The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,131

said, glaring at him, defending Duval even in death.

The muscles at the back of his neck tightened and he fought the rage he’d always battled when it came to Duval. “Face it, Ash. Owen was becoming dangerous. To us.”

“Dangerous?” she spat out. “Are you serious?”

“The cops interviewed him.”

“Of course they did. He was their number one suspect. Dangerous like Bronco? Jesus, Tyson, why?” Beneath her anger, she seemed genuinely perplexed. “Why kill them? Owen and Bronco?”

“He saw me.”

“What?” She was staring at him as if she thought he was mad.

“That day that he discovered where we stashed the bodies, he saw me in the boat.”

“Whoa—whoa. The day ‘we’ stashed the bodies? That wasn’t my idea. You didn’t need to kill those girls, Tyson. The plan was that you were going to abduct Rose from the theater, just Rose, right?”

Oh. Fuck! She was really going off. Trying to absolve herself, just like she did way back when by marrying that loser Ryan Jefferson. Tyson should have put his foot down then, but at the time, they’d cooled it, trying not to look suspicious, letting people think they’d broken up, but she’d taken it too far.

“We’ve been over this, Ash. You knew what happened.”

“Afterwards. After the mess-up at the theater. You were supposed to abduct Rose—that was the plan. You said you had someone who would take her and so while I was keeping Owen busy, you killed two innocent girls.”

“Not so innocent,” he reminded her, but he felt a well of satisfaction when he remembered the terror in Holly’s eyes just before he choked the life from her, after he’d done the same to her sister.

“You’re sick!” Ashley charged. “And besides that, Rose got away.”

“Because of Owen Duval. He came back before he was supposed to and found the kid.”

“No, Tyson. It wasn’t because of Owen. He came back after the movie. We knew he’d do that. It all happened because you messed up. You messed up big-time. And I never agreed to any killing. That was all you.”

That much was true. She was never supposed to have known what his true plans were. He’d taken the girls to the mansion, and there in the basement, choked them before placing their limp bodies together, lacing their fingers together in Beulah’s old hiding spot, room for a third when he caught her. And only he knew about the secret latch as he’d watched his grandmother open the hidden door in the bricks on more than one occasion. It had been the perfect crypt. Except one of his victims—the important one—had gotten away.

Unfortunately, he’d admitted as much to Ashley years later when he’d had too much to drink at Ashley’s fucking wedding reception, an event he’d attended as his family had been invited. It still galled him that she’d gone so far as to marry Jefferson and on the day she’d said her vows, Tyson had made a point of taking her hand at the reception and pulling her behind the vine-clad archway where she’d exchanged “I dos” less than an hour before.

“Just remember,” he’d reminded her as he’d brushed a kiss across her cheeks. “You’re mine. People have died so we can be together.”

“What?” she’d gasped, her eyes rounding in horror as she’d backed away from him, her arm scraping the latticework laden with white roses. The June day had been bright, sun not yet setting, the sky an unreal shade of blue as he’d dropped that particular bomb on her. “No one died,” she’d whispered, but the sudden horror in her gaze had told him believed him.

He’d smiled then, knowing it was an evil, drunken leer, but not caring as he’d teased her. “Oh, come on, Ash. What do you think happened to those girls?” He hadn’t explained anything more and avoided her during the rest of the reception, but he’d felt her appalled gaze on him as she’d stood with her new husband, a smile pasted onto her perfect pink-tinged lips. There had been horror beneath her supposed happiness, a darkness hidden deep behind her pure white dress and veil.

He’d loved it.

And he’d felt a greater sense of satisfaction when not a month later, she’d called and demanded answers. Tanned from a honeymoon in the Bahamas, she’d feigned fury and outrage as they’d met in this very lodge, where he’d admitted that two of the Duval girls were dead, but Rose, their intended target, had somehow escaped, probably, he assumed, due to Owen fucking Duval, who had put it together