Page 79 of Broken Bayou
“Because it’s family is exactly why you shouldn’t handle it.”
He looks at me with a cold stare. “If you see him, call me. And don’t go near him.” Then he swerves out of the driveway before I can say anything else.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I step back into the foyer and lock the front door. Take a minute to breathe. I’m too on edge to be here, in this house, in this town. My mind is swirling. I zeroed in on Doyle to the point I missed other cues. I mentioned Doyle not only to Travis but to Rita and the investigator as well. I was so sure. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my face. Oh my God. What am I doing? I’ve gotten so tangled up in this, I’ve lost perspective. I thought I had it all figured out. And last night ... my throat constricts. I was alone with Raymond, who just happened to find me on the levee. Who lied to Travis about being in New Orleans.
Would a chair wedged under a broken door really deter an intruder? A killer. I don’t want to sit around, waiting to find out.
I’m googling hotels in Baton Rouge even before I reach the landing on the second floor. There are several options. And Baton Rouge is close enough that I could get back if the investigator needs me. Had Tom Bordelon said stay close or don’t leave town? I convince myself he said stay close. Baton Rouge is close.
In the front bedroom, I cram my things into my duffel: toothbrush, skirts, heels. I zip it shut and study the room. Nothing has been forgotten. I pull the sheets off the bed and pile them up with the towels I used. I can’t remember any cleaning instructions. I’ll call Charles II and offer to pay for a service to come in and clean. Add it on to the damagetab from the attic door. A cold stone drops in my stomach. The attic. I didn’t look in the attic when I came in. Maybe Travis did. I caught up to him as he searched, but we stayed on the first floor. I tell myself it’s okay. I’m being paranoid. But still, I look to the bedside table for my gun. Shit. I left it in the kitchen. Next to my keys.
I sling the straps of my duffel onto my shoulder and start heading for the hallway when I hear it. This time it’s not some indistinct creak or snap. It’s a very clear sound. Footsteps. And they’re coming from above me, from the attic.
I race for the stairs. The attic door squeaks open. My heart thuds in my chest as I clamber down the front steps and run for my keys and gun. Footsteps sound on the stairs behind me. I smack my duffel into the doorframe as I turn into the kitchen, let out a moan, and drop it in the hall. The chair is no longer under the doorknob; it’s at the kitchen table. I lunge for the table, grab my keys, and—
My gun is gone.
“I’m gonna need you to not move.” The voice behind me is a slow drawl. Possibly drunk. Definitely one I recognize.
I don’t move.
“Now, real slow, turn around,” he says.
I turn and stare down the barrel of my own gun. And behind my gun is Doyle Arceneaux. His eyes watery. His hands shaking. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I swallow, keep my eyes on his. Breathe. “I know you don’t.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“Doyle, please lower the gun.”
He looks at it like he’s surprised to see it in his hand, hesitates a moment, then lowers it. I exhale. He glances at the kitchen door. “That chair didn’t work. I knew you had something that needed fixin’.”
“What are you doing here?” I rub the phone in my hand and wonder if there’s any way I can dial 9-1-1 without him noticing.
“I needed a place to hide. It’s not me.”
“I know,” I say even though I don’t know any such thing. Just as the facts point in one direction, something happens to completely upend my theory. Like Doyle showing up in my kitchen, holding my own gun on me. My heart pounds against my ribs. I decide to gamble on a question. Maybe it will get me the answers I need. “Doyle, why’d you leave me that license plate?”
His eyes widen. “Where is it?”
“I gave it to the police.”
His shoulders relax a little. “They know.”
“Doyle, all they know is your fingerprints are all over it.”
“I didn’t do anything!” he yells.
I hold up my hands. “Okay.”
He looks around the kitchen. He looks like a child who’s been caught doing something wrong. “I was in one of the bedrooms earlier. Then I moved out to the shed.” He points through the open door with the gun. “Then I saw Travis pull up and ran to the attic. He’s looking for me.” He glances at my gun again. “I thought this might be handy.”
His voice is different from the last time I saw him. He sounds more like a child. Less threatening. Like he finally understands his toughness is actually bravado.
I keep my gaze on his, my voice steady. “You don’t need to hide anymore.”
