Page 112 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

The voice was familiar, and now she knew who it was: Roland Camp. Effie’s lover.

“You just couldn’t stay away, now, could you?” he said as she tried to melt into the shadows. Here, in the loft, she was trapped, couldn’t sneak down the stairs, and there was no window, just a sloping roof.

Darkness was her friend as well as her enemy.

“Oh, well, Nikki, there’s no need for you to expose yourself, I suppose.” He struck a match, scraping his thumb over its tiny head. With a hiss a little flame appeared.

If only she had a gun—her father’s tiny pistol he’d kept strapped to his ankle, which had come in so handy the last time she was in trouble, or even her uncle’s gun. But no. The stun gun required close contact, and she was going to avoid that at all costs.

She did have her phone, though, and if she could switch off the ringer and other sounds, she could call Reed and—oh, God, was that a knife, glinting in his other hand? The match’s flame was reflected on a long, shiny blade.

She swallowed hard.

“Let me guess. You’re upstairs,” he said, and her heart fluttered in fear. “Thinking you would find Effie.”

He knew her plan.

Panic threatened her, and her fingers fumbled, but she reached into her pocket and speed-dialed Reed without exposing the cell to the light, not taking a chance that its glow would expose her position.

He waved out the match, the smell of burning phosphorus floating on the air.

She heard him cross the floor to the stairs.

Backing up slowly, she tried to keep a clear head. The only way down was over the rail or down the rickety steps that he was steadily climbing, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

No. That wouldn’t work. He’d block the path to the staircase. Throat tight, she considered her chances of going over the rail once he was on the upper level. She could vault over the railing cap, then grab the balusters, lower herself, and drop to the floor below, which, considering the length of her body, would be less than four feet. She was athletic, always had been. If she didn’t land wrong and twist her ankle or, worse yet, break her leg, she might make it to her car. It was worth a try.

“Nikki,” he called, sending terror through her.

Don’t let him get to you.

“You couldn’t let it go, could you?” he taunted. “You had to dig up the past, bring it all out into the open again and fuck up my life. Just like that stupid bitch, Effie.”

She wanted to argue that she wasn’t the one who had started the avalanche of truth from becoming known, nor had it been Effie—it was Niall’s recanted testimony that had begun the events that had brought them here. But there was no reasoning with him, she knew that. She hadn’t believed it, but now she knew he was on a path, a deadly path, that led straight to her.

Edging closer to the railing, she heard him land on the top step, and when he did, he didn’t bother with a match for effect. This time he used a small, bright flashlight and swept the beam across the loft’s interior.

She didn’t think twice but dropped her own flashlight, grabbed the top rail, and, with a leap, vaulted the railing, grabbing two balusters with her hands on the way down, sliding her weight until she had gone as far as her straining arms allowed.

“Son of a bitch!” he hollered. Footsteps pounded above her, as she stretched as long as she could to minimize the drop. With a silent prayer, hoping the worst of her injuries would be bruises, she let go.

Thud!

She landed in a heap.

Hard.

Pain screamed through her right ankle.

“God damn it!” He thundered towar

d the stairs.

She kept moving.

Clambered to her feet.

The spotlight of Camp’s flashlight washed over her. “You little bitch, stop right there!”

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