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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A spen’s head felt like it might split open as Brent yanked her from the floor and manhandled her out of the kitchen. He didn’t speak, not that she could have processed anything he had to say, not with the world spinning like it was. With his gloved hand, he held her arm in a tight grip and pushed her through the door and into the living room.

She hadn’t given a thought to Dean in the moments since Brent had hit her. Didn’t know what he’d hit her with, though it hadn’t been his fist. Something hard and cold. She remembered that much. She felt a trickle down the back of her head but couldn’t summon the strength to touch the spot. She could barely process putting one foot in front of the other. The gun pressed to her back kept her moving.

A knife, dripping with crimson, lay on her white sofa.

Her gaze flicked to Dean. His head had fallen forward. Blood seeped from a wound on his upper back.

She froze, gasped for breath as if someone had punched her. “You…you killed him.”

“He’s not dead yet, but he will be soon enough.” Brent pushed her forward and then yanked her to a stop. “Pick it up, Aspen.”

She didn’t know what he wanted her to do. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man she’d just spoken to. Dean had been coughing. She’d gone for water. How long had she been in the kitchen? Thirty seconds? A minute. How had this happened?

“Pick up the knife, Aspen.” His words were cold and calculating.

She understood, then.

Dean would be dead. Aspen would be framed for his murder. The police would find her fingerprints on the murder weapon.

The cold, hard butt of the gun pressed into her back. “Now, please.”

Please. As if it were a request.

It was a regular kitchen knife. A butcher knife like what her father would use to slice thin strips of filet for the steakhouse flatbread. She could picture him in his restaurant kitchen as he’d demonstrated the technique for a cook. He’d carefully arranged the pieces of meat on the crust, then added sliced cherry tomatoes and a spattering of bleu cheese. There’d been spinach, she thought. A balsamic glaze, both sweet and tangy.

She could picture Dad lifting his eyes to the cook’s but catching sight of her. He smiled, his love as evident and consistent as the waves crashing against the shore just outside the windows. It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s going to be all right.

She heard the words in her heart and wanted to believe them. But her father was gone.

She reached over the sofa.

“Use your right hand,” Brent said. “You’re not a leftie.”

She shifted, took the hilt of the knife in her right hand as if she might cut into a roast.

“Turn it around,” he said. “Like you’re about to stab someone. Hold it like you mean it.”

She did as he asked, her stomach turning at the warm, sticky blood that had dripped onto the handle and now clung to her palm.

Salcito had armed her. Could she shift, use it against him?

He pressed the gun into her back again. “Drop it now.”

She didn’t think he’d shoot her, not there. That would ruin his whole plan.

But she was weak, unsteady, her head pounding. Even if he didn’t shoot her, he could subdue her. Maybe she could mortally wound him. But she wasn’t willing to bet her life on it.

She dropped the knife back onto the sofa.

“Where are your keys?”

She patted her pockets. “Here.”

“Get them.”

She wiped her hand on her jeans to remove as much of the blood as she could, then pulled out the keys.

He snatched them and pushed her forward. Across the room, out the door, down the steps, and up the walkway. Dean’s truck was parked behind hers. But Salcito didn’t seem concerned about that. Her car beeped, and the trunk popped open.

He pushed her toward it. She knew what he planned. The thought of allowing herself to be confined in the small trunk of her compact rental had nausea churning her stomach. Though perhaps at least some of that came from the concussion that blurred everything except what was right in front of her eyes.

He yanked out her suitcase. “You can either climb in, or I’ll put you in. If we go with option two, it’s going to hurt.”

She had no doubt it would, and he was still armed.

With Garrett’s handgun.

She prayed that wouldn’t be the cause of her death. She didn’t want Garrett to have to live with that.

She climbed into the small space, pulling her feet in behind her.

She lay on the hard floor while Salcito studied the trunk door. He found a red handle—the thing used to open the trunk from within, she assumed. He stepped out of her line of sight for a moment, then came back with an open pocketknife. It only took a few seconds for him to sever the cable holding the handle in place. Then he slammed the lid, leaving her in total darkness.

The darkness felt good.

She hadn’t realized how much the light was making her head pound until it was snuffed out.

She heard Brent moving. Heard a car engine start, then rumble. He was moving Dean’s car, though not far by the sound of it. A moment later, her car door opened. She felt the car shift as Salcito climbed in. The engine roared to life.

And then, they were on the road, not driving down toward town but up toward…what? What was higher up on the mountain?

Garrett had told her once. Houses owned by tourists. Summer homes.

The homes that had been under construction the night her mother had gone missing.

Brent would kill her and dispose of her body probably somewhere it would never be found.

People would believe Aspen had committed murder and then vanished.

Just like her mother.