You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,130
while holding her tension ball: the sadness, the anger, maybe even a hint of jealousy. Nonetheless, this was something, and that familiar tingle in his blood that came with the thought that they finally had something to go on, a lead, singed through his veins.
“Yep. Jennifer’s current main squeeze, as my grandma used to say. One and the same.” Mendoza seemed pleased with herself. “How do you think Sister Rosemarie would like them apples?”
He allowed himself a laugh.
Mendoza said, “I think we should go and check the place out.”
He was already reaching for his keys, and within minutes, they were driving west out of the city. With Mendoza navigating the GPS, Rivers kept to the main road, then, near the summit, turned onto a county road that was packed with ice and snow. They met few other vehicles as the road twisted upward through dense old growth laden with snow, fir trees and pines that spired high into the sky.
“Here!” Mendoza said as they rounded a sharp curve and she spied a narrow one-lane bridge that spanned a frozen creek. The lane was unplowed, with only a few visible ruts. They decided to walk in and trudged through knee-deep snow in places to the third house in, a rustic, two-storied cabin with a steeply pitched roof, the walls built of rough-wood siding that had grayed over the years. The doors were locked, but a few of the windows didn’t have the shades drawn. They peered inside, their breath fogging the panes, the interior dark.
“No one’s in here,” Mendoza said, frowning. “The place looks almost abandoned.”
He agreed. “Probably only used in the summer.” They walked along a snow-covered path to the detached garage, which was little more than a shed. Its door too was locked tight, but there was a window in the side door, and the shade was broken, falling at an angle that left a long, uneven sliver of the pane unobscured. Using his flashlight and ignoring the blinding reflection from the beam reflecting on the glass, Rivers peered inside. The beam swept over a stack of wood and a few garden tools to land squarely on the hood of a small black sedan.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered as he stared at what he firmly believed to be Megan Travers’s 2010 Toyota.
CHAPTER 38
The Isolated Cabin
December 15
It’s now or never!
I hear the vehicle approach, engine whining as the car climbs the hill, tires crunching through ice and snow.
With difficulty, I swallow back my fear. My nerves are jangled, my emotions strung raw. I have to do this. And I have to do it now!
This is my one shot. If I fail now, I’ll never have another chance. If I fail, I could be signing my death warrant.
You can do this, you can.
But my confidence wavers. Even though I’ve got the plastic bits in one pocket and the metal hook rack in the other, I feel my determination start to crumble as I envision the scene, sense the imminent attack.
But. Oh. God.
My stomach clenches.
I’ve played and replayed the scenario in my mind for hours on end. While struggling to get to sleep in the loft, I’ve imagined it often:
A sharp rap on the door.
A familiar voice.
The jangle of keys.
The door being flung open.
“Hello?” will be called out.
One step inside.
And then strike!
Swift as a cougar leaping from a mountain ledge, I spring from the loft, weapons extended like claws.
My adversary looks up.
Too late!
With deadly aim, I gouge eyes, ripping flesh and ocular matter as I blind my jailor.
Then I go for the throat.
Slashing.
Blood spurting.
Gurgling air rasping through a severed trachea.
I feel sick at the thought.
Bile rises in my throat.
The whining engine is nearing. I climb the ladder, as I’ve done dozens of times, peek through the row of impossibly small windows near the ceiling. Headlights flash through the trees, illumination splaying on the frozen trunks.
“Give me strength,” I pray, then feel disgust at my weakness, my supplication to a deity who has abandoned me. I don’t need God’s help in crippling and killing my captor.
Nor do I need Satan’s.
I only need to remember who did this to me and why.
And then I’m ready.
I can do this.
But I’m thwarted.
This time, my captor doesn’t step inside, just shoves a bag of groceries through the partially open door before locking it again.
What?
NO!
I scream in frustration.
But it’s too late!
I hear the car leave and take my dreams of escape with it.