Page 16 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

My cell rings, and I abandon the futile conversation with Samantha for another one I’m overdue to have. I pick it up, keeping my eyes on her as she sits in the same chair, curls into it like a cat, and switches the TV on again.

“You have an update for me?” I ask.

“How’s our patient?”

The voice is a low rumble, and I instantly snap to attention. Silas.

I glance at Samantha and back up into the small kitchen.

“Mouthy,” I say.

Silas chuckles.

“Mouthy is good. The more she talks, the more likely she is to tell you something useful.”

“Yeah. I don’t know.”

She’s too savvy for that.

“Have you searched her bag yet? Surveillance from the marina shows her on a cell phone. Delilah wants to check it out.”

My eyebrows hike.

“Should I ask how you managed to get ahold of that?”

“Probably not.”

I lean against the countertop, my eyes never leaving Samantha as she aimlessly channel surfs.

“I’ll do it after we get done talking.”

“Do it soon. When you find it, slip it out the bathroom window, and I’ll have someone pick it up. I don’t want her contacting anyone until we’ve placed tracking software on it. If she calls anyone, I want to know.”

“Got it. Who’s coming to pick it up? Same person who’ll relieve me?”

I hope. I don’t want to stay here with her a second longer than I have to.

He pauses before answering.

“Caleb’s still chasing leads at the marina, and Jake’s doing his thing with the criminal element. Reese is on standby, but I’m leaving him out of the action for now.”

That’s understandable. The guy should, by rights, be six feet under. Watching him fly a plane after being stabbed in the chest, with Verity in the copilot seat, was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I’m pretty sure the hand of God himself got us on the ground. There is no way Reese should have been able to. From what Verity says, he’s well aware of it too.

“Who, then?”

“Your closest neighbor is a contractor of mine. He’s here with his fiancée and her grandmother. He’ll pick the phone up, but you won’t meet him unless you run into something you can’t handle.”

A blip sounds in my ear.

“That’s his number.”

I hold the phone out from my ear and read the screen.

“Luke,” I say.

“You don’t want to engage him unless absolutely necessary. The man is a bullet magnet.”

He chuckles as though that’s amusing.

I glance at Samantha yawning in the chair. I need to find an opportunity to search her backpack. That’s the easy part. What’s the headscratcher is how Silas expects me to watch her and get any rest.

As though he’s a mind reader, his gravelly voice comes down the line.

“Just be mindful of how cunning she can be. She’s a master manipulator, and if she thinks there’s a way out of this, she’ll use every trick in her book.”

Does he really think I’m going to fall for the same act again?

I glance at the mismatched, unflattering clothing they’ve chosen for her.

“I’m aware of that. I have complete mission clarity.”

“Good to hear it. Unless I have something urgent, I’ll contact you again tomorrow morning.”

The idea of spending a night with her turns my insides to stone.

“I have to get back to the real world. I have a life.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but until we find the men shooting at you, you’re on guard duty. Food will be there in the morning, and you can order lunch and dinner using the credit card Caleb gave you.”

“Do I get exercise time?”

“Feel free to run in circles.”

“I already am.”

He ends the call with little more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

Samantha’s gaze slides to me, and she mutes the TV.

“Guess your stunt backfired on you, huh? Now we’re both in jail.”

I slide my phone back into my pocket.

“My stunt worked just fine. Guys you’d conned came forward.”

Her smile slips, and her mouth presses downward. “Who?”

“Some bartender you lied to about having a sick mother. You fleeced him for a couple hundred bucks. I can’t remember the other ones.”

I take no pleasure in her surprise. I’m being punished just the same as she is.

“He was a nice guy. Trying to help you out.”

When she doesn’t say anything and just stares at an Art Deco painting on the wall, I blow out a breath, staring at the leftover food, now cold on the table. I need to stay occupied until she goes to bed, so I skirt the coffee table and start clearing it up, putting lids on containers of food we can eat later.

I’ve already hidden the knives in the kitchen, but I should probably do a search for any other weapons just in case. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have done so before now.

