But that didn’t make sense.
A booby trap like this should be set up on the inside of the room if the goal was to protect from intruders.
Her stomach dropped. This wasn’t for protection. It was created to imprison.
She glanced at Detective Lawson.
Pride quirked his mouth as he joined her. “Quite ingenious, isn’t it?”
Surely they couldn’t have beenthatwrong about Billy Poe’s identity.
When she didn’t answer, he slid an arm around her and led her to the door, where he carefully removed the cord from the knob. “This setup made it where I could leave Ingram here alone safely. Not that I expect he’s escaped his restraints.”
Restraints? Ingram?
Good gracious. Detective Talbot LawsonwasBilly Poe. How had she not suspected him? She was an author, for heaven’s sake! Twists and unexpected villains were supposed to be her forte.
Detective Lawson turned the handle to reveal her would-be prison.
Enough was enough. She was tired of being the victim of her own stories. This heroine was going to fight, not calmly submit and pray her hero would rescue her.
In a move that would make Nora proud, Lydia twisted to face Detective Lawson, jammed her thumbs into his eyes, and rammed her knee into his groin.
As he yelled and then doubled over, Lydia raced to the vestibule and unlocked the outer door. Lawson’s feet pounded behind her as she flung the door open and ran.
Halfway down the stairs, the man grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked.
Her hands flew to where his fingers sank into her curls, and, not for the first time, she cursed the unruly locks. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t pry his fingers away. When she continued to fight against him, he heaved her backward. Her back slammed into the sharp edge of a step, and she looked up at the reddening face of a man she’d thought one of Cincinnati’s finest.
“That is no way to treat your hero, Lydia.”
For some unfathomable reason, he released her hair.
She scrambled to her feet and pivoted just as a metallic click sounded behind her.
She froze. A person didn’t have to hear that sound more than once to know exactly what it meant. The step above her creaked, then the cool circle of a barrel touched her temple.
“Turn around.”
Would he really shoot her? Supposedly he was in love with her.
Rule number two: never point the muzzle at something you don’t intend to shoot.
Her stomach flipped at the memory of Abraham’s words. Detective Lawson would not make the same mistakes she had. If he had the muzzle directed at her, he intended to shoot.
Slowly she turned. The barrel shifted so that she faced it head-on. So much for the best course of action to never be on the wrong end of a gun. She’d never be able to run for cover, which left only one option. Do whatever he wanted.
“Good. Now take us to our room.”
The use ofourstole her breath, but she forced one foot in front of the other as Detective Lawson backed his way up the stairs, maintaining the barrel at eye level. He kept his free, bandaged hand tucked against him and elevated above his heart, a sure sign that it pained him. If she could gouge it with her fingers, his agony might last long enough for her to escape.
If he didn’t pull the trigger and blow her down the stairs first.
That plan wasn’t going to work, at least not right now, but she’d keep it tucked away for the perfect opportunity.
At the entryway, Detective Lawson shifted to walking behind her. She studied the dangling cord. If she yanked it at just the right moment, the shotgun would go off.
Once again, Abraham’s rules stayed her hand.
