But it’s not Knox.
My words shrivel.
My throat goes dry.
I’ve never seen this man before.
He stares at me, surprise flickering across his face.
I’m about to yell for Knox when a more rational thought strikes me. This could be one of the guys on his crew, possibly mixing up the days they’re supposed to be working here. Or it could be one of the Edwardsons’ employees, a caretaker or groundsman or something. It could even be Mr. Edwardson himself, back unexpectedly from Florida.
But why is his hair so tangled? Why is his shirt torn and stained? And why are his eyes bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept in weeks?
This feels wrong.
Forcing my frozen muscles into action, I open my mouth to call for help. Or at the very least, to demand who this man is and what he’s doing here. But before I can get a word out, he hisses, “Shut up. Now.”
No. I won’t be afraid. “Who?—”
“Shutup.” His voice pitches up. “Or I’ll shoot you.”
What?
And then my nightmares come to life as he reaches into his waistband and pulls out a gun.
Points it at me.
Cocks the trigger.
Oh, God.
“Don’t fucking move,” he snarls. “Or Iwillshoot you.”
How is this possible?
Vinnetti is dead. The police said it was him. That he worked alone.
As I stare at the barrel of the gun, it shakes, but I can’t tell if it’s him or me.
Oh, crap.
It’s both of us. I’m shaking, but so is he. Or at least, his hand is.
The man blinks. His gaze skitters around the room. “Where is he?”
I look at him, unsure what to do. He told me to be quiet, but if he’s asking me a question…
Where is Knox?
Knox isn’t armed, but he works out all the time—lifting weights and cross-training and sparring with the guys a few times a week. And he told me he’s trained to disarm a man bare-handed. If I could somehow warn him so he wouldn’t come in here unaware, I’m certain he could take this man down.
Except, how do I warn him?
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Please. Just go.”
“No way.” His gaze narrows. “I’m not leaving until I do what I came here to do.”