He closed his notepad, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Thank you, Miss Hayward. If we have any more questions, can we find you here?”
“I might have to return to San Francisco for business. I’ll give you a number there if you need to contact me.” Mia gave him her personal cell phone number, hoping like hell he hadn’t been observant enough to notice the gleam of nervous sweat on her skin. The minute everyone left, she’d call for her private jet to pick her up in New Orleans. She didn’t care what time she got back to San Francisco. Only that it was tonight. She wanted this over once and for all.
For a few minutes she considered changing her name again. Disappearing somewhere else where—hopefully—no one would ever find her. But where would that be? And for how long? She was damned if she’d hide away for the rest of her life. She was sick of being scared, of not being able to trust anyone. She had people who depended on her. Someone was behind the takeover of her company. Someone was pulling the strings of the people sent to kill her. There was China to deal with, and a company she loved needed her back at the helm.
If another killer came for her, he could ring her damn doorbell in San Francisco. She was done hiding.
She’d take every precaution. But she wasn’t running away again.
She was going home.
She accompanied Officer Durant into the hallway just as Cruz and Detective Hammell came down the stairs.
Cruz hadn’t bothered with a shirt, but his hair was tied back. He looked quite civilized, if one didn’t look at his lying, killer black eyes. He was not in handcuffs, so he’d told his own damn version of the truth. She gave the back of his head a cold look as he walked outside with the officers.
The back door closed. Good. It locked automatically. Mia stood in the doorway to the kitchen and looked around. “What a damn mess.” Broken glass, crap scattered all over the floor. She stalked over to the narrow closet and pulled out a broom, then stood there looking sightlessly at cleaning products and a yellow bucket, her finger curled around the door.
Every bit of bravado seemed to leak out of her and her hand tightened around the edge of door when her knees felt too insubstantial to hold her. She just couldn’t make her feet move. Just stood there, staring straight ahead.
“Whose life is this?” Even her voice sounded different. She was different. The whole experience. Hit men. Cruz. People assaulting her in her own home. A woman she liked, battered and hospitalized while her little boy lived with strangers. “How would my life have been different if I hadn’t run in the first damn place?”
Why hadn’t Cruz killed her on one of his tries in San Francisco? Why hadn’t he killed her at any time in the past week? She wasn’t that damned good in bed.
Resting her forehead on the side of the door, Mia closed her eyes. Was Cruz in custody? Had they taken him away to charge him with attempted murder? She didn’t care. She hoped he was locked in a tiny, urine-stinking cell with the worst of the worst.
She straightened her spine. First things first.
Retrieving the burner phone from the jar, she jabbed out the home number of her assistant as she ran upstairs. “Steph, send the jet to pick me up in New Orleans. Yes. Now. Take this number in case you have any problems.” She had about four hours to pack up what she wanted from the house and get to the airport.
There wasn’t a damn thing she wanted from the house.
Tossing a few things into a carry-on bag, she took the small case downstairs. Actions taken, she felt marginally better and got out the broom. Attacking the glass on the floor, she righted furniture and picked up the papers scattered across the kitchen. There was a hole in the cabinet and wall where the bullet had struck.
“Let’s take a moment to take that in,” Mia muttered grimly. The impact to her skull would have— “Yeah, that.”
She presumed that the police had photographed the broken window and the shards of glass all over the floor and removed the slug from the wall. She’d observed the officers scouring the shrubbery outside the window with bright lights, looking for footprints and shell casings. Through the window she could see panning lights from the direction of the graveyard. So they were still over there.
She poured herself a tall water glass of wine and, after righting a bar stool, sat down facing the door with the glass, the bottle, and the small LadySmith revolver she’d had hidden in one of her suitcases. She raised the glass to her mouth and took a gulp just as Cruz walked in.
“This has been a hell of a day.” Son of a bitch was still shirtless. Not playing fair. But then, had he ever? She forced her gaze to stay on his face. “Why don’t you go up and take a hot shower and get some sleep? I’ll finish cleaning up here.”