No Escape

“We need to go. It’s a long drive back home.” Amanda shut the car door.



Vicky grabbed hold of Amanda’s arm. “Please, let me explain about Bobby.”



“No need. I really don’t care what he does or who he’s with. I just hope you know what you’re getting into.”



“He’s changed,” said Vicky.



Amanda laughed. It was a bleak, hollow sound. “Weren’t you the one who told me men never change?”



“He’s different now. I swear it. You should give him a chance.”



Amanda pulled her arm free and hurried around to the driver’s side. “No, thank you. And for your sake, I hope you’re right.”



“Wait. Just stay a few minutes.”



Amanda didn’t answer. She was too tired to argue about this, too devastated to try. It had clearly been a mistake to come here—one she wasn’t going to repeat.



She slid the key into the ignition, and thankfully, her car started on the first try.



It was the best thing that had happened to her since the night Rachel was born.



Isabelle woke up reaching for Grant. It wasn’t until the sleep had faded from her mind that she realized he wouldn’t be there.



Her hand fell back to the covers, and she let out a low groan of regret. She never should have let him in her bed. In her body.



And now, not only did she have to figure out how to best take care of Everett today, she had to do it alone. If Grant came anywhere near her, she was afraid she’d be weak again and let him work his way deeper into her life—so deep she’d never find a way to get by when he left.



He was here to protect her from a killer, but she had to be the one to protect her heart from him.



The best thing to do was just get moving. Get through the pain today would bring.



She had to start planning Everett’s funeral, deal with getting his body released for burial. There was no one else to do it.



She had no idea what kind of funeral he’d want. Something simple, nothing flashy, and certainly nothing expensive. He hated wasting money. Not that he needed to worry about that anymore.



The weight of her grief pressed down on her, holding her to the bed and driving the breath from her lungs.



Everett was really gone. He wasn’t coming back.



Her bedroom door opened quietly, and Grant slipped in.



Isabelle wiped away the sheen of tears wetting her cheeks before he could see.



She pushed herself to a sitting position, stifling a wince when her sore muscles protested the movement. Getting tossed around in the car yesterday hadn’t done her poor body much good, although she was pretty sure the soreness of the muscles along her inner thighs had a lot more to do with Grant than with her accident.



“I brought you some tea and ibuprofen. Thought you might need it this morning.”



“Thanks.” She took the pills and sipped her tea, keeping her head down, hoping he couldn’t see that she’d been crying in the dimness of the room. Pity was the last thing she wanted from Grant.



He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. “How are you feeling?”



“A little stiff, but I’ll be fine. I should probably get moving,” she said, hoping he’d leave.



“It’s Saturday. You should rest and let your body recover.”



“I’m just a little sore. Besides, I have to find out what to do for Everett today.”



“I’ll help you.”



He reached for her hand, but she wrapped it around her tea before he could touch her. “No, thanks. I’d rather do it on my own.”



“You don’t have a car.”



“I’ll borrow Dale’s.”



“He’s at his study group.”



“So, I’ll go when he gets back.”



“You’d be safer if I went with you.”



Maybe her body, but not her peace of mind. “I’ll be fine.”



Grant shifted his weight, leaning closer to her. Isabelle glanced up and wished she hadn’t. His golden eyes glittered with frustration and his mouth was a flat, grim line. “Why are you pushing me away?”



“I’m not. I’d just rather do this alone.”



He slid his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away tears from her wet lashes. “It’s okay to let me see you cry. You get to cry when you lose a friend. It’s in the manual.”



“What manual?”



“The Top Ten Reasons Chicks Get to Cry manual.”



He was trying to make her smile, which only made things worse. Every time he was sweet to her, it made it that much harder to think about him walking away.



She needed to put some distance between them. Sex had been a big mistake.



“I’m going to get a shower,” she said as she tried to scoot past him.



He didn’t let her go. He wrapped his long fingers around her arm and held on tight. His tone was light and flirtatious, but his eyes told her it was a lie. “Want some company?”



“No, thanks.”



“Oh, come on. I know you’ve got to be sore. I could rub some of that soreness out of your muscles for you. All that hot water and slippery soap would feel good.”



“I’m fine.”



She slid her legs off the bed and tugged her arm. Grant didn’t let go. He gave her a hard look. “I warned you I wouldn’t let you do this.”



“I’m not doing anything.”



“You’re pushing me away because we had sex.”



“I am not,” she lied.



“I won’t let you do it. Our friendship is too important.”



“What friendship?” she shot back, jerking her arm free of his grasp. “I sent you a birthday and Christmas card every year. So what? I sent them to everyone. That doesn’t make us close.”



He flinched as if she’d slapped him. His voice was a flat monotone of masked pain. “My mistake. I guess I read more into it than I should have. It won’t happen again.”



