She paused, allowing her thoughts to coalesce before continuing. “I could barely stand up when I finally emerged. I spent a moment stamping circulation back into my legs. I kept my eyes away from the bodies on the other side of a counter. I knew they were dead.” Her voice broke, and Luc rubbed her back. The motion calmed her rising anxiety.
“What did you do next?” Jarvis asked.
“I probably watched way too many gangster movies, but his actions made me think the shooter was a hit man. That scared me, and I didn’t want to risk anyone knowing what I had seen before I talked to the marshals.”
Jarvis and Smith exchanged a glance. “Why the marshals and not the local police?”
She swallowed down the bitterness of her past, but forced herself to continue. “My father was a cop, the casino strip his last beat. He was killed responding to an assault in a back alley behind one of the casinos when I was sixteen.”
“Oh, Priscilla. I’m sorry.” Luc squeezed her shoulders, then returned to rubbing her back.
The rhythmic motion gave her the strength to continue. “Thank you. The killer, a low-life criminal working for one of the casino bosses, had been ‘instilling the importance of paying gambling debts’ to a patron and hadn’t liked the interruption. He only served eleven years because it wasn’t a premeditated murder. My dad was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Priscilla shuddered, remembering how awful it had been in the days and weeks after her father’s death. Her mother, never a strong woman, turned to the bottle, which exacerbated her mood swings. Without her father there to steady her mother, Priscilla had known it would be only a matter of time before she lost her mom too. But that was a story to share with Luc on another occasion.
She drew in a deep breath. “I called my father’s old partner, Abe Evers. Abe’s the one who contacted the marshals because of things he had heard about the three who were killed—rumors of their connection to the Russian mob. Abe whisked me away to a safe place. Then he contacted the FBI. After federal agents interviewed me, they called the marshals.”
“You left the scene of the crime immediately?” Smith queried.
“Yes. I was scared that the shooter would find me if I stuck around. Abe was the only person I could think of who could help me and keep me safe.” Priscilla did her best to recall her thought process on that night, but the endless questions about her actions ignited a slow burn inside her heart. “To be honest, it’s hard to remember why I did things. I only know what I did.” She uncapped her water bottle and took a sip.
“I didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong in what you did.” The sincerity in Jarvis’s voice lessened the simmering annoyance over being challenged.
“In that moment, I was more concerned with evading the security cameras on my way out of the casino. I didn’t want to be caught on tape anywhere near the kitchen. I feared the shooter might hear about any potential witnesses and hunt the person down.”
She fought tears. “Like he is now.”
Jarvis’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. “It’s Mac.” He hit the accept button. “Mac? You’re on speaker with Dr. Devins, Smith, Luc and Priscilla.”
“We’re at the motel...room... Whitehurst.” Mac’s voice faded in and out.
“Mac? You’re breaking up. You’re at the motel where Rachel Whitehurst is staying?” Jarvis leaned in closer to the phone he’d placed on the table.
“Yes.” Mac’s voice came in crystal clear. “The FBI, along with our guys, are consulting with the local sheriff’s department. We’ve confirmed with the manager that Whitehurst is in room 223 on the upper level of the motel.”
“What’s the plan?” Smith called from his position slightly behind Dr. Devins.
“The other marshals are starting up the stairs to the room, with the sheriff’s men providing backup on the ground to ensure she doesn’t slip through our fingers.”
“Okay, keep us posted.” Jarvis reached for his phone when a loud noise boomed through the speaker. “Mac? Are you there? What’s happening?”