Page 153 of Dying to Meet You
But she isn’t listening. “Look at me,” she says. “Catch.”
She lobs something at me, and I grab it so it doesn’t hit me. It’s a pair of handcuffs, unlocked.
“Put one of those around your wrist.” She squares her body with mine and aims the gun straight at me. “Now.”
I fumble with the handcuffs, managing to close one of them around my left wrist. My mind is whirling. What the hell is she doing?
“I want to hear the cuff click,” she orders.
It does. But my mind is still churning. If Beatrice killed Tim, then she’s the one who threw his gun in the dumpster. “Did... did you try to pin Tim’s murder on Harrison? How’d you even know who he was?” I can’t look her in the eye, because my gaze is trapped on the gun’s barrel. It’s still aimed squarely at my chest.
“Harrison was my only mistake. He was the wrong choice anyway. Wincotts always land on their feet.”
None of that makes sense to me. But she doesn’t seem inclined to explain herself.
“Walk over to the railing and sit down.Move.”
Lickie whines, and I cast a glance in her direction. Beatrice has looped her leash around the cast-iron radiator, trapping Lickie by the wall.
My dog can tell that something is wrong, but she can’t help me.
I move toward the banister on shaky legs, because I don’t think I have a choice. I step over Tim’s papers, wondering what Beatrice learned. And why she cares.
Beside the railing, I lower myself carefully to the floor.
“Face away from me. Spread your arms on the spindles as wide as they can go.”
Balusters, not spindles, my architect brain suggests. I know buildings, but people confuse me. And whatever is wrong with Beatrice is way above my pay grade.
Trying to stay alive, I do exactly as Beatrice commands. I spread my arms wide, gripping the balusters with my hands. The gesture reminds me eerily of a crucifix.
Beatrice isinsane. I really am the worst judge of character in the world.
“Don’t move a muscle,” she demands.
“Why?” I repeat, my cheek resting against a baluster. “What did I ever do to you?”
“Not to me,” she says in a low voice. “To my family.”
“Your family,” I repeat slowly, her words sloshing around in my terrified mind. “You’re... aWincott?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she quickly yanks the free end of the handcuffs and locks it to a baluster. Having cuffed me, I can hear Beatrice backing away again.
But I’m so confused. She could have shot me already if that was her plan.
So whatisthe plan? My heart is racing and my head is muzzy with fear. It’s hard to think.
Then my phone chimes again from its facedown spot on the floor. We both turn our heads toward the sound.
And I don’t think at all. I lunge for the phone with my free hand, my body flailing awkwardly as the cuff clanks against the balustrade.
My fingertip grazes the phone. And then Beatrice slams her foot down on my hand. I actually hear bones snap.
I howl as pain streaks up my arm, instant and shocking.
Lickie loses her mind, snarling and barking. And she’s straining so hard on her collar that I hear choking sounds.
My hand is screaming, my dog can’t help me, and my eyes are flooding with tears. On a silent sob, I curl myself around my broken hand.
