Page 19 of Ricochet

Culling approached her from behind, and unless my eyes mistook it, she bristled at the touch of his hand to her shoulder. He offered a smile to the man who’d kissed her hand. A few seconds passed before Culling shuffled Aubree toward a second dark hallway on the other side of the elevators.

Curious, I followed at a distance and ducked out into the adjacent ladies room, keeping the door cracked.

Caught by the throat, she flinched as Culling slammed her up against the wall and leaned in toward her ear. I couldn’t tell what he said to her, but the pursing of her lips, almost to a snarl, told me it wasn’t a bunch of sweet nothings. He dragged his hand all over her face, smearing the lipstick across her lips, as if he was angry, and I had to believe it was the kiss to her hand that must’ve set him off. His hand slid up the long slit of her gown, between her thighs in jolting movements, and I heard him growl, “Mine.”

He motioned to her face, waved a dismissal, and walked away, leaving her as disheveled as he’d made her.

A sharp spasm struck my skull, and I screwed my eyes shut, mentally counting down the seconds it took to go away. Shifting my jaw back and forth worked out the lingering ache, until the blur to my vision shrank to clarity again.

I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes to show time, and fifteen since she’d chugged the champagne.

Michael returned to the other guests, while Aubree covered her face, ambling toward the ladies room.

The ladies room where I’d hidden.

Perfect. Almost too perfect.

Like a predator, I slid backward, closing myself inside the first of two stalls, and waited.

The restroom door flung open, and a distraught-looking Aubree, with her running mascara down wet, glistening cheeks, stormed toward the mirrors.

“Motherfucker,” she whispered, peeling off her gloves and tossing them onto the counter. She dampened a wad of paper towel under the faucet, and used it to wipe away the smear of red and the smudged mascara from her face before reapplying her lipstick. “Don’t let him see tears.” Her words came off like a mantra running through her head.

At a knock to the door, Aubree startled. My own attention darted to entrance, waiting for a complication to come walking in.

Instead, a woman’s voice called out from the other side.

“Mrs. Culling, your husband asked that I let you know, the president of the hospital is about to award the physician of the year. He’d like you at his side during the ceremony.”

Two minutes.

“Thank you! I’ll be right out.” She leaned toward the sink, her eyes seeming to meet those in her reflection. “Please, God. Let me succeed this time. You can do this, Aubree. Time to …” She stumbled back, catching herself on the edge of the sink. “Ditch this fucker.”

One minute.

With brisk steps, she tiptoed toward the restroom door, opened it a small crack, and peered through. The way she wound the chain of her purse in one hand, the bracing stance of her body, she looked as though preparing for a mad dash, like the chick was about to bolt. She scarcely had time to move, though, before she took her second stumble in a matter of seconds, and I pushed out to her and tucked my arms beneath Aubree’s, knocking her purse to her elbow.

A slight bit of tension stiffened her muscles when her head fell back, her eyes studying my face. Her brows drew together in a frown. “Who’re … what’re you …” Her drunken slur had the questions trailing off, until her movements softened and she stilled.

Hoisting her up into my arms, I stood at the door, ready. Waiting.

What sounded like an explosion rattled the walls, and suddenly the whole gathering seemed to gasp, before bodies broke into motion. Running. Screaming.

A perfect moment of chaos.

Now.

I slipped out of the bathroom, keeping to the wall, watching in awe as an SUV sat plowed through the art gallery with curls of smoke rising from the hood. Broken glass lay shattered all around it. The art that’d stood lined a moment ago lay in a heap of splintered canvases. The bronze artwork hanging above oscillated back and forth, until it broke free of the cable and fell, stabbing through the hood of the vehicle.

Another wave of gasps and screaming followed. Code triage was called over the PA system.

Kicking through the door to the staircase, I backed up with Aubree and hoisted her over my shoulder. As the door closed, I caught sight of Michael spinning round, mouth parted in what I imagined was confusion and distress as his wide eyes swung toward the restroom. His head whipped back and forth between the there and the crowd, before he finally lurched toward the last place his wife had been seen.

I’d remember that image, savor it in the dark moments alone when I could imagine the events that would surely follow—the panic, desolation, never knowing what happened or who’d taken her.

I moved quickly down the staircase. A loud crack jolted my muscles, and at the echo of voices and the clang of keys, I hugged the wall, keeping away from the banister.

Security rushed through the first floor door, as I cut through the basement door. I carried Aubree’s limp body until I reached the cage and slipped through, nabbing my duffle up from the floor. Fuck, between the two of them, my muscles burned. I tossed the bag inside the hole, dragged Aubree through the arc I’d cut in the door, and lifted her over my shoulder, before jogging through the long, dark tunnel, bag in hand.