Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [86]
I saw the opening for the trapdoor the moment I looked down. “Son of a bitch,” I whispered, suddenly absolutely certain that there was some kind of secret room down there. A place Simon and I had overlooked when we’d searched before.
The place where his ghost had been hiding.
The ballsy girl inside me was reaching for the handle two seconds before my brain screamed hold it. Though I’d been sitting here in silence for a very long time, that computer sound had to have come from below this door. And unless I was mistaken, a computer didn’t stay on and keep accepting incoming messages for very long without somebody using it.
Somebody’s down there.
I slowly backed away, bringing my fist to my mouth to keep myself from shouting. I didn’t want to scream in fear—what I really wanted to do was yell, “Come out here, you witch,” so I could confront the woman who’d been part of a plot to kill the man I loved.
But I’m not stupid. If it was, indeed, Louisa Harrington Mitchell hiding in that hole, she was most likely armed. I already knew she was dangerous—murderous, in fact.
So still walking backward, never taking my eyes off the trapdoor, I shuffled along the attic floor. Bumping into a piece of furniture, I winced and muttered a curse, then bit my lip, telling myself to stay quiet, not to alert the woman that I’d figured out she was there.
I almost made it. The stairs were a few feet away. But something—my tentative footsteps, perhaps—had given me away. Because, to my horror, I saw the trapdoor slowly begin to rise.
And I ran.
16
Simon
WHEN SIMON PULLED UP in front of Seaton House and saw Lottie running along the cliffs in the backyard, he nearly lost his mind. He’d never felt closer to insanity than he did right then—the sight was something that terrified him more than anything he’d ever experienced.
Nothing during the long drive up here had prepared him for it. He’d been driving quickly, wanting to get back to her, of course, but since the trip into town to see the lawyer hadn’t offered any information they hadn’t already figured out, he hadn’t been feeling particularly anxious.
Then he heard her scream and saw her running.
And saw the woman running behind her.
“Oh, God,” he snapped, immediately cutting the steering wheel to the right and driving his car up onto the grass, almost to the front steps. Out of view of the back lawn.
He hadn’t been able to make out what the blond woman had been holding in her hand. But if it was a gun, the very last thing he wanted to do was put Lottie in any more danger.
Not even yanking the keys out of the ignition, he leapt out of the car and charged around the side of the house, using the outbuildings and trees to hide his approach.
“Stop running,” the woman called. “I want to talk to you.”
Lottie, who had taken refuge behind the huge boulder they’d once ducked behind, said nothing. Smart girl.
Simon crouched behind a scraggly hedge, mostly devoid of leaves, watching as the blond woman approached the cliffs, looking one way, then the other, trying to figure out where Lottie had gone.
This had to be Louisa Mitchell, the woman his uncle’s attorney had confirmed had been harassing Roger Denton incessantly before his death. And now, as he darted from the hedge to the corner of the old storage shed, he saw something glittering in the woman’s hand and knew she was holding a gun.
She had to be desperate. She wasn’t even going to try to make this look like an accident. Though, Simon was sure, if she could get Lottie close enough to the cliffs, she’d probably try.
Going around to the other side of the small building, he made one more quick dash, until he again caught sight of Lottie. She’d shimmied up the side of the boulder and was trying to get on top of it. In about five seconds, the woman with the gun would round the corner and see her.
Simon wasn’t about to risk it. He was preparing to make an all-out run for it, to charge the woman, counting on having the element of surprise. But before