Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [88]
Time was up. Simon knew it by the way the woman shifted on her feet and the muscles of her back tightened. She was going to shoot.
He didn’t hesitate. Catching Lottie’s eye, he pointed to the rock, then held his hand in the air, three fingers up. He counted down…one step closer. Two. And on three, Lottie did as he’d silently ordered, diving behind the boulder, as Simon charged the woman with the gun.
He didn’t think, didn’t allow himself to remember what had happened in Charleston, when he’d lunged at a woman and she’d fallen to her death. He didn’t question for more than a second that living with the guilt would be worth it to save the woman he loved.
He simply hit the woman around the waist, tackling her to the lawn as she tried to lunge at Lottie. The two of them rolled across the ground, perilously close to the edge of the cliff, the gun flying out of her hand.
She fought. Scratched and kicked, and tried to roll away from him. When Simon saw her body hit the top of the ledge and begin to slide over it, he went from trying to subdue her to trying to catch her.
“Simon!” Lottie called from behind him, obviously realizing, just as he had, that the woman was about to fall.
No. That wasn’t going to happen. Now that Lottie was safe, he wasn’t going to let this woman die, either, no matter what she’d done. So reaching out, he grabbed her wrist, holding tight as the loose soil, soft after the rain, gave way beneath her and she slid.
Her mouth fell open and terror twisted her features as she realized what was happening. Now, rather than trying to rip herself away from him, she was grabbing Simon’s shirt, tearing it as she tried to get a grip.
“I’m not going to let you go,” he said, realizing she thought he would let her fall to her death.
Maybe because that’s what she would have done.
But he wasn’t like her. In spite of what had happened that awful night in Charleston, Simon was no killer.
“I’ve got you,” he added, pulling her, dragging her to solid ground, where she lay panting. Lottie was right there to help him, and when he looked up at her and saw the gun in her hand—which was pointed at Louisa Mitchell—he broke into a wide smile. “I like a woman who thinks on her feet.”
She smiled back, but couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes. And as he slowly rose to his feet, those tears erupted down her cheeks. Handing him the gun, she melted into his arms and sobbed against his neck until she just couldn’t cry anymore.
THE TROUBLE police department might be small, but the chief seemed like a competent guy. He and two of his officers had arrived within twenty minutes of Lottie’s call, and they’d spent those twenty minutes watching their ghost closely. Simon never took the gun off her.
There had been a lot of questions, but once the woman was in custody, Lottie had led Simon and the chief up to the attic, and had showed them the secret room. It was, as she’d suspected, where the woman had been hiding out.
The room was equipped with a bed, so she’d even slept here, tucked away in a secret corner, spinning her ugly webs. A laptop computer contained files full of pictures of the crime scene—the ones she’d tormented Simon with. There was a spare skeleton key to all the rooms in the house, which Simon assumed she’d stolen on one of her previous visits, as well as a paint-splattered white blouse, the perfume—everything.
As the police had placed her under arrest, the woman had begun to talk. She’d spat out plenty of choice words toward him, for the death of her sister. But she’d also had a lot to say, confessing to everything despite being told she could wait for an attorney.
Including the murder of Roger Denton.
Somehow, when the police were taking her away, Simon was unable to remain silent about one thing. Following them to the car, he asked the chief for a