Roxanne St. Claire - Make Her Pay

She certainly did. “Have you…” The words wouldn’t come out. Did she want to know this?

“Have I what?” he prompted.

“Ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

Relief rolled through her.

He smiled. “So maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty.”

“And I appreciate the desire to… what was it? Get inside my head and figure me out.” He lifted one shoulder. “Now that you have, no doubt you’d like to get right back out again.”

Had she figured him out? She knew his past now, and it was ugly.

But the man in front of her was still made of something good. Wasn’t he?

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t like what you’ve done, But I like the potential for what you could be.”

He said nothing, but his face said it all. Gratitude. Surprise. Hope.

Outside the door, loud footsteps broke the moment, along with a hard rap on the door. “Miss Dare?”

“Gabby!” Lizzie rolled off the bed as Con let her in.

Gabby filled the little doorway, shouldering a large bag and greeting them with a concerned look. “I heard you didn’t find your sister.”

“Mrs. Bettencourt said she left on the ferry to Flores.”

Gabby glanced at Con, then back to Lizzie, frowning. “That’s not possible. I was on the ferry this afternoon and just came back. That ferry’s small, maybe twenty people.”

“She said she left this morning.”

Gabby shook her head. “The morning ferry was canceled because of high chop in the seas, or I would have been on that one. She was not on the ferry.”

“Could she have flown out?”

“No,” Con said. “I already checked that. We got the names of every person who left via the Corvo airport today, remember?”

“There’s no other way to leave the island, unless she had a private boat.” Gabby frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked. “What don’t you like?”

“That woman, Bettencourt, is certifiable. And I seem to be the only one who thinks Ana’s trip off the top of the windmill was not the suicide everyone’s claiming it was.”

“Think we can get that scooter again?” Con asked.

Gabby nodded. “No problem.”

“I’m going up to pay a visit to Mrs. Bettencourt.” He reached under the bed and got his Glock. “This time I’ll be the first to pull the gun out.”

“I’m going with you,” Lizzie announced. At his look, she held up her hand. “Don’t even think about it. She’s my sister, and I’m going.”

WHITE-HOT PAIN BURNED Brianna’s shoulder, a vicious, blinding hole of hurt that seared through from front to back.

Which meant she was still alive.

Digging deep, she attempted to open her eyes, fighting the darkness of unconsciousness, desperate to awaken. She blinked, but that didn’t clear her blurred vision. Shades of gray swam before her eyes, the smell of earth and sea and something metallic filling her nose.

Gunpowder.

The thought forced her head up, causing a suctioning sound as her face separated from a sticky, wet floor. Sticky with… blood. Her blood.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered. She’d been shot by that lunatic.

Where did she go? Was she standing over her right now, aiming that gun at her head, ready to push Brianna into that grinder thing that belonged in a horror movie? Why didn’t she say something?

Using every drop of strength she could muster, Brianna lifted her head higher, a wave of dizziness and nausea rolling over her as the sound of a gear a few feet away passed by then headed around the other side.

She managed to tilt her head back, her knees digging into the stone floor, one hand smashed against her wound. The bitch missed her heart, but left a hole in her shoulder. Was the bullet still in there?

She couldn’t tell. And she couldn’t see where that woman went. The door to the sweeps was closed, blocking out light. But she could see the ledge, only six inches away. And if she fell over it…

The nasty gear groaned as it rolled by again.

The teeth of the two gears meshed on each pass, crushing anything caught between them. Not the way she wanted to go.

Crazy Lady appeared to be gone. Brianna forced herself up on her knees, finally letting go of the wound, another whimper escaping her as she stared at the blood all over her hands.

But she was alive . And if she was alive, she could get the hell out of here before her killer returned. She didn’t dare call for help. Solange might have left her thinking she was dead. She might just be planning to let her rot up here.

No one ever comes up here.

But what about Gabby? Maybe she’d come back. Had she sent the e-mail to Lizzie, telling her all was fine?

Lizzie . A whole different kind of pain gripped her. This would be Lizzie’s worst nightmare: Brianna being impulsive and adventurous and getting herself killed.

Just like Dad.

No . She wasn’t going to die like this! The thought was all she needed to ignore the pain and push herself higher, her knees sliding on blood.

The wheel moved by again, like a beast reminding her that he was right there to bite her. Carefully, she pushed herself up higher. The knife of pain cut through her shoulder again, making lights burst behind her eyes.

With a grunt, she slowly pushed up, her legs wobbling, her one sneaker slipping on the blood, the toe right at the edge of the ledge. She flailed, fighting for balance, the movement firing pain in her arm.

That sent her right back to her knees, cracking them on the stone.

“Son of a bitch!” she hissed, tears soaking her face.

She’d never make it to the damn door and down all those stairs. Despair clutched her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to push it away. She couldn’t think never . She had to get out of this place.

Outside, the giant sweeps made a higher pitched whine that turned to a shriek when the wind gusted. Could she climb down the side of the windmill? The stones were irregular and jutted out here and there, and it wasn’t that high. Not more than a three-story building.

She had no choice. That way, there was less chance of running into Solange and her gun.

Once more, she dipped into the last bits of her strength to force herself up. This time she made it, straightening her legs and finally getting control. It was just pain, she told herself. Just pain, not death. She could do this. She took one step, then another, reaching the door. She closed her fingers over the handle, turning it, bracing for the wind. A strong gust would send her right back into the gears.

She managed to open it, the wind whipping her hair and face, an eerie coldness shooting through the hole in her upper chest. She leaned out to look down, the angle too awkward to really see how steep a drop it was.

The other door flew open, creating an instant wind tunnel, pushing her like an invisible force straight back to the ledge. She tried to grab the doorjamb but just missed getting a grip, the wind ramming her backward, folding her almost in half. Two steps, three… her sneakers were at the edge.

She threw herself flat on the ground to keep from falling back into the gears, just as another deafening crack echoed. She looked to the entry door, but it had slammed shut before anyone had entered, leaving her completely alone again.

For a second the wind died down, and the door to the sweeps started to close without the force of the breeze. Then it squalled again, more forceful than before, slapping the door wide open and gusting over her like a freight train.

Her whole body slid over the edge. With nothing but the blood-slickened stone floor to grab, she went sliding into the pit of the gears, her foot jamming into a wooden wheel as it turned.