Nausea crawled up my throat.
“Was there”—I swallowed back bile—“anyone down there?”
He shook his head. “It’s all been cleared out, as far as I can tell. But there’s a stench.”
“What do you mean?”
He inhaled, wrinkling his nose. “You don’t serve as a Navy SEAL for ten years and not know the stench of dead human flesh. And that smell is down there.”
I swallowed audibly, literally gulping back puke. “What else?” I finally said.
“There’s an antechamber that all the tunnels lead to.” He paused a moment, closing his eyes.
“Just get on with it,” I said. “For God’s sake.”
He pulled his briefcase onto the table. “I found some things. Things that you aren’t going to like.”
“Fuck.”
“Nothing implicates you, so relax.”
“Relax? That means nothing to me. What about my brothers? My sister? Zee?”
“Zee?”
I shook my head. “A story for another time. What is it? Just spit it out.”
He pulled a folder out of his briefcase. “I took a lot of photos. It was dark down there, so the photos aren’t great, but I enlarged them and printed them out.” He pushed the file toward me.
I instinctively looked around. I was about to see something that would disturb me. That much was apparent, so I needed to make sure no one was looking over my shoulder.
A server glanced at me slyly out of the corner of his eye.
Red flag. Big red flag.
I pulled my own briefcase off the floor and shoved the folder into it. “We’re leaving.”
Buck nodded. “I saw him too. He’s looked suspicious for a few minutes. Let’s bolt.”
We walked slowly out of the café, each carrying our briefcases, until we found an unoccupied bench. We sat down.
I pulled open my briefcase and pulled out the folder. I drew in a deep breath. “Care to give me some idea of what I’m about to look at?”
“Pictures speak louder than words, Wolfe. Just prepare yourself.”
I closed my eyes and drew in another breath. He’d mentioned stench. I could be holding photos of dead bodies. Of severed limbs. Of…
God.
Of my father doing things to…
I swallowed hard.
I opened the folder.
And I gasped.
“You’re kidding. Fuck.”
No severed limbs greeted me. Thank God. But I’d have preferred nameless and faceless bodies to what the first photograph showed.
It was another of Lacey’s old business cards, and this one hadn’t been stomped and rained on.
“Circumstantial,” I said robotically.
“Keep going,” Buck prodded.
I fought back the puke threatening to erupt from my throat and slid the photo of Lacey’s business card over, revealing the next photo.
I swallowed hard. It was a blue scarf with the initials LW clearly embroidered on it. I swallowed again. “Still circumstantial.”
“Agreed. Keep going.”
More and more photos of Lacey’s belongings. Or what appeared to be Lacey’s belongings.
“Did you take these items?” I asked.
“Of course I did. I have them all in a safe place. But that’s not what concerns me.”
“What, then?”
“These things could be extras. Stuff implicating Lacey could have already been planted.”
“Why her? Why Lacey?”
“I’m not sure,” Buck said. “She was Derek’s estate lawyer, but that’s no reason to frame her.”
“No,” I said, swallowing again. The lump didn’t move. “My father would implicate his kids before he implicated his attorney.”
“Right, which means…”
“It means Father Jim—or someone else—is implicating Lacey. But why?”
Buck didn’t need to answer. I already knew. Father Jim was trying to lead the authorities on a wild goose chase so he wouldn’t be implicated. He was afraid my father had left a loophole somewhere that would lead to him.
Derek Wolfe didn’t leave loopholes. I knew that better than anyone, but Father Jim, apparently, did.
“I think we can use this to our advantage,” I said to Buck. “Jim is afraid. So afraid that he’s framing an innocent woman for a murder he might have had a hand in.”
“Framing an innocent lawyer is nothing compared to what the bastard has already done,” Buck reminded me.
“True. He’s evil. But now we know what he’s up to, and we can fight it.”
“You don’t know everything,” Buck said. “You haven’t seen the last photo yet.”
41
Zee
I ran, blood dribbling from the cuts at the tops of my breasts. Something to stop the bleeding. I needed to find something I could use as a bandage. Was that part of their game? To help me?
I felt like I was living in the world of the Hunger Games.
Only the strong will survive.
Was anyone else being chased? Or were they focused on me?
I’d been running and hiding for a while now. I had no idea of the time, as time had seemed to suspend itself since I’d awoken in the cement room.
My stomach growled. So far, they’d fed me well. But would they continue to do so, now that they’d let me out and the game was on?
Survival of the fittest.
They’d considered me fit, so they’d given me a handicap by cutting me. The cut was deep enough to hurt, deep enough to bleed, yet not deep enough to slow me down. Already my blood was beginning to clot.
They wanted me in pain. They didn’t want me bleeding out.
Could I outsmart them?
Maybe, on an even playing field. But this was far from an even playing field. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what I’d find down here. I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. I didn’t know where I could go to the bathroom.
I knew nothing.
Nothing except my life was in jeopardy and would most likely be over soon.
Instinct required that I survive.
They must have given me a head start, as I didn’t hear anyone following me. I found a secluded corner, sat down, and applied pressure with my hands to the cuts on my breasts. I couldn’t afford to wait here for long, but if I could stop the bleeding altogether, I’d be able to move faster.
“Help me.”
I cocked my head at the soft voice. No one was here.
I was imagining things. I had to be. And why not? I was fighting for my life. Fighting for my future.
And my future was the next minute.
If I was lucky, the next hour.
“Help me.”
“Stop it,” I said aloud. “You’re imagining things.”
“I hear you,” the voice said. “Help me. Please.”
Still my imagination. A boobytrap, probably. I wasn’t falling for it.
When I finally had stopped the bleeding, I rose. I couldn’t run now or the precarious clots wouldn’t hold. Which was, of course, the point.
I inched slowly against the wall, the cement rough against my back. I turned a corner, and—
I clasped my hand to my mouth.