Page 75 of The Drowned Woman
Risa nodded. “But promise, when he falls, you don’t wait for me. If we can’t kill him, then you need to run and get help. You hear me? You run. Leave me. Okay?”
Leah ignored her by pretending to be too busy selecting a railing low enough that she could hide beneath the stairs and reach the cord to pull it, yet high enough that the fall would have some hope of at least stunning Chaos.
“What was he doing while we were watching Cliff die?” Risa mused as Leah tied the cord and leaned her weight against it to test it.
Something fell into place for Leah at Risa’s words. Suddenly she understood. Everything. There was one person who benefited from Risa being drugged, from her being unable to remember large swaths of time. Especially last night.
A thud sounded overhead, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.
“Quick, get into position,” Risa urged her.
“Risa, wait.”
Risa scurried back to the corner and lay down on the floor. “There’s no time. Put the hood back over my head.”
“No, wait. I know who Chaos is. It’s not Dom.”
Footsteps echoed from above, followed by the sound of men’s voices.
Forty-Seven
The stench of mold and mildew choked Luka. His throat was raw, every breath an effort. His head pounded. He opened his eyes—it was almost too much work to bother, returning to unconsciousness was so very tempting. He was lying face down on an ancient braided rug between the coffee table and the sofa. Someone knelt on the small of his back and the pain jolted him to full awareness. His wrists were pulled together as handcuffs ratcheted with a metallic snap.
The man rolled off Luka’s body to stand beside him. All Luka could see was a pair of expensive leather work boots and jeans cuffed with mud. The man’s foot reached out to nudge Luka’s shoulder.
“Didn’t go overboard with that chokehold, did I?” he asked in a friendly tone. “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it? I could have used the stun gun, but I much prefer a hands-on approach when it’s practical.”
Luka blinked, trying to focus—not only his blurry vision, but his foggy thoughts. He rolled to one side, his back to the couch, hitting Massimo’s legs. They felt unnaturally stiff and cold. He pushed against them, mere obstacles as he fought his way to a seated position. His vision swam red with the strain and he closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing. Massimo was dead. The fact finally penetrated the haze that filled his brain.
Time. Buy time. He’d told Krichek where he was going—if Luka didn’t show up soon, he’d send backup. Or maybe his text had gotten through to McKinley and the ERT was on the way. Luka hoped.
“Okay, there? Not gonna barf, are you?”
Luka took another breath, shook his head—regretting the movement as it released a shockwave of pain roaring through his head—and finally found the strength to look up, focusing on the man. Cherise’s killer.
Jack O’Brien.
“You never even had a clue, did you?” Jack’s grin widened. “I couldn’t believe it when you showed up at Risa’s building after I silenced the old lady. Knew you right away, of course I did. You’re the reason why I’m in this business, how I found my true calling.”
“Wha—” Luka couldn’t finish the question, his throat tightening like a noose as his brain finally cleared. He swallowed hard, ignoring the pain. “You? Cherise?”
Jack laughed, hands on his hips, back arched, face to the ceiling. The sound emerged more like a victorious howl of a rabid wolf baying at the moon. “You still don’t remember me! We met. Once when you dropped her off at our house. My stepsister, Lynne, she ran Cherise’s study group.”
Lynne Braughman. She’d been one of Cherise’s best friends. Devastated after Cherise’s death, she’d been interviewed by the police—all the members of the study group had, but Jack’s name was nowhere to be found in the police report. No one had thought to question the younger brother—no one had even mentioned him being home during the study group.
Luka searched his memory, could vaguely recall passing the boy on the lawn once when he’d escorted Cherise to Lynne’s house. There’d been an arch covered in climbing roses. He remembered thinking that someday he and Cherise would have a house like this, with its well-groomed lawn and lovingly tended gardens, but most of all with an arch they could walk through each time they returned, leaving the world behind as they crossed into their happily-ever-after.
He’d barely even noticed the teenager kicking the soccer ball against the garage wall. Not until he was leaving and the ball hit him square in the small of the back. The kid had apologized and Luka had chuckled, retrieved it and kicked it back, the ball sailing past the kid, hitting what would have been a goal shot if there’d been a net. He remembered thinking that their kid, who’d hopefully both look like Cherise and be as smart as she was, their kid would have a real net. And two parents out there playing with him—or her.
Luka’s recognition must have shown. Jack crouched down to Luka’s eye level, peering at Luka as if he were an insect under a magnifying glass. “Now you remember.”
“Soccer ball.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You thought I missed, but I hit exactly what I was aiming at.”
“You were—fifteen?”
“Seventeen. Hadn’t had my growth spurt yet.” He stroked his chin. “That came later, after I left for the army. But Cherise didn’t mind. She saw my potential, the person I was destined to be. Said I was smart, clever, that sports weren’t everything.”
