Page 37 of The Hunter
“Could be a coincidence,” Blake offered.
I stopped mid-stride. “You know how I feel about coincidences.”
“I do,” he sighed. “But it’s still a possibility.”
“No,” I said, sharper now. “This isn’t random. It’s a connection.”
“Or a job,” Blake shot back quickly. “This guy was probably a gun for hire. The fact that he possibly had something to do with Sarah’s death and also tried to abduct Ariana?—”
“Means Victor is most likely involved in both.”
“Or maybe Victor Kane didn’t have anything to do with Sarah’s death in the first place. He owned the damn hotel. Would he really shit in his own back yard?”
From the beginning, Blake had raised his doubts about whether Victor was responsible. How could that prick not be involved, though? There may not be a proverbial smoking gun. But there was something better.
“He has motive, means, and opportunity,” I reminded Blake. “Sarah was there to break things off with him. Victor’s a guy who’s used to being in control so he got angry. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill her, but he did.” I swallowed hard. “Then he bribed the authorities to make it look like a suicide. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
He blew out a long sigh. “Something doesn’t feel right, especially with this latest development. Why would Victor pay someone to abduct his own wife?”
“Maybe she found out about the affair and threatened to go to the press? Or learned Victor killed a woman?”
“Or… Maybe someone else is responsible.”
The line went quiet again, but the room felt like it was pulsing. I stared at Sarah’s frozen smile on the screen, the man behind her already fading into the shadows.
For the first time since I learned about Sarah’s death, since I started digging into Victor’s life with the vengeance of a man chasing justice, I felt something other than conviction.
Now, I felt doubt.
Chapter Sixteen
Ariana
I didn’t remember falling asleep.
The last thing I could recall was the hypnotic flicker of the fire. The deep silence pressing against the windows. The ever-present tension knotting in my stomach. But when my eyes blinked open, that cold fear rushed through me again.
Unfamiliar ceiling. Dim amber light. The low, steady crackle of flames.
For one frantic second, I forgot where I was. Who I was with.
Then I shifted and felt it.
Soft fur beneath my hand.
Cato.
My fingers curled deeper into his thick coat, grounding myself in the present. I was on the couch, wrapped in a warm duvet, the fire in the hearth still burning strong. My arm dangled over the edge, my hand resting on Cato’s side where he lay curled up on the rug below. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my palm steadied me.
We had a dog once when I was little. A Pointer mix named Ruby who used to sleep beside my bed, her tail thumping softly every time I moved. She snored like a buzz saw and always begged for table scraps, but I loved her with everything I had.
At the mere thought of food, my stomach growled, low and insistent. A new smell drifted through the air, curling toward me like an invitation. Savory. Rich. Nostalgic.
I pushed back the duvet and stood, my legs unsteady at first. The wooden floor was cool against my bare feet, and I padded quietly toward the kitchen, drawn forward despite the unsettled feeling trickling down my spine.
Henry stood with his back to me, stirring a pot of something that looked like soup on the stove. But not the canned kind. There was a chicken carcass on one cutting board, vegetable scraps on another. Carrots, celery, onion, garlic, parsley.
And a knife.
