“Got it.”
I disconnected and tucked my phone in my pocket, turning my full attention to Laikyn. “Did you touch them?”
“What?”
“The bodies? Did you touch them?”
“I … uh…” She paused, deep in thought. “Yes. I checked for a pulse on the woman’s neck. Not the old guy, though.”
I made a mental note to have Rhyan take care of that pesky detail. Last thing I wanted was for this to come back on Laikyn.
“You know who that is, right?” Laikyn prompted when I looked at her.
“Lawrence Pierce and his wife,” I answered.
“You know them?”
“I’ve done business with him before.” Sad because his jobs usually paid well.
Laikyn stood tall. “We need to call the police.”
“No, I need you to open the garage for Rhyan and buzz her through the gate when she gets here.”
“But, I—”
I met her stare. “Open the garage, Laikyn.”
She swallowed hard, then nodded before rushing off to do my bidding.
While she did, I returned to the bedroom and took it all in again, coming up with a plan for Rhyan. I couldn’t simply dump the bodies in the desert because famous people would be missed. Which meant coming up with a plausible scene that would support the evidence.
First and foremost, it didn’t look like they’d been dead for long. That would help with the timeline, provided we could adjust the temperature of the bodies. I didn’t see any wounds on the woman, but that didn’t mean there weren’t. The lack of blood nearby and the drugs strewn out on the dresser confirmed my initial theory that she’d overdosed. Based on the white powder around her nostrils, she’d taken the party a little too far. And since the husband had a knife in the chest, the only logical conclusion was that Monica had stabbed him. What prompted it was anyone’s guess, but I would ensure Rhyan kept the knife. It was always best to hold onto incriminating evidence in the event someone suffered from a crisis of conscience.
When I heard footsteps, I returned to the hall. Laikyn was walking toward me, her gaze moving over me slowly.
I started for the stairs.
“You can’t just leave them there,” she hissed, her voice still low.
I kept walking, not looking back. “I’m not.”
“It’s not—wait. What?”
“I’m not gonna leave them there.”
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s not a question you should be asking.”
“Then whatshouldI be asking?” she shouted. “There are two dead bodies in my mother’s room, and she’s downstairs self-medicating. I’ve got a stranger in my house and another in the garage … and…”
I turned to face her, noticing her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. I was impressed by how well she was holding herself together. It wasn’t the first time. Laikyn Quinn had been stoically composed the day I pulled her out of that basement in Tijuana. She hadn’t even flinched when I carried her past her captor’s dead body. By the time I returned her to her mother’s doorstep, I had to question whether I’d actually rescued her. She certainly hadn’t acted like she’d spent fourteen days in a hellhole with some douchebag threatening to do vile things to her. I’d been there long enough to hear it for myself, and I could honestly say he was lucky the bullet between the eyes was the only thing I gave him.
“I’m gonna take care of it,” I told her, trying to keep my tone even. I sucked at it.
“Take care of it how?”
“No more questions.”
