Page 36 of Secret Stalker

He scribbled them down as the sound of yelling and shoes pounding on the floor outside got louder and louder.

“They weren’t trying to kill her, either,” she volunteered. “Did the ones turning deals tell you that already?”

She was so ready to sing, worried someone else would get a better deal than her. If he only had more time.

“Maybe, maybe not. Just hurry and tell me what you know before I decide not to talk to the judge on your behalf.”

“They were supposed to scare her, for one thing. And then they were gonna take her—”

More yelling sounded down the hallway, much closer now.

Reggie’s eyes widened, and she looked toward the door.

Max slammed his hands down on the table, making her jump.

“Finish it, Reggie. They were going to kidnap Miss Kane? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. For a little while, at least. They definitely weren’t wanting to kill anyone.”

“You seriously expect me to believe that? They had assault rifles. They were searching for her. Of course they wanted to hurt her.”

“They didn’t. I swear. They were supposed to—”

“Reggie, shut your face!” A shout sounded from right outside the room. “Don’t tell them cops nothing.”

Her eyes widened again, and she chewed her bottom lip in indecision.

The sound of scuffles sounded from outside. Something heavy slammed against the wall. It sounded like half of the police force was trying to keep her father from coming into the room.

She obviously wasn’t sure what to do. She kept glancing from the door to Max.

“Reggie, ask for a lawyer, you idiot!” her father raged outside.

She slid a look at Max, her earlier smug look returning.

“Think very carefully before you say anything else,” Max warned her. “Remember, you need me to give a good word to the judge to help you get a reduced sentence. And I’ll only do that if you tell me what those boys wanted when they broke into the store. What were they going to do? Why were they looking for Bex? Who hired them? Give me something, Reggie.”

She looked toward the door again, where they could both hear her father yelling.

Max straightened. “Fine. You want to spend your twenties and thirties in prison, that’s your choice.” He turned around and strode toward the door.

“Wait!”

He turned around. “Yes?”

“They were supposed to take her someplace else. I don’t know where, I swear. But they were supposed to make her talk, on camera.”

“Talk about what?”

“They wanted her to confess to murdering some guy named Bobby something or other.”

He grew very still. “Caldwell? Bobby Caldwell?”

“That’s it. Yes. They were supposed to film her making a confession. And then they were supposed to give the film to—”

The door slammed open, the frame splintering in pieces where the locking mechanism used to be. Six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound Sam Oliver stood in the opening, looking like a bull ready to tear into a matador. He glared at Max then turned his glare on his daughter. He jabbed his finger in the air, pointing at her. “Don’t tell him another damn thing.”

She nodded, looking more terrified of her father than of Max, which, of course, meant his interview had just come to an end. If he’d had any doubts, they went away the second she finally found her voice again.

“I want a lawyer.”

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