She glanced at Walter, whose gaze had locked on Detective Robertson. “What is it you’re not saying?” Walter asked.
Detective Robertson’s shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug, but his gaze never left Walter. “I spoke with Sandra, and she had some interesting information for us. Is it true that upon your brother’s death, the entire residual of your mother’s trust moves to you?”
Walter’s posture shifted. “I don’t care about that trust. I never have.”
Laurel looked at him, her curiosity sharpening. “What’s the corpus of the trust?”
“About five million dollars,” Detective Robertson said smoothly. “The trust remains in place during the life of her latest husband, who’s paid a set amount from it each month. Upon his death, the trust was supposed to be split evenly between the brothers.” The way he delivered the figure sounded rehearsed, as if he’d prepared to deploy that piece of information at the right moment. “I guess that makes quite the motive, doesn’t it?”
Walter’s jaw tightened. “For someone, maybe. But not for me.”
“Interesting,” Detective Robertson said. “Your brother had quite a few enemies. But now, you’re the one in the spotlight. You’d be surprised how often family plays a role when money’s involved.”
Walter snorted. “Maybe in your experience. But Tyler and I hadn’t spoken in years. No bad blood, just different paths. That money doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Laurel studied the detective, her mind racing through the implications. “If you’re going to imply Walter had something to do with his brother’s death, then you’ll need more than an inheritance to back up that theory. I’m assuming you haven’t found anything to suggest foul play, correct?”
Detective Robertson hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly before he answered. “Nothing definitive, but I’m not ruling anything out.”
“I’d hope not,” Walter snapped.
Should Laurel insist Walter obtain representation? Listening carefully, she allowed the questioning to continue. Finally, the detective wound down after also questioning Laurel about the scene at Tyler’s house as well as the attack by the black truck.
Could it all be connected?
The detective walked them outside to a darkening day. “Rain’s coming,” he murmured, looking up at the bulbous clouds. “Be careful on the drive back. That black truck and AK-47 are still out there.”
Chapter 10
Miriam deserved this. The truth smacked her with a painful force, reverberating through her chest and pounding against her skull until her vision swam. Her brain felt swollen, thick and heavy, each tiny thought becoming sluggish. Painfully so. Karma was coming for her, damn it. She stumbled to her car and fumbled for the keys in her pocket.
Her eyes burned like she’d dunked her head in bleach. The pressure built behind her sockets like something sharp wanted to push through. Panic, fear—no, terror—twisted through her veins, coiling tight around her heart. Fuck. She collapsed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door.
Driving was a mistake. She knew it. Hell, the rational part of her brain screamed it loud and clear, but that voice was buried beneath a raw, primal instinct to flee. But where should she go? There was nowhere to go.
Tears streaked hot down her face, stinging her chapped lips. She swiped them away with the back of her hand and tried to focus. She gulped air like her lungs had forgotten their job. Sobs clawed their way free, scraping her insides bloody, but she choked them down. There wasn’t time for that. Not now.
She’d screwed up. Regret tasted bitter on her tongue, but she didn’t have time to deal with it right now.
She didn’t want to die. God, she didn’t want to die.
Her mind raced, chaotic and jumbled. The car lurched as she threw it into drive, except she hadn’t started the damn engine. A fresh surge of panic strangled her as she yanked the keys again, twisting them hard.
The engine sputtered to life, a harsh, growling sound that barely registered through the thunderous pulse in her ears. She jammed the gearshift into drive again, clutching the steering wheel and hunching over it as if trying to protect her vital organs. Animals did that. So did humans.
Seat belt. There was something she was supposed to do about a seat belt, but the thought slipped through her mind like smoke, impossible to grasp. She had to fucking get it together. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal, and the car launched forward with enough force to snap her head back against the seat.
They wouldn’t want her to be found.
But she’d make damn sure someone found her.
She drove down the mountain, her fingers gripping the wheel, providing more pain for her. Did it center her? Maybe a little. The road wound and twisted, becoming narrow and treacherous beneath the beaming moonlight.
More tears burned their way down her cheeks, but they weren’t the soft, salty warmth of fear or sadness. They scalded. Blood-hot.
Too late. She knew it with the kind of clarity that made her want to laugh, hysteria clawing at her throat. No one survived this. But she couldn’t just lie down and quit. If she could just get to a safe place, she could figure this out. She had to save herself.
She floored the gas pedal, and the engine groaned as the car sped up, blurring the lines on the road into streaks of white and yellow. She swerved onto a busier road, disrupting traffic. Oncoming headlights burned her eyes, and several cars honked. A tire or two might’ve screeched from people hitting their brakes. Angry curses from pissed-off drivers echoed from half-rolled windows, and it should’ve infuriated her. It did, somewhere deep beneath the agony.