I stack the plates one on top of another, carry them over to the sink, and scrape off the scraps.

“So domesticated,” she says.

I ignore her and carry on clearing the table, until I realize she could be helping out.

“Get the rest. We don’t have a dishwasher. I’ll wash; you dry.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, and she chokes out a laugh.

“You can play house all you want, but leave me out of it.”

I stalk across the room, pluck the remote out of her hand, switch it to a praise and worship channel, turn the volume up, and tuck the remote into my back pocket.

“Then you lose your TV privileges,” I say.

Turning on my heel, I return to the sink, fairly confident she’ll cave. I angle my body so I can watch her and fill the sink with hot soapy water. Next meal, I’ll ask Hightower for something that doesn’t require any cleanup.

I’m whistling along as familiar songs play over the TV, and Samantha groans and throws up her hands.

“Anything to make it stop,” she says.

Hiding a smile, I plunge my hands into the soapy water and scrub the plates until they shine. Beside me, Samantha grabs a dish towel and silently fumes as she picks up the items I’ve washed, dries them, and stacks them neatly.

The second the final dish is dried, she extends her hand.

“I’ve done my chores. Can I watch TV now?”

Smirking at her sarcasm, I yank the remote out of my pocket and slap it into her palm.

“Knock yourself out.”

She slinks away, grabs her water bottle, and sits back in her chair.

Well, this is going to be fun.

Since I’m on guard duty, I sit down, pull out my phone, and tap out a quick message to Brooke just in case she’s wondering where I am. Her reply comes in before too long, and she’s not impressed at my disappearing act.

Mom and Dad are worried. So am I.

Sorry. I’m safe. And you can quit hassling your contacts. We’ve found her.

You what? When? Is THAT why you’ve been so hard to get hold of?

I glance at Samantha, thinking as I tap out my reply.

I’ll explain when I can. But I’m going to be tied up for a few days… at least.

As Samantha yawns and turns the channel to a reality show, I grimace.

“No way. Find something else.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t say a word, just randomly presses buttons.

When The Beverly Hillbillies comes on, I hold up my hand.

“Leave it on this.”

Her eyes snap to the screen, disgust evident in her lack of inflection.

“It’s in black and white.”

“So? It’s a classic.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

“Didn’t you watch it as a kid?” I ask.

Her blank stare is as confounding as her shoulder shrug.

“You don’t know?”

Anger flickers across her face.

“I don’t remember.”

Huh? Who doesn’t remember what shows they watched as a kid?

Her eyes shift to the TV screen, and she tugs her cardigan tighter, like she’s trying to protect herself.

Knucklehead. She probably is trying to protect herself. If she suffered any abuse during her childhood, she’s not going to want to relive it. Mentally slapping myself, I sit back and watch as the opening credits close and Jed Clampett fills the screen.

At first, she doesn’t react. She just stares straight ahead, arms folded, every part of her broadcasting disinterest. But then I hear it—a soft, involuntary snort. I glance over just in time to catch the corners of her mouth twitch.

A few minutes later, she lets out a real laugh. Not that polished one she used to get what she wanted—this one’s different. Warm. Unfiltered. It rolls out of her without hesitation.

She leans back, watching the screen with a look I haven’t seen on her before. Unworried. Young. For a second, she’s not the woman running from danger or calculating her next move. She’s just... a girl enjoying something ridiculous on TV.

When a kiss scene goes off the rails, she turns slightly, catching me watching her. I start to look away but she doesn’t flinch, just holds my gaze with a flicker of something I can’t name.

The show ends and she sighs, curling deeper into the chair like maybe, just for tonight, she’s safe enough to stay.

“You want to watch another episode?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m tired. Do I have your permission to sleep? Or do you need to run it through a committee?”

This is the opportunity I need.

“You can sleep. Give me a minute to use the bathroom first.”

When she shrugs, I get to my feet and enter the bedroom, eyes on the pack pushed into a corner of the room. Grabbing it, I head into the bathroom, leaving the door open in case she decides to ignore my instruction.

