CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
I felt my way down the stairs, shoulder blazing. By the time I made it to the bottom, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I turned to see Gabriel still near the top, leaning on the rail, slowly descending, hand pressed to his thigh, grimacing with every move.
I started back for him, but he waved me off, emphatically gesturing for me to get into the next room. I stayed where I was but did look around, taking in our surroundings. A basement. Unfinished. Bare walls. Concrete floor.
Light filtered in through distant windows. I jogged to the nearest lit doorway and peered through. It was a laundry room with one window, near the ceiling. I checked the other two rooms—both storage, similar windows.
“Hide,” Gabriel said as he hobbled over. “Before—”
I raced back to the stairs. He let out an oath and tried to grab me, but I’d already passed. I wiped blood drops off the steps. Then I hurried back to Gabriel and prodded him into the laundry room. I closed the door most of the way—all the way would seem a clear sign we were in there.
I tried to nudge Gabriel to sit on a pile of sheets, but he caught me instead to get a look at my shoulder. Blood had seeped through my shirt and it hurt like hell, but there wasn’t a bullet hole, just a shredded line of blood-soaked fabric.
“It’s a graze,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”
I tried to move away, but he caught me again, by the chin this time, lifting my face up to his and studying me. I knocked his hand aside.
“I’m not going into shock, Gabriel.”
I looked at him, his hand on the washing machine, his weight all on his right leg. His left one was bleeding at the thigh, where there was a bullet hole, and at the calf, where the spade had sliced clean through his trousers.
“You need—” I began.
“Later. Now, the window. You have to—” He looked at the dryer. “Perfect.”
“I know. I checked the options. Can you get up on that?”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll help you if you can’t, but you’re going first. You’re hurt worse than me.”
“I’m not going—”
“Yes, you are. Now move before—”
“Olivia. Stop. I won’t fit through that window.”
I looked up at it, my heart pounding as I realized he was right. I would barely get through.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, plan B.” I fumbled my cell phone from my pocket. “Call for help.”
His hand shot out to stop me.
I moved back out of his reach. “I’m not going to be the idiot who lets you bleed out rather than phone 911. It’ll be fine. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I put a little too much emphasis on “you” and he said, “Neither have you. It was self-defense. Now, get your ass outside. Then call 911.”
I dialed my phone.
“Olivia . . .”
I backed up and placed the call, keeping my voice low, in case Chandler’s bodyguard picked that moment to open the basement door.
When I hung up, Gabriel said, “Now you’re going out that—”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Don’t be stupid. I have a gun.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the .45.
“Which will knock you on your ass if you try firing with a bad leg. Sit down before you fall.”
“I’m—”
“Sit down.”
I walked to the door and peered out. If I strained, I could hear footsteps above. Anderson would search the other rooms first. Then he’d come down here.
When I returned, Gabriel was still standing, leaning against the washing machine. Stubborn bastard.
“So you’re staying with me?” he said.
“Yep.”
“You may not want to do that.”
“Too bad.”
“I wouldn’t stay for you.”
“Probably not.”
His mouth opened, as if he’d been prepared for me to disagree. He paused and then said, “I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re my partner. I watch your back.”
He paused. Then he cleared his throat. “What if I’ve done something that I’m quite certain would make you change your mind about that?”
“About what?”
“Whether we are, indeed, partners. Whether you should stay to watch my back.”
I checked out the door again. “If you mean about your mother, I already know.”
Silence. I was still peering out the door, listening. After a moment, I backed in and closed it a little more.
“Evans told me,” I said, not turning. “He called me here for that. He’d done a background check when you first tried to interview him. An extensive one.”
More silence. When I turned, his face was taut, blank.
“You said something about my mother,” he said finally. “He told you that she left, I presume?”
“And the rest.”
“The rest?”
I backed into the room, flexed my arm, shoulder still aching.
“Evans told me that the police found her body; they just never made the connection. Evans tried to say you gave her the overdose. I think you just moved her, so you wouldn’t get sent to children’s services. Maybe I’m wrong. Frankly, I don’t care. Whatever you did, I’m not leaving you behind.”
“Found her body . . . ?”
His tone made me look over, and when I saw his expression, I knew without a doubt that he had not moved Seanna Walsh’s body. That he had not killed her. That he’d had no idea his mother was dead.
Shit.
His gaze lifted to mine. “What exactly did Evans say?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He was just trying to throw me off the trail.”
“What did he say?”
“Never—”
“Olivia.”
I met his eyes and saw not anger, but shock. Dread.
“He said they found her body a couple of months after she disappeared. He had photos. Maybe they were doctored. I just . . . I thought that’s what you meant. I’m sorry. But I’m not leaving, okay? We need to wait here until the cops arrive.”
He was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “No. We can’t do that.”
“Yes, it’s not the most heroic conclusion but—”
“If we lose Chandler, we lose our explanation for all this. If the police show up, he’ll bolt.” He moved his leg and grimaced. “Damn it.”
A line of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was in extreme pain. Enough to distract him from any plan except getting me out of here. And having me tell him his mother was dead really hadn’t helped.
“Would you sit down?” I said. “Please.”
He hesitated, then lowered himself to the sheets. “We need Chandler. He’s out there.”
“Out where?”
A wave, curt, almost annoyed. “Out there. Watching.”
I shook my head. “He phoned in his instructions to Maria. I saw the call display. He’s sitting at home, orchestrating all this.”
“It was a cell phone. He’s here. Keeping his distance but keeping control.”
“How do you know that?”
Another flash of annoyance. Or maybe just pain. “Because I know what kind of man he is. He’s here, and I would like you to get the hell out that window, so I can go find him.”
I cast a pointed look at his leg. “Really?”
He grabbed a sheet and tore off a strip to bind it. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, so if I won’t leave, I’m being stupid. If you insist on taking down Chandler when you can barely stand, you’re being brave?”
“Olivia . . .”
“How about we call him. See what’s what.” I lifted my phone.
“I have his home number, not his cell.”
“I saw it on the call display.”
“And you remember it?”
“Of course. I’m playing detective. The area code was 817. Is that his home number?”
He checked. “No.”
I started to dial.
“No,” he said, rising. “Let me—”
I shook my head. “I’m the client, remember?”
“I thought you were my partner.”
“It varies depending on which best suits my needs.”
“As either your lawyer or your partner, I believe I should be privy to your plan.”
I told him. He adjusted it. I would have argued on one point, but there wasn’t time.
When I called, Chandler’s cell rang a few times—I didn’t expect him to answer an unknown number. Then it went to voice mail.
“Hello, Dr. Chandler,” I said. “This is . . .” I paused. Considered. “Eden Larsen. We need to talk.”