cat, the mangy cat he had rescued, sat on the counter and growled at her.

“It’s all right,” she told it. “I’ll help him.” She stepped over his prone body, faced the door, dropped on her knees beside him. “Mr. Gilfilen!” She touched his cheek.

His eyelids flickered. He twitched as if fighting for breath, but his chest didn’t move. She adjusted his head, pinched his nose, put her mouth to his and tried to fill his lungs. No luck.

The swelling in his throat had obstructed his airway.

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