Eerie - Crouch Blake - Страница 25
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“Nothing you can’t fix. Get us a drink?”
“Please.”
Footsteps plodded toward the closet, and in the soft candlelight, Grant watched his sister approach the wet bar.
For a split second, her eyes shot to the crack between door and doorframe.
“Power’s been out since last night,” she said, “so no rocks.” She grabbed a half-empty bottle.
I could use a hit of that right about now.
“Neat’s the only way I drink,” the man said as he emerged from the shadows and slid his arms around Paige’s waist from behind. “I thought you’d remember that.”
Steve wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d been prepared for another Jude—tall, perfect hair, chiseled everything. But Steve was shorter than Paige. As he sidled up behind her, the profile of his face met the slope of her neck like a puzzle piece, the top of his head stopping a full four inches below her own. He was thirty-five or forty pounds overweight and the dome of his hairless skull shone like polished marble in the candlelight. Physically at least, Steve was a completely unremarkable specimen. Grant couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse to know that not all of Paige’s clients were demigods.
Paige poured two glasses of scotch and turned to Steve.
“Should we take this upstairs?” she asked.
“You read my mind.”
Grant listened to their footsteps trail away into the foyer.
The stairs creaked as they climbed.
Only when they’d reached the second floor did Grant ease the closet door open and step out.
The ceiling creaked above him.
He pictured Steve and Paige heading down the hall toward her bedroom.
Their footfalls stopped. The bedroom door groaned open.
As if on cue, his ears popped—like rolling down the windows in a speeding car.
Grant exhaled.
He strained to listen, but there was nothing else to hear.
Moving around to the wet bar, Grant lifted the best thing he saw—a twenty-five year Highland Park—and poured into a rocks glass.
Shot it.
The whiskey dumping into his empty stomach like a fistful of lava.
He poured another, swirled it.
No plans of stopping until the world lost its hard edge.
Grant raised the glass in the air before him.
“A toast,” he said, “to shit.”
There was a knock at the front door.
For a moment, he wrote it off as a phantom sound. A glitch in his fracturing mind. He waited for confirmation, willing the silence to continue.
Another knock, this time harder.
He set the glass on the bar and made his way into the foyer, careful to stay clear of the windows that faced the street.
Without power, the intercom and camera were useless.
He pressed up against the door, eye to the peephole.
Sophie stared back at him.
He blinked.
Still there.
He clawed his way through the pain and tried to think.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here?
What are you—
Stu.
That was the only conceivable way. The PI had tried to call at six p.m. like Grant had insisted . But his phone was dead. So naturally, Stu called his partner.
A flare of heat rushed through his face—anger at himself. At his shortsighted plan. He should’ve seen this possible outcome a mile away. You always plan for the worst case scenario. Should’ve told Stu this research was for something on the side. Something no other person in the world—least of all his partner—needed to know about.
Goddamnit.
Sophie pounded on the door again.
Grant played the scene forward.
Open it?
What would he possibly say to her? Maybe on his best day—when a world-class migraine hadn’t liquefied his brain and he actually had time to prepare—maybe then he’d have a chance at talking his way out of this. At assuaging whatever concerns she had and convincing her to leave without suspicion. But not in his current condition. Sophie would see through the lies before they even left his mouth. Hell, all she’d have to do was take one look at his sunken eyes and know he’d gotten himself into something bad.
So wait her out.
She knocked again, and he saw her gauzy silhouette lean into the curtained window frame to the right of the door. He knew she couldn’t see inside, but still he didn’t dare move from his spot behind the door.
Sure this is the right play? To just let her leave and bring back a search warrant?
Yes. Let her go. She’ll be back, no doubt, but Steve will be gone and we’ll have bought a little time to figure something out.
Sophie appeared in the peephole again. She looked left and then right. Grant’s heart nearly exploded when the doorknob rattled. Thank God it was locked. Finally, she turned away and headed back down the steps.
Grant shut his eyes.
Lines of sweat meandered down the sides of his face and through the stubble of his beard.
He knew the pain would return, but for the moment, he basked in the numbing effect of the adrenaline rush that was ripping through his system.
If nothing else, he’d bought them a few hours.
Use it wisely.
Grant trudged back over to the bar and picked up the shot of Highland.
He swirled the amber liquid, tried to appreciate its color, its nose, but the whiskey was no match for the shitstorm on the horizon.
He downed it.
Shouldn’t have, but the best detective in town had just knocked on their door. He and Paige were going to have to deal with Don in the upstairs bathroom.
They were going to have to deal with a lot of things.
And fast.
Somewhere in the house, glass shattered. His first thought was Paige, but the sound hadn’t come from upstairs.
He stumbled into the kitchen.
Now it sounded like shards of glass were falling onto concrete or stone.
More noise erupted—furniture overturning.
Grant stood facing a door beside the hallway, which based upon its alignment under the staircase, he figured led down into the basement.
As if in confirmation, footfalls began clomping up a set of stairs on the other side.
He staggered back, ducked around the kitchen island, and lowered himself out of sight.
The basement door swung open so slowly he could swear he heard the scraping of each individual grain of rust on the hinges.
Grant peered around the corner of the island.
Knew it was Sophie before he saw her.
Black pantsuit over a cobalt blouse that fit her like a Bond girl.
Gun drawn and everything.
“Seattle Police. Anyone here?”
The heels of Sophie’s platform boots knocked against the hardwood floor. He knew he should speak up, but he couldn’t bring himself to push out that first word.
She turned and started down the hallway, her back to him.
Now.
Now.
Now.
“Sophie,” he whispered.
She stopped, spun, gun sighting down the kitchen. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Grant.”
“Where are you?”
“Behind the island. I’m standing up. You can put your gun away, or at least not shoot me.”
He struggled slowly onto his feet.
Sophie was barely visible in the gloom of the hallway. She stepped back into the candlelit kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bad lead, long story. How’d you find me?”
She moved in closer toward the island.
“Are we safe here?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s just us.”
She holstered her Glock. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
“I don’t want you to get mad—”
“I’m not mad. I’m confused.”
“I have a contact at the Four Seasons.”
“Okay.”
“He’s a concierge. I went to him with what we had on our Facebook girls. He pointed me here.”
“To this brownstone?”
“Yes. He told me it was a high-end brothel.”
“So the food poisoning …”
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