‘Fine, fine,’ Gwyn grumbled aloud, then typed I will and hit SEND.
After putting Tweety in the backyard and making sure he had water, she gathered her courage and as much dignity as she could muster and opened Thorne’s front door. ‘Thorne?’ she called. ‘You here?’
She stepped into the living room, then frowned. Thorne’s dining room was a mess. Chip bags and half-eaten bowls of dip covered the table, along with empty beer bottles and Coke cans. The dip had hardened, the melted cheese on the nachos congealed.
In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him leave a mess. Never.
Maybe he’s sick. Frowning now with worry, she went to his bedroom and knocked lightly. ‘Thorne? It’s me. You okay?’
Silence. Quietly she opened the door, complete darkness meeting her eyes despite the rising sun. Thorne had blackout shades because he sometimes slept late after a long night at the club. Occasionally he got migraines and the light pained him.
‘Thorne?’ She stepped into the room and stumbled. Over a shoe. A woman’s shoe.
She bent down to scoop it up, checking it in the dim light from the hallway. An expensive shoe. Louboutin, about seven hundred retail. And not mine.
Fury began to bubble inside her once again. ‘Sonofabitch,’ she muttered. Having a woman here? After sabotaging my dates?
She shone the light from her phone on the floor, noting the discarded little black cocktail dress, the black thong and matching frothy bra. Probably a push-up, she thought scornfully. She herself had never needed one of those.
Picking it up gingerly, she smelled a woman’s perfume. Again, expensive. Again, not mine. She tossed the bra back to the floor.
Because there in the bed was the master of the house himself. Thorne lay on his stomach, one huge arm hanging off the side of the bed, his knuckles dragging on the floor.
Gwyn snarled. ‘Son-of-a-fucking-bitch.’ She crossed the room, making sure to grind her shoe into the woman’s pricey lingerie as she walked. ‘Wake up, Thorne.’ She poked his hard biceps with her forefinger, her fury boiling over at the lump under the sheet beside him. Fucking bitch. ‘Wake the fuck up.’
Neither he nor the woman stirred. Gwyn balled up her fist and slugged him hard. ‘Wake up.’
But . . . nothing. Except now that she was closer, she caught the iron tang of blood in the air.
Dread filling her, she switched on the light. And screamed.
Thorne lay utterly still, his face slack.
The woman beside him . . . had no face at all. Not anymore. And the sheet was covered in blood.
Gwyn glanced down at the floor, because there was something hard under her shoe. A knife. A butcher knife. Covered in blood.
‘Oh God. Oh God.’ She was panting, hyperventilating. Frozen. ‘Thorne? Oh God. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.’ She chanted the words aloud, the sound of her own voice jarring her into action. She pressed her fingers to his throat, relieved when she felt a pulse. But it was weak. Damned weak.
She closed her eyes, drew a breath. Lifted her phone to her ear. ‘Call Lucy, mobile,’ she whispered.
Lucy picked up on the first ring. ‘Well?’ she demanded, the sound of the road in the background.
Gwyn tried to breathe. ‘Lucy, come. Please. It’s Thorne.’
A beat of silence, followed by a horrified whisper. ‘Gwyn, what did you do?’
‘Not me. I found him. He’s still alive. But unconscious, I think.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s blood, and a knife.’ Her voice rose, hysteria gripping her throat in a vise. ‘Please come,’ she whispered. ‘Please hurry.’
‘I’m almost there.’ Lucy’s voice had taken on the calm that she drew on like a cape during times of stress. ‘I want you out of his house. Walk backward the way you came.’
‘No. I’m not leaving him.’
‘Gwyn, listen to me. Whoever hurt him might still be in the house. Get out. Now.’
Gwyn hadn’t thought of that. ‘I have Mace. I’m staying here.’
‘Did you call 911?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’ll call them.’
‘Lucy, wait. There’s someone else here. In his bed. I think she’s dead.’
‘Holy shit.’ Lucy swore on an exhale. ‘All right. I’m pulling into his driveway.’
‘How? How are you here?’
‘I thought I might be needed to referee, so I left Clay and Stevie’s house as soon as we hung up,’ Lucy said grimly. ‘I’m going to call 911 now.’
Gwyn heard brakes squealing outside, then the slam of a car door, followed by the sound of the front door opening.
‘Gwyn?’ Lucy was in the house. It would be okay. Lucy would know what to do. Lucy always knew what to do.
‘I’m . . . I’m back here. In his bedroom.’
Lucy ran to her, phone in hand. ‘Oh my God. Thorne.’ She handed Gwyn the phone, putting in her earpiece. ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ she said to whoever was on the line. She looked over her shoulder at Gwyn. ‘I called JD. He’s on his way.’
She pressed her fingers to Thorne’s neck. ‘His pulse is thready, irregular. God. Maybe fifty?’ She frowned. ‘Yes, I am a doctor,’ she snapped. ‘I told you. My name is Dr Lucy Fitzpatrick. I’m with the medical examiner’s office.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I can still work on live people. Have you sent the ambulances?’ She drew a breath, nodding. ‘Good. We have one live and one dead.’
Again she looked over her shoulder. ‘Do you know who the woman is?’
Gwyn shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she sprang into motion, snapping photos of the room with her phone. ‘The EMTs will take him to the hospital and destroy the scene. I’m going to get as many pictures as I can.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Lucy, the praise in her voice helping to calm Gwyn further.
‘My best friends are a defense attorney and an ME who’s married to a homicide cop,’ Gwyn said grimly. ‘I’ve picked up a few tricks along the way.’
Two
Annapolis, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 2.20 P.M.
‘He’s not dead.’
He breathed a silent sigh of relief at Margo’s words. The men he’d sent had given Thorne enough GHB to take down an elephant. Idiots. ‘Is he awake?’
‘Not yet,’ she answered, the sound of a car starting in the background, ‘but he’s stabilized. I had to wait to call you until I was alone.’
‘Thank you, my dear. I appreciate the update.’ He also appreciated the risk she was taking. For me. For Colin.
‘Any time, Papa,’ she said warmly, and the constriction in his chest relaxed just a little. His daughter-in-law was one of the few bright spots in his life. Her baby was the other.
‘Are you bringing Benny to dinner with you tonight?’
‘I’ve hired a sitter because I thought we were talking business, but I can bring him if you want to see him.’
He could respect Margo not wanting her son to hear any of what they were going to discuss. He’d kept Colin from the darker aspects of his business until his son had been sixteen. But Colin had always known.
‘I’d really like to see him,’ he murmured. ‘I’m missing Colin today.’
A sigh. ‘Me too, Papa. I’ll bring Benny. Once he’s had his evening bottle, I’ll put him in his crib in the nursery, and then we can talk.’
The nursery. The room on the upper floor of his home that had been painstakingly decorated by Margo. And Madeline. The thought of his late wife had his chest constricting again, and he had to concentrate to take a simple breath. I miss you, mi alma. My soul. ‘Thank you. I’ll leave the gate open for you.’
‘Thank you, Papa. Te amo.’
‘Te amo, Margo.’
He hung up the phone and walked to the office he used for disciplinary procedures. Closing the door behind him, he looked at the two men chained to chairs in the middle of the room. Idiots. Soon they’d be dead idiots. ‘He’s not dead.’
Both visibly relaxed.
The one on the left swallowed hard. ‘So . . . you’re letting us go, right? I mean, he’s gonna be fine.’
He rolled his eyes. God. I should have done it myself. And he would have, if Thomas Thorne weren’t a damn behemoth. He could never have gotten the man into his house.