Page 131 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Garrett fished his keys from his pocket. “I’ll follow you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Aspen’s head felt like it might split open as Brent yanked her from the floor and manhandled her out of the kitchen. He didn’t speak, not that she could have processed anything he had to say, not with the world spinning like it was. With his gloved hand, he held her arm in a tight grip and pushed her through the door and into the living room.

She hadn’t given a thought to Dean in the moments since Brent had hit her. Didn’t know what he’d hit her with, though it hadn’t been his fist. Something hard and cold. She remembered that much. She felt a trickle down the back of her head but couldn’t summon the strength to touch the spot. She could barely process putting one foot in front of the other. The gun pressed to her back kept her moving.

A knife, dripping with crimson, lay on her white sofa.

Her gaze flicked to Dean. His head had fallen forward. Blood seeped from a wound on his upper back.

She froze, gasped for breath as if someone had punched her. “You…you killed him.”

“He’s not dead yet, but he will be soon enough.” Brent pushed her forward and then yanked her to a stop. “Pick it up, Aspen.”

She didn’t know what he wanted her to do. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man she’d just spoken to. Dean had been coughing. She’d gone for water. How long had she been in the kitchen? Thirty seconds? A minute. How had this happened?

“Pick up the knife, Aspen.” His words were cold and calculating.

She understood, then.

Dean would be dead. Aspen would be framed for his murder. The police would find her fingerprints on the murder weapon.

The cold, hard butt of the gun pressed into her back. “Now, please.”

Please. As if it were a request.

It was a regular kitchen knife. A butcher knife like what her father would use to slice thin strips of filet for the steakhouse flatbread. She could picture him in his restaurant kitchen as he’d demonstrated the technique for a cook. He’d carefully arranged the pieces of meat on the crust, then added sliced cherry tomatoes and a spattering of bleu cheese. There’d been spinach, she thought. A balsamic glaze, both sweet and tangy.

She could picture Dad lifting his eyes to the cook’s but catching sight of her. He smiled, his love as evident and consistent as the waves crashing against the shore just outside the windows.It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s going to be all right.

She heard the words in her heart and wanted to believe them. But her father was gone.

She reached over the sofa.

“Use your right hand,” Brent said. “You’re not a leftie.”

She shifted, took the hilt of the knife in her right hand as if she might cut into a roast.

“Turn it around,” he said. “Like you’re about to stab someone. Hold it like you mean it.”

She did as he asked, her stomach turning at the warm, sticky blood that had dripped onto the handle and now clung to her palm.

Salcito had armed her. Could she shift, use it against him?

He pressed the gun into her back again. “Drop it now.”

She didn’t think he’d shoot her, not there. That would ruin his whole plan.

But she was weak, unsteady, her head pounding. Even if he didn’t shoot her, he could subdue her. Maybe she could mortally wound him. But she wasn’t willing to bet her life on it.

She dropped the knife back onto the sofa.

“Where are your keys?”

She patted her pockets. “Here.”

“Get them.”

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