Sweet Jesus! I think, jerking away from her and nearly falling backward. That's when I see the spread of what looks like black ink on the carpet behind her head. Only I know it isn't ink.
Shaken, I pivot toward the second body, the one lying face down on the carpet. I swallow hard. I know before I touch her that this one has to be Sophie.
Sophie.
Despite all that she's done, despite all the turmoil she's brought into my life, she's still Sophie. Sophie, my highschool girlfriend. Sophie, the girl I practically grew up with. Sophie, the girl I used to love in a very teenage way. And seeing her lying on the floor, so still and lifeless, stops me in my tracks.
"Sophie?"
Her name falls from my lips right to the floor, where it hovers over her like a blanket of mortality, smothering her response.
Much like I did with the first woman, I reach forward to push her hair away from her face. That's when I see the needle protruding from her neck. The plunger is depressed and the only thing in the barrel now is a tiny bit of pink liquid where blood rushed back into the syringe. She must've hit a vein.
I stand just as slowly as I sank, glancing from Sophie's body to the other woman's and back again. I take in their positions-the way that Pseudo-Sophie is face up, yet the real Sophie is face down, the fact that the real Sophie's legs are crossing the other woman's, proof that the real Sophie fell last. That's when I notice the paperweight. It used to sit on my nightstand. Big, lead crystal and pointy on one end, it was a gift from one of my law professors during my college days. It's never looked more deadly than it does right now, resting just a few feet from Pseudo-Sophie's head and stained with what I can only guess is her blood. Altogether, the vignette paints a very clear picture. Pseudo-Sophie stabbed the real Sophie in the neck with something, but before she went down, the real Sophie managed to grab the paperweight and hit Pseudo-Sophie in the head with it. Obviously a killing blow.
And now there are two dead women in my apartment. In my club. And there's a little girl somewhere.
Isabella.
Shit hell!
I swing around, my heart suddenly thudding much harder than it should, and I scan the room for evidence of Sophie's daughter. There are only two places she could be, unless she fled. In the closet or under the bed.
As I drop onto one knee, I pray as I raise the bedskirt that Isabella isn't under the bed. Staring out at the cat fight of all cat fights. And her now-dead mother.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I see nothing but carpet leading all the way to the wall and to the other side of the bed. That's when I hear it-a soft whining sound. Coming from the closet.
Without a second's hesitation, I stand up, walk straight to the door, wrench it open and pull Isabella into my arms. I bury her head against my chest, curling my body around hers so that she can't see what I'm carrying her past.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Olivia
The minutes tick by like tiny lifetimes. The more of them that pass and I don't see Isabella come out the door, the more anxious I become.
Cash said he'd send her right out, but what if something has happened and he can't? Or what if there's a problem of some sort? And here I sit with my thumb up my ass. That's not very smart or assertive, is it?
Nope, I don't think so.
It only takes about three of those types of self-contained conversations to convince me to leave the car and head back inside. I open the door as slowly and quietly as I can, just in case anyone is near. The coast seems clear, so I step inside and let the door fall quietly closed. The club is eerily silent for a few seconds, but then I hear a strangled moan coming from the bathroom. A cold chill runs through me. It was a manly moan. One that could easily have come from Cash.
My heart thuds loudly in my ears as I debate for all of three seconds what to do. And then I'm running, as fast as I can, across the bar and to the bathrooms. I stop between the ladies and the men's room, pausing for three pulse beats as I wait for another sound to tell me which side the noise is coming from.
And then I hear another low moan. I push open the door to the men's room and pull up on a gasp when I see the back of Jason King as he bends over someone in the floor. I see the muscles flex and I see black-booted feet jerk before a garbled gurgle fills the room. Jason speaks softly to the person, the person I assume is the man he was apprehending when we walked in a few minutes ago. I can't make out his words, as he leans in close to say them. The message is clear, however. There is so much menace in his voice that it sends a chill through the room, cold enough to freeze me where I stand.