Focus, Nicole. You’re panicking again.
I had to stall. I had to stall until my eyes adjusted. Then she’d have one less advantage, and maybe I could still figure a way out of this.
She’d asked me a question. What had she asked me? Something about what I knew? “Know about what?”
Great. That sounded bright and not at all fake. But I needed to get her talking, and I wasn’t about to tell her what little I’d figured out about this case. Given I was here, she probably wouldn’t believe me if I did anyway. It must look like I knew a lot more than I did.
“I don’t want to hurt you, okay? I just need to know how much you’ve told him.”
Told Mark? Or did she mean Anderson? There couldn’t be another him who mattered in this case.
The knife stayed perfectly still on my neck, which was a bit odd. I’d have expected her to add to the threat by increasing the pressure.
My heartbeat slowed enough that I could hear other sounds. Like Isabel’s ragged breathing, almost like she was afraid.
It didn’t make sense for her to be afraid, though. I was a lot less threatening than the men she’d already faced and bested, and what I knew wouldn’t matter once she killed me. Maybe she was afraid that killing me wouldn’t be the end of it. That must be it. She wanted to know how much I’d told Anderson so she knew whether she could get away with killing only me or if she’d have to go after him next as well.
Unfortunately, the only good response was the truth. I’d brought this on myself by stupidly coming here alone. Anderson didn’t deserve to die because I’d let my desperation to save Mark cloud my normally sound judgment—though in my defense, I had expected her to be sleeping somewhere else. What kind of a crazy person slept in their vehicle during a record-cold Michigan winter anyway?
The fact that her housing choices entered my mind at all let me know I needed to pull my mind back on track again because it was trying hard to slide into the panic circle.
“I haven’t told him anything,” I said.
“I haven’t stayed alive this long by being stupid. He’d demand results, which means you’ve had to give him something.”
The knife blade broke contact with my skin and interior lights flared on. My eyes instinctively squinted at the change. The knife landed back on my neck.
My mind felt like it split, with half still focused on the blade at my throat and the other half working to make sense of Isabel’s words.
Anderson wasn’t my boss. He couldn’t demand results from me. In fact, in this case he was almost working for me, since Mark was my fiancé. Isabel might not realize all of that, though. I couldn’t remember exactly, but I didn’t think I’d explained my strange job situation to her. It’d make sense to assume that since I also worked at Sugarwood, I wasn’t a full partner in Anderson’s firm, but rather an employee who’d have to justify her time spent by producing results.
The only thing I could think to do was tell her that and pray she’d believe me. I didn’t even have a way to warn Anderson that danger was headed his way. “We’re partners. I don’t have to report to him.”
The corners of Isabel’s eyes tightened, and a tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. “He doesn’t have partners. He has people he can control.”
She rolled her lips together in a way that made me think she was trying not to cry.
“Please.” She pulled the knife back slightly. “Just tell me if he knows this name and about my truck, and I’ll let you go.”
Wait, what? This name, not her real name? She should expect Anderson would know the alias she was using. And Anderson wasn’t some sort of domineering man. Even my dad partnered with my mom, and my dad was his role model.
Something about this conversation wasn’t right. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing. Who are you talking about?”
The tip of the knife wobbled, as if she couldn’t decide whether to raise it back up to my neck or set it down permanently. “My husband.”
Her tone carried enough hesitation to let me know that she still wasn’t convinced whether I was playing her or not.
If Isabel took on an alias to hide from her husband, then she might be innocent of everything I’d been investigating. That meant the knife in her hand was more like a dog who was showing its teeth and growling out of fear.
I had to show her I wasn’t a threat. “As far as I know, I’ve never met your husband. He didn’t send me to find you.”
“Then why are you here?”
My face suddenly felt like I’d leaned too close to a fire. I was going to sound awfully stupid telling a woman trying to hide from her husband that I thought her guilty of murdering one police officer and kidnapping another.
All her actions made sense in light of a potentially abusive husband chasing her. The fake name. No permanent address. Even how she made sure to lock the door. It probably had nothing to do with the old lock and everything to do with her fear that he’d catch her and she wouldn’t see him coming.
But I had the feeling she’d know if I was lying to her about my real reason for coming. That would lead her to assume I was lying about not knowing her husband. I’d have to admit to the truth, embarrassing or not.
“Your behavior was suspicious, and I thought you might be involved with the case involving my fiancé.” I spit the words out quickly and quietly. “I was trying to find out your real name so that I could see if you were connected to any of the cases he’d worked.”
Isabel laid the knife down on the counter behind her, but she placed it well out of my reach, as if to say I’m willing to believe you, but I’m not willing to take any chances, just in case.
I could accept that. I would have done the same thing, and all I really cared about was that there wasn’t a knife pointed at me anymore.
She clutched the edge of the counter with one hand. “I wasn’t involved in killing anyone or kidnapping anyone.”
The way she said it and her specific choice of wording set off my the-witness-is-withholding-information warning signals again, but I was starting to think that was simply Isabel’s way. From what I knew of abusive relationships, the victim usually learned early on to hold in their thoughts and emotions, especially if any of them might set off their abuser. That tendency wasn’t something Isabel would be able to shut off around other people if it was a skill she’d worked hard on for years.
We continued to stare at each other. Any other time, staring into the eyes of another woman standing this close to me would have felt weird and intrusive. Right now, it was more like neither of us trusted the other quite enough to look away.
“How can I be sure you’re telling the truth?” she finally asked. “If I let you leave here, and you’re lying to me, he’ll know about my truck, and he’ll eventually find me. He’ll kill me when that happens.”
I heard what she didn’t say. That if I was lying to her, I’d be a party to murder. It was smart of her not to state it explicitly. Had I been lying, the implication would have had more impact than a blunt statement ever could have.
Thankfully, I was telling the truth.
Now I needed to convince her of it. Not only because I didn’t want her to be afraid and have to flee, but also because she was much too talented a baker to give up her truck. If her husband knew about her cupcake truck, she wouldn’t just need to change her name or change the name of her business. She’d have to abandon it entirely and start over in a new career, probably one completely outside of the food industry. She couldn’t risk leaving any trail for him to follow if she wanted to survive.
