“That’s what Cheyenne was afraid of.”
He looked at her, measuring her differently now. “Why would she hide this?”
“She thought she was protecting her mother.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing his neck.
Erica’s voice dropped. “There’s more.”
His head lifted. “What?”
“There was a man. He mentioned a debt.”
Coop went still. “You saw him?”
“No. I heard him. He has an accent. And I smelled him.”
“You what?”
“He reeked of mint. And blood.” Her voice trembled, and a shudder ran through her. “So much of it, his hands drip with it.”
Coop dropped the bag and grabbed her waist as she swayed. “Are you okay?”
“No. I need air.” She brushed past him, staggering a bit. In the hall, she picked up speed and practically ran down the stairs.
Out on the porch, Erica gripped the railing, gulping air until her stomach settled.
Coop followed a moment later, the tote bag dangling from his gloved hand, closing the door firmly with the other.
“Well,” he said, “that solves one mystery.”
“Which one?”
“Where the money went.”
She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “I saw something else. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to not see it.”
He took a step closer, showing support without touching her.
“I saw Debra. She’d bled out in the living room. From a fatal slash to the throat…” She inhaled deeply before she continued. “And a missing finger.”
Coop muttered something low she couldn’t make out. Her reaction shook him because he’d put her in this position.
Concern came first. Then regret. Next calculation, his focus shifted as if something she’d said didn’t quite line up.
“How did you see her? I didn’t think you could feel Debra.”
“I can’t. And she wouldn’t have seen her own body stabbed and bleeding out.” Horrified, she spun to face him. “My God. Do you know what that means? Cheyenne saw her mother after it happened. She was in the house.”
Coop grimaced. “No one should have to see such ugliness, especially a fifteen-year-old girl. But it has to be why they took her. They couldn’t leave a witness.”
Anger cut through Erica’s shock. “It was brutal. And her finger… Who does that?”
“The Russian mob.”
She stared at him. “You know?”
He hesitated only a second. “Sending a message with a severed finger is exactly their style.”