He turned to leave, and Isabelle could see the ache coursing through him, pain she’d caused with her careless need to protect herself.



As much as she wanted to hold her heart safe, she couldn’t do it at Grant’s expense. She couldn’t drive him away like that.



“Grant, wait.”



“I have work to do,” he said. “I’ll try not to get in your way.”



He shut the door with a soft, final click.



Isabelle didn’t know what to do, what to say. She’d never thought in a million years that she could hurt him. He seemed invincible.



But she was wrong. Inside that invincible shell somewhere lurked the angry, insecure boy he’d once been, and Isabelle had just stabbed him in the heart.



Damn it. How could she have been so careless? So selfish?



She had to fix it, or at least try.



Isabelle raced from her room to find Grant, only to see him pull out of her driveway in an angry screech of tires. She ran out the front door to stop him, but it was too late. He was already gone.



It was too early for Grant to find an open bar, but it was never too early to find a willing woman. A grocery store, a library, even a gas station would work. He’d find his target, give her a smile, and in no time, he’d be fucking too hard to think about Isabelle and the fact that he’d made a complete ass of himself.



He’d read too much into her kindness over the years. They were just fucking greeting cards. Bits of paper and ink. She sent them to everyone. He wasn’t special. He should have known better than to think he was.



Grant pulled in to the nearest grocery store, hurried inside because he’d forgotten his coat, and grabbed a plastic shopping basket. The place was crawling with women, though most of them had kids tagging along and rings on their fingers.



He hit the produce section and spotted his prey. She was perfect. Blond, short, and nothing at all like Isabelle.



Grant put his best panty-dropping smile on and moved in for the kill.



Keith pulled up to Wyatt’s motel and parked with his trunk close to the door so no one would see him carry Trina inside.



Now that the police were involved, things were going to be a lot harder for Keith. Luckily, no one would believe Wyatt was innocent, which made him perfect to take any suspicion off of Keith.



He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves before he even got out of his car. After so much practice, being careful to leave behind nothing to link him to the deaths was now second nature to him.



He knocked on the door of the motel room Wyatt had rented. No one answered, which didn’t surprise him. Who would want to hang around in a dump like this if there was anywhere else they could be? It was positively depressing with its faded paint and winter-dead, weed-riddled landscape. He had no idea how the motel stayed in business. Likely local prostitute traffic.



It was easy enough to break in with the tools Keith had acquired from one of his clients years ago. It took him only a few seconds to bypass the lock and enter the squalid room.



He carried his supplies and the duffel bag containing Trina’s limp body inside. He hung the cracked “do not disturb” card on the doorknob and locked the door behind him.



The stench of mildew nearly made him gag, so he covered his mouth and breathed through his shirt. Hopefully, his work wouldn’t take long.



There wasn’t much sitting around, just some fast-food wrappers and a couple of empty beer cans. Wyatt had apparently already moved out, though he’d used a good chunk of his bouncer’s paycheck to pay for the week. Keith had checked. He didn’t want any mistakes. Isabelle was too important to him. Even if he saved no one else, he had to save her.



He loved her.



Keith shoved aside enough trash to make room for his supplies: a coffee mug, a disposable box knife, a bag of fancy tea flowers, Super Glue, some cellophane, and a pretty red ribbon—all wiped clean of fingerprints. That and a pouch of shredded jimsonweed leaves was all he would need to free Isabelle.



He doctored the tea, leaving behind no trace that the package had ever been slit open along the bottom. The Super Glue sealed the cut closed so it was barely visible—and then only if someone knew what they were looking for. Isabelle wasn’t suspicious enough to look for evidence of tampering. He only hoped that the same could be said of Grant.



Keith made sure to leave enough of a mess behind to prove to the police that Wyatt had been the one who poisoned Isabelle. A couple of leaf bits on the floor. Another one that didn’t quite make it down the sink. Another sliver of jimsonweed trapped inside a clear drop of glue on the table’s surface.



Once Trina’s body was found, this place would be crawling with cops, and they’d find everything he left behind. Wyatt would be arrested, and the rest of Keith’s siblings would let their guard down.



He packaged up the World’s Best Teacher coffee mug stuffed with poisoned tea in cellophane and tied it with the pretty ribbon. Monday morning he’d intercept one of Isabelle’s students on her way to school and have the special delivery hand carried to Isabelle’s desk.



Isabelle was little Melissa Norton’s favorite teacher. Keith had heard her say so on one of the days he’d followed her and her friend home from school. The chatty girls had paid him no attention as he’d followed behind them in jogging clothes. The mini amplifier he’d carried looked like an MP3 player and had picked up their whole conversation. The things he’d heard Melissa spew told him just how gullible she was, just how easy it would be to get her to play her role in helping free her favorite teacher.