“Looks like I’ll need a new mattress, too.” She shook her head at the clothes from her closet, now scattered on the floor along with the contents of her dresser drawers.
Cain grunted. “I’ll put that on the list.”
Releasing his hand, she walked over to the ensuite and glanced in the half-open doorway. “Well, at least they didn’t touch this room.”
Deputy Evans cleared his throat as he stepped forward and pushed the door open with his elbow. “They left you a message on the mirror. I just need you to tell me if you recognize the writing.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, Betsy, but this will really help us work on identifying the culprit.”
Cain’s gut told him to be quiet. Stay out of the police business. After all, the deputy was just doing his job. Many a time he’d been forced to ask a victim to do something to help in his own DEA cases. Things that solidified the evidence or clue. He’d thought nothing of it. But this was the woman he cared about, and the idea of her walking into the bathroom punched him to his core.
He lightly touched her shoulder. “Take a breath, Betsy. I’m right here.”
“Is it bad?”
“It’s a threat. But it’s also a clue.”
Her half-smile reaction stilled any nerves he’d been having. And the upward tilt of her chin as she straightened her stance showed him she was ready for anything. He wasn’t so sure. People always had lines not to cross.
“Okay then…” She clenched her jaws. “The jerk wants to play games with me, he’s met his match.”
She stared straight ahead as she walked into her newly remodeled master bath. The one she’d paid extra to have an eight-foot double-sink vanity, eight-foot slab of hand-picked marble and the matching eight-foot mirror on the wall.
Scrawled across the mirror now was:
CLOCK IS TICKING, BETSY! Give me what I want?—
I’d hate to see you end up like Phillip?—
Bang!Bang!CRASH!
Betsy paled. Shivered. “Cain… I can’t?—”
“I’ve got you.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight against his side. Forcing her to take a step, he got them out of the bathroom. “Deputy Evans, Betsy and I are leaving. She’ll be at my house if you have any more questions.”
The deputy didn’t try to stop them, but followed close behind. “Betsy, do you recognize the handwriting? Does any of it make sense? Betsy! I need to know.”
Cain kept hold of her, guiding them to the front door. “I said we’re leaving.”
Out the door. Down the steps. Crossing the yard, headed for his truck.
“Betsy!” Deputy Evans shouted from a few steps behind. “Yes? Or no?”
She raised her hand for Cain to stop. “Phillip. It looks vaguely like Phillip’s handwriting.”
“What do you mean?” the deputy asked.
“Believe me, I know that’s not possible. We buried him in the church cemetery two years ago. You were even one of the pall bearers, Deputy Evans.” Sighing, she slowly shook her head. “But there’s something about the last line that bothered me.”
“It’s just part of the threat.”
“No, it’s something else. Something I can almost put my finger on,” Betsy said, “and then it’s gone before it’s clear in my mind. But even though it looks like Phillip’s handwriting, it isn’t. Phillip is dead.”
The deputy shook his head and shrugged. “Don’t you worry, we’ll get this all figured out. Now go home with Cain and get some rest.”
Deputy Evans headed back to the house as Cain helped her into the passenger seat of his truck and clicked her seatbelt into place. As if in shock, she sat there staring straight ahead. A second later he opened a protein bar from the glove box and pushed it into her hand.
“Here, Betsy. Eat.”
When she didn’t budge, he tapped her on the shoulder then pointed to the bar once again. “Take a few bites for me. Okay?”
