Yeah, therapy was going to be a requirement after all this.
“It’s not that simple,” Monica said softly.
“Sure it is.”
She shook her head slowly, and tears formed on her lashes. I prepared myself for some sort of sob story. She was really good at that. There was a reason she was an A-list actress.
“I don’t have it, Laiky. I don’t. I wish I did.”
I cringed at the nickname. She might as well announce that she was gearing up to manipulate me because that was how it always began.
“Meaning what?” I prompted. “You don’t have three million tucked in a sock drawer? Or you don’t have the money at all?”
More tears formed, but they hadn’t spilled over yet. She was holding them back, timing them perfectly.
“We’re done here, Rhyan,” Rule told the woman wearing blood-covered latex gloves.
“Gotcha, boss.” She turned and strolled out as though being woken up in the middle of the night for anever mindwasn’t a big deal.
And just like that, the Monica Quinn Waterworks began, tears streaming down her face as she stared at me helplessly. Soon, the sobs came, and my mother crumpled onto the settee, curling into a ball as she always did when things got too difficult for her to deal with.
I refused to console her. I refused to even feel sorry for her. This was a mess she’d gotten herself into all on her own. If she would only go to the police, she could get herself out of it with a simple explanation.
Oh, hell, who was I kidding? I knew the justice system didn’t work like that. It would be national news if Monica Quinn were accused of a double murder, and some glory-driven detective would latch onto this as a highlight of their career. I could hear the reports now, “Monica Quinn kills two in a jealous rage. More at six.” Unlike OJ, who got away with murder, Monica would probably go down for something she didn’t do.
Ifshe didn’t do it.
While I loved my mother, I didn’t know exactly what she was capable of, and I wouldn’t deny that the scene upstairs looked a little toocleanfor me. Too simple, even. In my mind, the woman on the bed overdosed, and the husband flew into a crazed rage when he realized she was dead before going on the attack. Monica grabbed the nearest object to protect herself with. Just happened to be a five-inch Wusthof cheese knife with a curved blade and forked tip—translated to: the perfect murder weapon.
Maybe it really was that simple, but there was no doubt in my mind someone could pick it apart and find a dozen other scenarios that would suit the gruesome scene.
I glanced at Rule and noticed he was watching me. It wasn’t the first time. His gaze had lingered on me more than once since he arrived. Like those other times, I couldn’t make out what he was thinking, but that warped and twisted part of me hoped it consisted of the two of us getting naked and dirty together.
“I suggest you call the cops soon,” he said, nodding before he turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“No. Wait!” I rushed to catch him before he slipped out into the night, and I never saw him again.
He stopped and peered at me, his hand on the doorknob. Yes, it was wrong of me to be thinking that he had really, really nice hands. The kind that could probably play a woman’s body like a finely tuned instrument.
“Take me,” I blurted before I could think better of it.
He released the doorknob and turned to face me fully. “Excuse me.”
“Take me. Make it look like a kidnapping.” I glanced back at the parlor where my mother was weeping. “She has kidnap and ransom insurance on me. They’ll pay three million easy.”
Rule’s dark eyebrows narrowed. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“Yes, it is. She told me.”
Rule peered past me at the room my mother was in. “They don’tpaythe ransom. They pay itback.”
No, he was wrong. My mother specifically told me the insurance company had been putting together the ransom when she found Rule, who said he could get me back faster and for less than what the kidnappers were asking for. Since she was desperate to get me home, Monica chose him.
“Tell me you know this, Laikyn,” Rule said softly, his dark eyes hard.
I figured now wasn’t the time to argue because he was practically out the door, and I did not look forward to spending the rest of the night explaining to the police that I had nothing to do with the horror show upstairs. Not that they would believe me. That glory-seeking detective would likely toss me into his fictional story, claiming mother and daughter dreamed up the perfect murder only for it to go awry.
Rule glanced toward the stairs. I followed his gaze and saw the woman he referred to as Rhyan standing at the top, staring down at him. She had a leather bag in her hand and a questioning expression.
