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the state just the same. School districts are funny about things like that.
He barks a short, brittle laugh. Can you believe it? He showed up here. We d
just gotten this thing started with Trish and he shows up here. Good thing
Bradley was keeping track. He made sure he and Donovan were assigned the case
to investigate Frey.
The tips of my fingers and toes are tingling. There s an eerie feeling of
energy being restored. Cell by cell, my system is repairing itself, releasing
the poison through my pores.
But it s not enough. Not yet.
Darryl is watching me with keen eyes.Best to keep him talking.
What happened with Barbara Franco? Why did you kill Trish s friend?
There s a pause while uncertainty casts a shadow over his face. But his need
to brag wins out over caution. It s what I m counting on.
He shakes his head, frowning. I know what you re asking. Did we kill her for
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a snuff film? That s the kind of thing that gives our business a bad name. In
the first place, snuff films are urban legend. They don t exist. They don t
have to. Technology makes it unnecessary to take that kind of risk. Special
effects nowadays-
He s ramping up for a lecture. Jesus. I don t care about special effects.
What happened to Barbara?
The irritation in my voice sends a second flash of doubt skittering across
Darryl s face. He reaches for the stake and starts to get up. You wouldn t be
trying to fool me with all these questions, would you? he asks.
It s now or never. I heave myself up and leap as far away from Darryl as I
can. He comes after me, lunging across the room. I can t make the door. The
only other way out is the window, shrouded in heavy drapery. I run at it full
speed and clutching the drape, plunge headfirst through the glass.
I strike the ground and roll. Glass fragments shower around me, but the
curtain protects my face and head. The fresh air hits me with the clarifying
force of a douse of cold water. I let the curtain fall and run.
Darryl is howling at the window. I glance back once to see him trying to
follow me, blood seeping from wounds on his arms and legs as he snags himself
on broken glass. Too bad it s not his neck.
Then I m off, racing the wind.
Chapter Forty
Ikeep running, away from Darryl and his carefully prepared, poisoned lair.
Once I get across the freeway bridge, I stop. I don t have my purse; it s in
Bradley s car. Which means I don t have my cell phone to call for a ride or to
alert Williams to what s transpired. The only thing I can do is continue to
police headquarters on foot.
The run is actually restorative. I pump my arms to the rhythm of my stride,
and by the time I ve reached my destination, I feel as if I ve worked all the
toxin out of my system. I feel strong and alert and very, very angry.
And as luck would have it, what should I see parked in front of police
headquarters but theFairlane . I peer inside, but as I suspect, Bradley has
either ditched my purse somewhere or put it in the trunk. Since I have an
overwhelming urge to do violence, I decide to check the trunk. I grip the
ridge with both hands and peel back the metal until the trunk is doubled back
on itself. I want to rip the thing right off, but somebody might be watching.
My purse is inside, tossed into a corner, to be planted somewhere
incriminating, no doubt, when the time is right. I snatch it up, wondering
whether to alert Williams that I m on my way up, or to just appear and watch
Bradley squirm.
You can t go up, Anna.
I whirlaround.Casper?
You have to get to Ryan. Bradley suspects he s at the cottage. He s on his
way there now.
Casper s voice is different somehow. There s an urgency I ve never
heardbefore.Ihave no way to get there.
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From the corner across the street, a car engine sparks to life. I turn again,
toward the sound.
Anna, remember what I told you before. You are at a crossroads. The path you
choose now determines what you are to become.
For a fleeting moment, excitement overshadows my concerns. I m going to
meetCasper . I must be.
I wait for the car to pull away from the curb.
It doesn t.
Impatienceflares.Damnit,Casper .Come on.
There s no answer, and no movement from the car. Furious now, I cross the
street and jerk the car door open.
The engine is running, the keys dangling from the ignition. The driver s seat
is vacant.
Shit. You can t keep doing this.
But I know I ll get no answer.And no satisfaction. I slam into the front seat
and peel away from the curb with a screech of tires. I hope this is his car.
And that I burn every bit of rubber off the damned tires.
The car is a littleMiata , responsive, fast. I dodge morning commuter traffic
and head forMissionBeach . When I get to the cottage, I use the alley in back
to scope things out. There is a car parked in front of my garage. I pull
behind it, blocking the escape route. I don t recognize the car, a black Chevy
Suburban with tinted windows. I wonder who this car belongs to, but I don t
waste much time pondering the question.
I test the back door. It s locked. I can t see much through the windows, just
into the kitchen and a hallway beyond. I also can t hear any voices. I m just
about to make my way around the house to the front when the brush of a hand on
my arm makes me jump.
I ve got his throat in my hands before the brain registers that he is no
threat and reason takes over. Jesus, Ryan. I squeeze him against my chest in
a hug of relief and apology. What are you doing?
He puts a finger to his lips and gestures toward the house. That FBI man is
here, he whispers. He s got someone with him. He said I should go with them,
but I don t trust him. I told him I had to get my stuff and snuck out the
back. I ve been hiding in the garage, waiting for you.
An almost parental impulse to remind him that I told him not to let anyone in
flares, but it dissipates just as quickly. This is not the time for scolding.
Instead, I turn his shoulders and push him toward the gate. Your instincts
are good. Let s get out of here.
We duck away from the door and are almost at the car when a shout from above
snaps our attention to the balcony outside my bedroom. Bradley is there, his
expression one of mingled confusion and rage.
Stop. His voice bellows across the yard. He s fumbling for something under
his jacket.
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