This room—the addition—had its own entrance, the one her husband had insisted on. This entrance led to an alley behind the house.
Her eyes darted to that door at once, and she saw Terry Russel’s head jerk in the direction. She didn’t want to think about that awful woman right now; her brother had snapped, murdered Nigel in cold blood, and she needed to get to Samuel. If she could get out to the street, she could run to the neighbors for help. But Dakota had duct-taped her hands together so tightly behind her there was no give. How was she going to open the door? She had no idea what time it was or how long she’d been unconscious, though it was dark outside the windows. She could knock her head against the glass until someone on the street heard. But what were the actual chances of that? Dakota would hear her, if he was still in the house, or she’d give herself a concussion and then she wouldn’t be able to help Samuel.
Terry was rocking back and forth, her eyes practically rolling around in their sockets. Her brother had used the woman’s own scarf to gag her, and a portion of her hair had gone into her mouth with the gag. She was making absolutely no move to do anything helpful, just staring at Winnie with panicked eyes. Winnie started working on getting her hands free.
But Dakota walked into the room not two minutes later, the gun still in his hand. Winnie craned her neck to see if Samuel was with him, trying to call to him around her own gag.
“Where’s Samuel, where’s Samuel?”
But it sounded like nonsense, like “Wazazow...wazazow.” Her eyesight blurred again with new tears. Grief and horror were cycling through her, and she bent at the waist as Nigel’s death replayed behind her eyelids, the way his body had jerked when the bullet hit.
Dakota grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pushed her onto the bed. Her legs flew up as she fell on her back, which was what he was counting on. He had her ankles tied before she could even try to struggle into a sitting position. She screamed at him through the gag, screamed until her throat was on fire, trying to get him to acknowledge her, but her brother’s face was as vacant as a mannequin’s.
30
JUNO
Juno was in Hems Corner when Dakota shot Nigel Crouch. She made a noise when the gun went off, but it was drowned out by guttural screaming, and then the screaming stopped abruptly. There was a thud as a body hit the floor, and then Juno wet her pants.
Terry Russel was remarkably quiet for a woman who’d stumbled right into a family tragedy and had seen a man murdered in front of her. Or had Dakota shot her, too? Juno had heard two shots and a scream. She could hear harsh breathing from the other side of the closet door, but she couldn’t tell whose it was.
Juno had crept up to the door when she’d heard Terry’s voice. She’d been waiting for Terry Russel to show up, counting on it. Nigel stumbling into the house minutes after with Dakota on his heels had been a complete shock to Juno. She’d expected Nigel to discover the two women at odds when he came back from his run, then shit would have really hit the fan. But now Nigel was dead—presumably—and that was not something Juno had ever wanted. She reached for the trapdoor. She’d crawl back down there and hide until this was over. The neighbors must have seen something—heard something—cops would be swarming the place before too long. But before she could open the trapdoor and crawl through, she heard voices. Terry Russel—she was alive!—was pleading. She was talking very quickly, as if Dakota might turn the gun on her next. Juno buried her face in the carpet, carpet that still smelled faintly of urine from the last time.
“My name is Terry Russel, I am here for my grandson, I have money. You can take all of my cards—here—”
Terry must have offered her handbag to Dakota because she followed up with a “—please take it. There’s five hundred dollars in cash in the side pocket, and all my car—What are you doing? No!”
They struggled. Juno could hear banging on the outside of the closet door—an elbow or maybe a knee. There was a crash, and the song of broken