She couldn’t return to that club. Couldn’t. Once away, she’d change her name. Cut her hair. Dye it. Speak with a foreign accent if she had to.
Her attention flashed to her open closet, the highest shelf. A wall of hatboxes—all purchased by a killer—barricaded her luggage. She groaned. Agile or not, she had to get her suitcase, stuff it full, and be on her way. As her brain caught up with her panic, she realized her getaway was impossible. The bus terminal didn’t open until morning.
She collapsed her arms to her sides and sank onto the bed.
She was trapped.
The trembling intensified. Her teeth chattered, making her jaw ache. She pulled a blanket around her, but it didn’t soothe the ferocious chill. No, it deepened, rooting in her bones.
What was that? Her head jerked.
Knock, knock, pound.
There it was again. Someone with a sledgehammer for a fist assaulted her door. Her gritty eyes burned as if she’d rubbed salt in them. Several long blinks swept in the tide of her vision. The light streaming through her window wasn’t bright, indicating another bleak morning.
She bolted up.
Morning!
She swallowed hard, a fiery sensation blazing her throat. When had she fallen asleep?
With a deep breath, she stood, teetering forward before stabilizing herself on the nightstand. She paused until the dizziness subsided. Wait. Who knocked? Carson? Last night’s events cut through her. She slid her eyes shut, the fogginess in her mind clearing. Couldn’t be Carson. His nightly sleeping powder held him in a trance until noon. So then … who was it?
Tiptoeing proved challenging, considering half her muscles were still asleep and the other half shook in trepidation.
She peeked through the skinny gap between the curtain’s edge and the window.
Her heart skittered into her stomach.
A cop!
A support beam for the patio roof obstructed the sight of his head, but his navy threads and the gun holstered on his hip exposed his identity.
She twisted, pressing her back against the wall, and pushed the palm of her hand on her forehead. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t talk to a cop. Not now. But then … who said she had to? Just keep silent. For all he knew, she wasn’t home.
Hunkering, she padded to the bedroom. Her foot landed on something—her shoe from last night. She toppled over it, sending the ridiculous thing back, thudding against the door. She gritted her teeth. So much for her not being home.
Knock, knock, pound.
“Yeah. Yeah. I hear ya. Give me a minute.” More like a lifetime. She moaned, picking up the shoe. Ruined. The silver satin had shriveled from the rainwater. She grabbed its mate and shoved them under the couch cushion. No one was going to know how those heels got damaged. No one.
Knock, knock, pound.
Her breath snagged in her chest as she unlocked the bolt and yanked the door open. Squeezing the knob, her knuckles drained white.
Her mystery hero.
The man who had shielded her from the tussle. The man who had mirrored a page out of Vanity Fair. The man who now stared at her as though she had three heads.
“Are you Vera Lynn Pembroke?”
She opened her mouth, but her voice wouldn’t budge. Clamping her lips shut, she gave a tight nod.
His uniform stretched across broad shoulders and an expansive chest. “I’m from the Allegheny Police. May I speak with you?”
Didn’t he recognize her from last night? Was he trying to trick her? His gold-toned badge read SERGEANT, but where exactly did his loyalty lie? Since he had been at the club, did that mean he was in cahoots with Carson? Her heart stalled and then took on a rapid pace.
But no one—not even her murderous boyfriend—knew she’d returned to the speakeasy last evening. At least, that was what she hoped. She pushed back all emotion and smoothed her hair with a trembling hand. Above all else, she had to appear collected. “I’m … uh … not dressed. It’s pretty early.”
If he was aware of her shaking, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show anything except a straight face and stern eyes. “It’s nearly two o’clock, ma’am.”
She’d missed the bus. Lost her chance of escape. Her gut churned as her mind scrambled to her next move. What about Union Station? Hadn’t she heard they ran several departures a day? A perfect Plan B, except for the pricey train fare. She fought against a groan.
“Can I come in?”
Did she have a choice? She opened the door wider.
He shuffled his feet on the door mat and removed his hat, revealing wavy, dark-blond hair she’d swoon over if he were anybody but a cop. The fixed slope of his nose, the slight dip under his lip, the sharp turn of his jaw all a gorgeous combination. But again, the badge spoiled it.
Mouth pressed into a tight line, he glanced around the room. One brow arched.
Was he surprised to find the inside of her apartment wasn’t as dilapidated as the outside? Or was his sharp stare inspecting something other than the condition of her tufted chair?
His gaze landed on her, and her tongue cemented to the roof of her mouth. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Seems like you had a rough night last night.”
“Yeah.” Was that all she could say? A single look at the sergeant’s chiseled face and her vocabulary diminished to one word.
He raised his chin, exposing his thick, corded neck. “I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but someone you’re acquainted with had it rougher. Have you heard?”
No, no, no. She folded her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. “Heard what?” She averted her gaze from his stare, looking at her feet, digging her big toe in the carpet.
“Arthur Cavenhalt is dead.”
Dead. The word sliced her soul like a dagger, ripping her courage to shreds. Tiny bumps developed from her neck to her ankles. Couldn’t mistake it for a nightmare. The truth numbed her. Artie was dead by the same hands that had held her.
“An employee found him this morning at the Carson Kelly Enterprise building. Shot.”
“Shot?” The backs of her eyes stung, tears threatening. The blast of the gun echoed in the hollow of her gut. Flickers from years back ignited in her mind—the first time she’d heard gunfire, running from her home, stowing away on a westbound train toward Pittsburgh. What irony—one shooting had brought her here, and another was forcing her away. How much trauma could her heart take before it imploded?
He cleared his throat. “Looked to be a suicide.”
His words bit into her thoughts with an abrupt sting, turning her breath shallow. How could they think it was a … “Suicide?”
His lips pressed together in a slight grimace, brows pulling in. “Yes.”
Carson must’ve staged it. A lump hardened in the back of her throat. The only other person who knew the truth besides Carson … was her. A mental tennis match volleyed uncontrollably. Tell the cop. Don’t tell the cop. Tell the cop.
“Does that surprise you?”
“It’s … not …” Don’t tell the cop. “I’m shocked.”
His rigid gaze locked on hers. “I need you to come with me to headquarters, Miss Pembroke.”
A gasp catapulted up her throat, and she swallowed it back. “What?”
“To headquarters,” he repeated in the same low tone. “I need you to come with me.”