Page 32 of Hitch
Reggie
When I pullup the farm’s driveway, the sun is just below the horizon, casting the fields in a cool glow. I park, then click the tiny camera on my purse, making sure it’s ready to record. It’s not that I expect anything bad to happen, but if it does, I want to make sure that there will be no chance that he’ll get away with it. With this kind of evidence, he’ll never be able to escape prison and come after me.
That’s the idea, anyway.
Adrenaline pumps through me. I’m showing up unannounced at a drug lord’s property. If I catch him off guard, will it reveal something I already know? Will everything make more sense?
I tell myself that my instincts are correct: Duane wouldhurtme, but he’d neverkillme. With how he treated the Mortician for disrespecting me, I just can’t see that happening. And if he does—well then, my dumb ass probably deserves it, messing with a murderer like this.
I skirt around the house, going through the grass, straight to the buildings in the back. I come up to the one that was left open last time, and my shoulders drop when I see the padlock cinched and hanging in place.
I trot across the yard to the other building, and that one is locked too. I huff, clutching my purse to my chest.
Well, damn.
The main house looms in the distance. Three stories. It’s practically a mansion.
There’s got to be a key somewhere in there.
My fingers tingle as I hold the doorknob. The hinges creak, and the door casts shadows inside. Wood tables and other handcrafted furniture decorate the place. I creep through the kitchen, the floorboards shifting under my weight. None of the drawers have anything besides cooking utensils, so I head up the stairs. On the second floor, there’s a loft and three locked rooms. The only door that’s open is the bathroom. Whoever lives on this floor is paranoid, and for good reason. I’m a stranger in their house, basically investigating their crimes.
I go up the stairs to the third floor, and instinctively, I know this floor is different. Every door to the bedrooms is wide open, inviting me in. I go into the first door, and find a divided window with curtains pulled to the side, and a perfect view of my car.
Someone knows I’m here.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, but I let out a calming breath. I’m not doing anything wrong. I amtechnicallytrespassing, but Duane knows who I am, and he trusts me.
And then I see it: a ring of keys lying on a wooden desk.
I stumble forward, grabbing the keys and rushing down the stairs to the ground floor. Before I can question myself, I run toward the buildings. My jaw drops.
The padlock to the first room is already open. Like someone left it unlocked. Again.For me.
My gut tingles, but I go forward, curious about who is inside. Maybe it’s just Duane. Maybe I’m scared for nothing.
In the first room, everything is the same, but as I go to the next room and the flow hood blasts air over me, my eyes catch on the plastic bags.
Everything has been cleaned from our escapade. Some bags have even been removed. But in the second bag, there’s a long object poking out between the holes.
A severed finger smeared with dirt.
My chest seizes, and I run forward, gawking at it. Is it a prop? I don’t know. But it’s cold and hard and rubbery, like it’s a real fucking finger and not a plastic toy from a Halloween store. I gag, thinking of the people ingesting these mushrooms. Like Michael.
This is insane.
I stumble backward, but as my purse slings into me, I remember the camera. I aim the tiny button at the hanging plastic bag, hoping it gets it on camera, and as the blood pounds in my ears, the impulse to flee takes control of me. I need to go. Rightnow.And I need to put the keys back in the house so that Duane doesn’t suspect anything.
I rush back to the house, running up the stairs. But as I reach for the desk, placing the keys down, a cold blade plants itself on my neck.
Duane’s heady scent fills my nose, full of dirt and earth and pure masculine energy. Danger flashes in my bloodstream. I bite my lip, then spot my purse on my arm.
All of this is on camera.
“What did I tell you about looking for trouble?” he asks. His tone is calm and deliberate, almost like he expected me to do this. Like he opened up that padlock for me so that I would find the finger.
“I was just—”
He slides the knife down my neck, the pressure sending chills down my spine, and pushes his body against me. But as I suck in a gasp, he digs the end of the blade deeper, enough to break skin. It stings like hell, and I cry out.
