“Where’s Nadine?” No more banter. No more pretending. Her tone was hard and demanding.
Sensing the change, Jake dropped his hands and backed up a step. Dancers flowed around them, bumped her arm, and slammed into his hip. “How the hell should I know? I’m not her keeper.”
Max tapped a finger to her lips. “Sure hope nothing’s happened to her, Jake. After all, she’s your alibi for the night Tiffany died.”
His gaze dropped. He shifted from one foot to the other.
Max glanced over at Witt. He’d straightened away from the bar. On alert. She didn’t have much time before he made his move. “Nadine’s in love with you, Jake. Or at least she thinks she is. What’s going to happen when she finally figures out you don’t give a damn about her?”
He stiffened and narrowed his gaze. “I care. She’s a friend.”
Couples now gave them a wide berth. Stared. Strained for a word or two of the lovers’ spat they were having. Max sneered, “You just want to be friends. That’s the kiss of death in a love affair. Have you told her that, yet?”
“I don’t need to.”
“Maybe you have told her. Maybe that’s why no one’s seen her. Maybe you had to deal with your little alibi problem. Or, should I say your lack of one?”
“I don’t know where Nadine is. But I didn’t kill Tiffany, and I sure as hell haven’t done anything to her sister.”
She wasn’t learning anything new. Witt started towards them. Time was up. “I gotta go.”
“Why?”
Why? Because she needed to think. She needed to figure out how to feed Detectives Scagliomotti and Berkowsky the scant information she’d gleaned about Miles. She sort of needed Witt for that. But not tonight. Tomorrow. When her head was clear, clear of Corona and clear of wanting a man.
Maybe she should tackle Miles herself. Tonight even. Yeah. Catch him off guard.
She left Jake standing alone amid the dancers, his erection painfully obvious. Witt was at the edge of the dance floor. She turned the other way, pushed through the line of onlookers, and cut through the tables. But Witt gained on her.
“Hey, sweetie pie, where ya going in such a hurry?”
She grabbed Bubba’s arm and pointed. “See that blond guy?”
“Yeah. Is he giving you grief?”
“He’s bugging me. Slow him down a bit while I get to my car, would ya?”
“Sure thing.”
Bubba rounded his massive shoulders, fisted his hands, narrowed his eyes, and got that shit-kicking-bouncer look.
“But don’t hurt him,” Max called as she scooted out the door before the fireworks started. Once she rounded the corner of the building, the parking lot was dark, the light poles fewer and farther apart.
Approaching her car, she realized the passenger side door stood open. Damn it. Someone had broken in.
Well, hell, at least there was a good-looking cop inside the Round Up she could turn to.
She reached into her blazer pocket for her keys.
They were gone.
Something crunched behind her. She turned. Too late. Pain exploded at the back of her head. She fell to her knees, and everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Her skull pounded like someone had taken a jack-hammer to it. Her head spun like she’d been on a three-day binge. Her neck cricked painfully to the left. And she was sure she’d gone blind. Until she saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
Oh my God. She was dead.
The light hurt, but Max stared at it through slitted eyes. Concrete walls rose on either side of her. Something jammed into her armpits. The back of her head ached like hell where it bounced against a sharp object.
Still, she stared at the light. The proverbial Light people saw before they died. It wasn’t supposed to be a bare bulb in a dark stairway, but that’s sure as hell what it looked like. What the hell was happening? Where was she? Vague figures moved in the dimness.
Oh God. She was being carried down a flight of stairs by creatures from a nightmare. Her body swayed from side to side with every step they took. Her head slapped hard concrete once more. A pebble dug into her skin. Her arms were pulled from their sockets, her legs ripped away at the hipbones.
Someone carried her into a dungeon. A torture chamber. She tried to scream. Her throat tightened and seized up on the sound. They’d lock her in. They’d tie her up. She’d never get out. She’d die like a rat thrown down a well. No one would hear her screams. No one would save her.
Help me, Cameron. He didn’t answer.
Shit. Now, when she needed him, he’d run out on her.
Oh God, oh God. Shit, shit, shit. Another head-slam against the concrete step. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even moan. Ears ringing. Beyond pain now. Just sick. Bile in her throat. Needed to puke. Bad. Now. Probably choke on it. Suffocate. Asphyxiate in her own vomit.
Warm, wet drops at the corners of her eyes. Help me. Cameron. Witt. Anyone. Anyone at all.