As expected, everything is wet, so I carefully haul out clothing and dump it into the basin, mentally tallying everything as I go. Sneakers, underwear, T-shirt, sundress, hat, sunscreen, glasses… As I haul out a plastic-wrapped package the size of a brick, my stomach tightens.

There are only two things I’ve ever seen wrapped that way. Drugs and money.

I leave the package to one side and shake out the pack, opening every compartment until I hit the jackpot. A cell phone tumbles out onto the pile of clothing. I put everything back the way I found it, including the money, and tap out a text to Silas.

Located phone.

His reply is so quick it’s almost as if he pre-programmed it.

It’ll be returned in an hour.

An hour. What if she opens her pack and sees it’s missing?

I begin to ask him how it’ll be returned but pause to think it through. If she notices it’s missing, she’ll either assume I took it or that she lost it when she was in the water.

I zip the pack, crack the window, and drop the phone out with a breath that borders on prayer, hoping she hasn’t somehow picked the front lock. If Silas is good for his word—and I’ve no reason to doubt him—she wouldn’t make it to the end of the street before his guy spotted her. I slide the pack back in place and glance into the living area, relieved to find Samantha thumbing through a visitor’s brochure.

I glance at the layout of the bedroom. Nice going, Silas. A king-size bed.

Hopefully it’s two singles pushed together and I can separate them. I could take the sofa, but it’s too short, and it’s tough to keep an eye on someone if you’re not in the same room as them.

Frowning at my continued bad luck, I throw back the covers on the closest side and do a mental fist pump when I see it’s two singles. As quickly as I can, I strip the bed, leave her half the sheets and coverings, and toss the pillows on top. I grab the mattress, ready to drag it off, and nearly drop it again when I see the object tucked beneath it.

It’s a hasty hiding place, but it’s as good a place as any to hide a Ruger.

I freeze. Then I slide my gaze to the door.

This time I don’t hesitate to text. But it’s not Silas; it’s my sister.

What was the caliber of the weapon used on the guy in South Beach?

Unlike Silas’s, Brooke’s reply doesn’t come in immediately. Seconds pass into minutes until I have no choice but to remove the gun. I grab a hand towel, wrap it around the gun, and scan the room for a place to keep it hidden.

When I can’t find a suitable hiding place, I return to the bathroom, crank open the window again, and fire out a text to Silas.

She had a Ruger 22. It might be evidence, so it’ll need to be handled carefully.

Chores done, I use the bathroom, brush my teeth using one of the two guest sets, and stalk back to the living area.

“All yours.”

She yawns and unfurls herself from the chair, her legs dragging as she passes me by.

After a quick check that the windows and doors are secure and the only way out is via a key in my front pocket, I return to the bedroom. Rather than getting ready for bed, she’s standing stock still in the middle of the room, staring at the dismantled bed. I keep my expression stony as her eyes slowly shift to me.

Her mouth flops open. “Where…”

I can only guess she hasn’t checked under the mattress. Possibly because she’s hoping I didn’t find it.

I slide my hands into my jeans.

“Did I put the murder weapon?”

Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a breath, wincing as her lungs remind her they’re still recovering.

“I did not murder anyone.”

She chokes it out.

I shrug off her comment.

“Time to sleep. Do what you need to, but leave the bathroom light on.”

She hesitates, her chin lifting, her shoulders squaring as her eyes dart from the bathroom to me.

“I can’t sleep with the light on.”

As she hovers, I kick off my boots and take the bed farthest from the door.

“Try an eye mask. There’s probably one in the bathroom.”

I fold my hands behind my head as she scowls at me, backs up, switches off the lighting in the room, and pulls the bathroom door closed a fraction so less light spills into the room.

“It’s just?—”

I let out a growl.

“This isn’t up for negotiation.”

And it’s not. I’m not dumb enough to risk her sneaking around in the dark.

Her shoulders stiffen.

“Fine. I’ll take a shower?—”

I shake my head.

“You can wait until the nurse shows up tomorrow.”

A delicate shade of crimson colors her cheeks before she slams the bathroom door shut at precisely the moment I realize I never checked the bathroom for weapons.