Page 23 of Traitor
It’d be easier if she was yelling at me. Instead, her voice gets weaker. I want her to fight with me, to show me the spunky woman I know is buried deep inside—behind the fear—so I stop at the base of the stairs and give her a little shake. “Stop it.” Her eyes widen at my barked order. “We don’t know anything yet, other than what you saw. Hadley is a good man, a good cop. It’s in his hands now. If there’s any evidence of what happened, he’ll find it.”
She nods and begins to nibble on her thumbnail. Catching herself fidgeting, she tucks her thumb into her palm. The nervous gesture shouldn’t be endearing, but it is. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Do you need help to your room?” I want her to say yes. I want to keep my hands on her, as messed up as that is. She may look like a spoiled brat, but there’s a strength to her I want to explore.
“No, I think I’ve got it. Thanks,” she pauses awkwardly, “for your help.”
“Did the doc come by and take a look at you?” Hadley requested the local physician come to the lodge and give Peyton a once over for her concussion.
“He did, he said I’m going to have a big goose egg, but that I’m okay to sleep.”
I want to brush back her hair, look for myself, but I don’t. After a moment’s hesitation, I say, “I’ll come and get you in the morning when Hadley gets here.”
She stops a couple steps up, rubs at her eyes and yawns. “You don’t have to do that.”
“He’ll want to speak to you again.”
“Right. Well, thanks, but I’ll meet you down here,” she says.
“What?” My voice is rougher than I intend. I study her protective stance, her averted eyes. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” When she doesn’t answer, I nod, my lips twisting into a sardonic grin. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Did I think we had some sort of moment of understanding this afternoon? I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
She tries to interject with what can only be an insincere apology, but I don’t want to hear it. I lift a hand, cutting her off. “Save it. We’re both tired. Get some sleep. Hadley will be here around seven.”
I’d been an idiot for thinking our conversation had made her more comfortable.
“I’m just worn out,” she offers, but I don’t miss the way her arms tighten around her waist, or how she glances upstairs toward the safety of her room.
Disgusted with myself that I’m disappointed, I shove my hands in my pockets. “Yeah,” I reply, because I have no other polite words.
After an awkward silence, Peyton disappears upstairs like I’m gonna throw her back in the lake, and I head back to my office, where I pour myself a generous shot of the whiskey I save for important occasions. Today hasn’t been worth a celebration, but tomorrow is gonna be a shitshow. I could use the artificial buzz and distraction. Dawn will only bring more police, possibly the press, and God only knows how the guests will react to the possibility of a murder.
I’ll have to ask Hadley how quiet we can keep this until it’s confirmed. If he’ll even speak to me without wondering whether or not I had anything to do with it.
Christ, how had everything gone so incredibly south?
So much for moving back to Windy Point for the peace and quiet.
I take my glass down the hall to my apartment. It’s not much, certainly not as nice as the lodge itself, but it’s an improvement over a cot in the desert. As I drink deeply, the whiskey settling into my stomach with a pleasant warmth, I study Mercy and Lexie. They must have fallen asleep trying to stay up to grill me about what had happened. They passed out in an incomprehensible tangle on the couch.
I’ll have to talk to Mercy tomorrow, explain the situation, and convince her to make other arrangements. They don’t need to be around when everything goes down. Even if Peyton was somehow mistaken, news like this is guaranteed to reach the desk of an enterprising journalist. Once they delve into my background, everything I’ve been trying to bury will be fodder for the small-town gossips all over again.
The last thing I need is for Mercy to get it into her head that her baby brother needs protecting. If anyone needs protecting, it’s Mercy and Lexie. Especially if Peytonwasright and there’s a murderer in my backyard. If my bullheaded sister won’t see reason, I’ll call Mom and Dad and have them talk some sense into her. The sooner they leave the better.
I leave the two of them on the couch, sleeping peacefully for now. The secondary office space I keep setup in my room is lit by the desk lamp I can never remember to turn off. I polish off the rest of the whiskey and wish I’d brought the bottle along with me. Sleep seems near impossible, but I know better than to get in the habit of self-medicating. I’ve seen too many good men go the route of drowning themselves in booze, and I’m in no hurry to join them. I place the empty glass on the desk, sit, and start going through the guest records and security footage from the past couple hours.
An hour later, I have no more information than when I started, though I do have a headache brewing behind my eyes. All of our guests are accounted for, so no identification of the potential victim. The outdoor footage caught Peyton near dusk going to the water, but she disappeared into the trees. The angles were all wrong to get a clear view of the lake, so no tag or distinguishing features from the boat.
Resigned, I lean back in the chair as I attach my findings in an email, then send it to Hadley.
With the tedious work completed, I can’t keep the thoughts of seeing Peyton facedown in the water from resurfacing. The whiskey does a wicked summersault in my stomach and I start to regret the indulgence. I scowl at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I wait for the shower to heat up.
I should have insisted she see a doctor, but I’d been so relieved she was conscious it didn’t occur to me, I’m glad Hadley thought of it. Then I remind myself how she’d looked at me before she went to bed. She didn’t want anything to do with me, that was certain. I can’t say I blame her, considering the circumstances, but that doesn’t explain why it pisses me the hell off. I should be glad she’s keeping her distance. Hell, I even know she should, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her.
It doesn’t matter.
Even if she wanted help from someone, she probably wouldn’t want it from me.