Page 125 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

Then, more softly, over the frustrated whine of the shepherd, James said, “That’s a good boy. Come on in, now. What’s the matter with you?”

With a soft thud, the door was closed.

Oh, thank God.

Willow sank against the rough boards of the shed.

Her pulse pounded in her temple, and she let her breath out slowly, but she couldn’t stay here another second. It was too damned dangerous. She sent a nervous glance back to the row of trees, saw nothing, and dared to look at the house again. James was turning on the lights, settling in. Patches of warm illumination from the windows reflected on the snow.

Go!

Screwing up her courage, she took off, running brokenly across the parking area to the lane. She ducked through the hedgerow of firs, then scrambled over a fence, her leg throbbing. On the far side, she took off, hobbling along the icy lane that paralleled James’s driveway, the twin ruts that led from the county road to the shop where the tiny houses were built. She’d parked her car on the far side of the inn. If she could just get there . . . She cast a glance over her shoulder, just to be certain she wasn’t being followed.

The snowy landscape was empty, almost eerily so.

Willow was alone—as she had been most of her life.

She limped along the lane, and finally the hotel and café came into view, Christmas lights sparkling, customers still searching for that perfect tree even in mid-December. Man, oh, man, she thought, crossing the parking area in front of the hotel, if she had a husband and family, she would clean up the last dish from Thanksgiving, then drive to the nearest lot, buy a tree, and decorate it immediately, to stretch out the holiday season.

Not if, Willow.When. Remember that. When you and James are married and have children . . .

She spied her car where she’d left it and felt a rush of relief.

She’d gotten away with it!

Despite the phantom voyeur and the nervous dog.

No one would ever know.

She almost smiled.

She’d go home, have a hot bath, maybe a glass of wine, and pretend she had never been inside all by herself, never lain on his sheets in his bed in his room, had never taken his gun and . . .

The gun!

Why didn’t she feel its weight in her hoodie?

Oh, no, no, no . . . She reached into her pocket, found the key to James’s house and her phone, but the pistol . . . ?

Her anxiety cranked up three notches.

Forcing herself, she double-checked every pocket.

Nothing.

The Glock was definitely missing.

She went cold inside.

Hadn’t she picked it up? Or had she dropped it when she missed the last step on the stairs?

Let it go. Just get out of here. It’s his gun anyway.

Hurrying to her car, she told herself that James might just think he’d misplaced it and she and Sophia had found it and left it. She’d explain to Sophia that she’d run back in and put it . . .

Are you nuts? That nasty, nagging voice in her head cut into her thoughts. The police searched for the gun, too. And now it has your prints all over it. How’re you going to explain that one?

She couldn’t.

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