All along, Natalie had been skeptical about the circumstances around her trusted groundskeeper’s death. The same man who’d left her a warning to be careful, which she’d attributed to the kitchen fire.
But maybe Micah had discovered there was underhanded activity on the premises.
Maybe he’d known Steven was involved.
Maybe Steven had found out he’d known.
And maybe Steven had eliminated that threat because he didn’t want his project, whatever it was, to be exposed.
Cara’s pulse spiked, and she stumbled on a rock.
Could Steven be a ... a murderer?
The notion seemed absurd.
But if he was ... if he’d killed Micah ... then there was little chance he’d hesitate to kill again.
And right now, she was literally in his sights.
Bile rose in her throat as she struggled to get her fear under control. To engage the left side of her brain and think this through. To try to anticipate his next steps.
Shooting her would be a mistake. He had to know that. It would obviously be murder. And if he’d killed Micah, he’d gone to great lengths to make it seem like an accident. No matter how he framed it, a gunshot wound wouldn’t be an accident.
So how was he going to—
“Turn right.”
She paused. Stared at the narrow trail that had become overgrown since Micah’s death.
And with sudden, sickening certainty, she realized what he had in store for her.
Steven was taking her up to the cliff where Marie and Paul’s grandfather had held their trysts.
To the cliff from which that despondent young woman had jumped to her death.
The cliff where Steven no doubt intended to stage a fall by the visiting professor who’d wandered up there to see the view and gotten a tad too close to the edge.
“Go up the trail, Cara.” He bent down and tucked his flashlight among the foliage, perhaps to keep his hands free so he could deal with her on the hike if she decided to object to his plan.
A hard object nudged her in the kidney, and she lurched forward as her respiration went haywire and fear clogged her throat.
She could scream, but Steven was right. Natalie would never hear her inside the house, and the closest neighbors were too far away to pick up a cry for help.
“Keep walking—and remember, I’ll use this gun if I have to. The shot won’t be noticed, and a few minutes after that, the gun will be at the bottom of the lake. The shooter will never be identified.”
“They’ll ... they’ll suspect you. You’re on site.” Somehow she choked out the reply.
“Suspicions are useless without proof.”
True. But there would be proof. Trace evidence on her body, if nothing else. Like his skin under her fingernails.
Because she wasn’t going over the edge without a fight.
In the critical minutes ahead, however, she intended to do everything in her power to ensure that history didn’t repeat itself.
Marie had chosen to die.
Butsheintended to live.
