Was she really just standing here, listening to them debate how to best torture and kill her? She lifted her leg and slammed her boot down on Mrs. Keaton’s bread loaf of a foot. The woman yipped, and Phillip yanked Lydia around so she stood with her back pinned against his chest.
The man didn’t even break conversation with Mr. Clemens. “I don’t trust you.”
“Nonsense. I love a good story of poetic justice. Anything I write will, of course, protect your anonymity. I wouldn’t want the heroes of Cincinnati to be carted off when they were only doing what the police would not.”
Mrs. Keaton leaned over to rub her foot and glared at Lydia. “The alley’s close.”
“Not poetic enough.” Mr. Clemens tapped his pencil against his lips. “A library might work. No! Her house, where she writes the books. It’s been empty the last few days, so you wouldn’t run into anyone there.”
“That so?”
Lydia couldn’t see Phillip’s face, but his whole body leaned forward, eager for the information.
“It is. And there would be no witnesses to interfere.”
These people were insane. If she didn’t escape now, she was going to end up dead at her desk with fingers broken and a pen jabbed through her heart. Or, more likely, her neck. At least, if she were staging it, that was how she would do it.
And that was an unsettling thought in its own right—planning her own murder.
A murder that would occur if she didn’t stop letting her mind run ahead of her situation.
She jerked from side to side and threw in a few kicks for good measure. Phillip was not amused and tightened his hold until her chest hurt. Mr. Clemens completely ignored her plight while the men who guarded the hack watched with delighted curiosity.
It was one thing for this scenario to happen in a book—she’d written it often enough—but shouldn’t there be at least one decent man in the world willing to rescue her? Where was Abraham when she needed him?
Phillip attempted to force her farther down the steps, but Mr. Clemens slid in his way. Phillip growled. “Move aside. You want to write your story, write your story. But stop delaying me.”
“One more minute. I want to make sure I understand your plans correctly. You’re taking Miss Pelton against her will to her home, where you will proceed to break each of her fingers in poetic justice before killing her yourself?”
“It’s only what she deserves,” Mrs. Keaton asserted. “Joseph was getting his life turned around, and that wench had him killed.”
“Getting his life turned around, really? I find that hard to believe given the current situation. But please, don’t allow me to stop you. I have what I need.” Mr. Clemens stepped to the side as he drew something from his pocket to his lips.
The shrill of a police whistle rent the air. Lydia winced, and her ears rang at its being so near.
God bless Mr. Clemens, even if he was as addlepated as a Longview resident.
Phillip’s head swung back and forth, his chin bumping against her head.
The whistle stopped, but no officer rushed to her aid.
The momentary hope she’d felt deflated. Addlepated indeed. One would think Mr. Clemens would ensure the police were nearby before giving himself away.
Phillip gave a mirthless chuckle before he passed Mr. Clemens and hauled her toward the alley. It appeared they weren’t going to stage a poetic death at her home after all.
A second shrill whistle blew behind them.
Another joined it as an officer rounded the church corner, gun drawn and leveled at Phillip.
The only problem with that plan was Lydia stood trapped between. Of all the times she’d written something similar, she’d never imagined how her legs would turn to water or that her ears would drum so loud it was all she could hear. Her vision tunneled to that narrow metal cylinder, steady in the officer’s hand but still as capable of firing at her as Phillip. Would she see the bullet fly from the end before it struck her? Or would a searing pain in her chest be the only announcement of the death she received? At least she could go to her grave knowing she didn’t scream like a ninny in the face of a gun.
The arm around her waist disappeared.
Without Phillip’s support, her legs gave way, and she thudded to the ground. Her hip and elbow caught the edges of the steps and zinged with pain.
Sweet, blessed pain—the sign of life no one wanted but she was glad to have.
Around her, chaos ensued. Two officers wrestled Phillip to the ground. He flailed and kicked, sputtering curses and condemnation down on their heads. Mrs. Keaton was halfway to the corner with an officer giving chase. The men by the carriage had scattered. Only Mr. Clemens stood unoccupied by a task.
