She realized then that the alarm she’d heard was her own enraged screaming as the primal sound trailed into hoarse, hiccoughing cries.
She wouldn’t be able to recall later how long she knelt over the body. Was it minutes or hours? When she tried to stand, it took ages, her arms and legs shaking from exertion and the flood of adrenaline in her veins. She crawled to the foot of the bed and tugged one of the handcuffs to the floor. It slithered down to a thunderous heap on the tile. She was sure he was too damaged to hurt her and most likely dead, but her fingers trembled too much to find a pulse, and she took no chances, snapping the restraints around his ankles.
Blood drained from his head in an ever-widening pool. The phone lay on the floor, shattered and useless. She dragged herself toward the door, slipping in the blood that seemed to drench her. Her hands left bloody prints on the jamb as she pulled herself up, and her feet left a crimson trail as she hobbled down the long hallway.
Her arms and legs grew heavier by the moment, her dizziness increasing until she was leaning against the wall as sheshuffled forward. In a corner of her mind, she remembered his accomplice, the woman whose voice she’d heard. At any point, she could return. The ominous thought was devastating and drove Ireland to keep going when the hallway ended and there was no longer anything to lean on.
She entered the living room. Her head swiveled, searching for danger. Searching for another phone. Another weapon. The condo seemed to be a model home, beautiful to look at but empty of anything she could use for defense.
There were no heavy decorative objects. No sculptures or vases. No art with glass. Not a goddamned thing. When she checked the kitchen drawers, she found only plastic sporks. There was a stack of frozen meals in the freezer. The refrigerator had a supply of bottled water and an empty box that once held canned beer. Fumbling for a bottle, Ireland drank greedily, crushing the flimsy plastic and spilling much of the chilled liquid down her chest.
Enough.
RUN!
She started toward the front door. It took her too long to turn the many deadbolts. A wailing siren pierced the air the moment she turned the knob and pulled. The shock of the alarm almost stopped her heart. Then it raced.
Revived by her surprise, Ireland bolted toward the elevator, running, stumbling down a well-appointed hallway with only three other doors, two of which were stairwells. She jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, desperately afraid that the other condo door would burst open and another fucking psycho would pursue her.
Soundproofed, the kidnapper had said. Or maybe they just had the whole floor.
The elevator doors opened, and she limped inside, using both painfully aching hands to push the button for the ground floor.When the door closed, the mirror-like metal panels revealed her reflection.
She was covered in blood, her dress and arms splattered with it, her eyes so dilated there was no hint of blue around the vast, empty black. She lurched back from the horrific sight, leaning heavily on the handrail that encircled the interior. The elevator hurtled downward with tremendous speed, the pressure in her ears reminding her of the pounding hammer of pain in her skull. In the tight confines, the metallic smell of blood made her stomach roil.
The car’s descent slowed, then came to a gliding stop. Ireland took a deep breath as the doors opened, terrified at what else she might have to contend with.
A man and woman with a leashed Yorkshire terrier started to enter, then stopped.
“I’m sor—” the woman began, then she gasped. “Oh my god!”
Relief made Ireland sway on her feet.
“Call 911,” she tried to say, but her voice was gone; only a growl came out. Afraid the car would climb again to that hell upstairs, she started wobbling out. Her knee collapsed, throwing her off balance.
The reflective walls of the car spun around her like a carnival ride, and she tumbled into unconsciousness.
As Ronan and Claudette waited for the elevator on the second floor of Vidal Records, he eyed her rapidly tapping foot. She scrolled through her phone with a scowl.
“You’re not mad about having dinner here, are you?” he asked, reaching over to playfully tug a long curl of her hair.
“Non,” she snapped, jerking away from his touch.
His brows shot up. His sister was always even-tempered. She stayed calm when things got heated or went awry. In fact, the only time she showed any outsized emotion about anything was when she was frustrated with him or Jules.
“It wasyoursuggestion,” he reminded her. “Actually, it was more like an insistence. And for what it’s worth, the band appreciated it as much as I. One or more of them may even have a crush on you.”
She’d called him at nine in the morning to see which meal of the day they’d be eating together. When he told her that he was tied up with Six-Ninths, she called again at one. When she heard that he was still busy with the band, she touched base again around five. Eventually, she offered to bring jambalaya fromValentin’s for everyone—keeping her promise to help him, even if it went against their years-long plan to shutter Vidal Records for good.
Shaking her head, Claudette thrust her phone back into her purse as the car arrived and the doors opened. She stalked in and pivoted angrily to face outward.
Then she huffed out her breath and seemed to release some of her tension. “Jules is finally on his way.”
So, her irritation was because of a brother after all. Ronan was relieved it was Jules and not him.
Standing beside her, he shrugged indifferently. Jules was Jules. Impulsive and hot-headed. But their brother showed up when needed. He wanted so badly to help Ronan in any way he could that he sometimes decided what he felt was best and acted accordingly. Which was why Jules had made wooing Ireland far more of atravailthan necessary.
“I think he was delayed by a woman,” Claudette muttered, crossing her arms.
