Monty looked past her, no doubt just seeing the plain, beige-colored wall. There was nothing to identify Gemma’s location anywhere around her. “Where areyou?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gemma said, her stomach cramping and her migraine flaring back to life. She’d had them since he’d thrown her down the stairs one time, but they had become more sporadic as time passed. “Give it up. You’re engaged now, right? Go have a nice life and forget about me, Monty.”
His nostrils flared and crimson crossed his cheekbones. He looked like such a monster. Why hadn’t she seen that in the beginning? He hissed out an angry breath. “You know what? I really did want to move on. Wanted to forget what a complete and selfish bitch you are and forget all about you. I’ve beentrying.”
“Good.” She reached for the lid of the laptop. Hopefully his new love would get out in time, but Gemma couldn’t worry about her. Maybe Jack would help her as well.
“Not so fast, Gemma,” Monty snapped. “Something has interrupted my plans, and you know how much I hate that.”
Oh no. Was he going to hurt Fran? Gemma stopped closing the laptop. “Leave her alone, Monty. She hasn’t done anything and she has no clue where I am. She will never know.”
“But somebody knows.” Monty slid something across the table on which the phone sat. “Apparently I have friends I didn’t even know about.”
Gemma stilled. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I think you do.” Monty lifted up a photograph to place it in view of the camera. “Want to explain this?” He held the picture too close to make anything out.
Even so, Gemma’s chest compressed. “I can’tsee anything.”
“Oh. My apologies.” Monty moved the photograph back, revealing a picture of Gemma and Trudy. One taken at the restaurant in Virginia just the other night with the two of them sitting across the table from each other, both laughing. “She looks like me, you worthless bitch.”
Gemma slammed the laptop shut and jumped up, bumping her elbow on the wall. Fletcher had found out all about her and sent the picture to Monty?
God. They had to run.
Now.
Just before she made it to Trudy’s room, reality smacked her in the face. She didn’t have her car. Halting, she planted one hand on the doorframe, sucking back a sob. Okay. It was time to stop existing on instinct and panic. There were options she’d never had before right now. She could wait out the night and go to work, make an escape from there. While she hated leaving Trudy’s toys, they’d buy more. Or, she could trust the team around her, the people who were trained and dangerous, to work with her to protect Trudy. Trust was difficult for her, and telling her entire story would be painful, but she was a smart woman, and keeping her daughter safe was the only thing that mattered right now.
She released her breath. No matter what, they were safe in the sheltered subdivisionfor the night.
So there was time to make a good plan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jethro returned to Serena’s house after midnight and found it silent. He put the bottle of wine in the fridge. So much for having a drink with Gemma and discussing her past. He peeked in on Trudy and then on Gemma; both were sound asleep. Though he’d need to speak with Gemma the next day, he appreciated the reprieve, even as he felt oddly bereft that she was asleep. He had to get a grip on this attraction for her; there was too much going on right nowto pursue it.
Roscoe looked up from the edge of Trudy’s Cinderella bed, eyed him, and wentback to sleep.
Jethro turned and dug his fingers into the nape of his neck, trying to dispel the headache that kept trying to claim him. After making sure the entire house was secure he headed for what apparently had become his bedroom. He shucked his shirt and jeans, yanking on sweats just in case, and sliding right between the soft sheets. Then he stared into the darkness at the ceiling, much the way he had as a child. An odd memory took him, and he followedit into dreams.
He was ten years old, in the dark, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling.
Fletcher climbed in his window, out late again.
Jethro turned and flipped on the light. “Why don’t you come in your own window?”
Fletcher fell to the floor and then stood, wiping dirt and leaves off his shirt. “Mine has brambles too close. Yours is easier.” He cracked his knuckles.
“What were you doing now?” Jethro asked, almostafraid to ask.
Fletcher pulled a leaf from his hair. “Just watching theDonnely house.”
Jethro sighed. “You got them back for picking on me. You have to stop beating Barry up—it’s enough. You nearly broke his nose yesterday.” They fought almost every day.
“I don’t have it right yet,” Fletcher said, shutting the window. “I keep imagining the exact right way to make him hurt, and it’s not right yet. I punched him too low in the gut yesterday. There’s no way to stop until I get it right.” He turned off the light. “Just be happy I don’t want to hurt you.”
Jethro’s eyelids flew open and he sat up, turning on the bed. Something had awakened him. He stood and strode out of his room into the hallway, his footsteps silent.
