Page 43 of Sunburned
“I’m coming,” she said. “Go. I just have to get something.”
I didn’t have it in me to argue. I was beginning to feel weak from smoke inhalation as I stuck my head out the window to see Tyson dragging Ian away from the trailer. The chair was on its side, but the drop wasn’t more than six feet. I swung my legs over the windowsill and tumbled to the mud. I felt the jolt all the way through my body when I struck the ground, falling to my knees. “Come on,” I called to Andie.
But the window remained empty. After a moment, I heard a loud bang from somewhere in the trailer, and the glass of the window cracked. “Andie!” I yelled, panic rising in me. “Get out of there!”
A backpack came crashing out the window, then Andie’s head appeared. Her shirt had fallen and her face appeared drained of blood, her eyes blinking slowly. Something was wrong. As her hand gripped the windowsill, I saw it was covered in blood. I grabbed the chair and pulled it over to the window, reaching up to her.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll catch you.”
She stepped through the window with the slow, unsteady movements of someone heavily intoxicated, and I caught a glimpse of dark crimson smeared across her torso as she plunged into my arms. I lost my balance on the flimsy chair, and we toppled to the ground. My body absorbed most of the shock as she fell on top of me, and I was grateful for the thick layer of mud.
Once I’d caught my breath, I scooted out from under her and she groaned, seemingly unable to sit up. “Are you hurt?” I asked, sitting up to look her over. “Oh shit,” I said when I saw the blood oozing from a long, jagged wound across her torso, just above her left hip. I pulled my shirt mask over my head and pressed it to the wound. She yelped in pain.
“The ambulance will be here soon,” I promised, praying that was true. “What happened?”
“The door exploded,” she said weakly. “A piece of it hit me.”
I heard sirens in the distance, and tears of relief sprang to my eyes. “It’s gonna be okay,” I said, holding the blood-soaked shirt to her wound. “They’re almost here. Just breathe.”
Tyson got to his feet, leaving Ian lying in the grass, and waved his arms overhead as he ran toward the flashing red and white lights, his shadows jumping and twisting in the glare of the flames.
Chapter 12
“Tyson,” I called as Laurent helped me down from the Sprinter van in front of Le Rêve, “I’d love to chat with you if you have a moment.”
Tyson paused his stride halfway across the parking court, his mouth in a hard line. I knew that this was not a good time. But what I’d learned thus far had only left me with more questions.
I squinted in the direct sunlight. “It won’t take long,” I promised.
He kicked off his shoes and pushed through the front door, leaving me fumbling with the straps of my stupid wedges. By the time I’d stepped out of them, he was gone. I scurried down the outdoor staircase to the lower floor, where I found the door to his lair ajar.
“Tyson?” I called out as I stepped inside, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark after the brightness of the day.
A crack of light shone along the edge of the partially open door to the patio, so I headed in that direction, my eyes once again adjusting to the change in light as I stepped into Tyson’s garden. The space was lush with a variety of leafy plants and succulents, the walls covered in creeping vines, green grass sprouting between the square pavers. A fanspun in the wooden slat ceiling, above two white couches that faced each other in front of a gurgling fountain.
He sat on the couch facing the view, so I took the one opposite. “Phone,” he said, holding out his hand.
I took out my phone and turned it off, then set it on the table between us.
“You seem awfully chummy with the butler,” he scoffed.
As anxious as Tyson made me, at least I didn’t have to keep up my veneer of congeniality around him. I hardened my gaze. “You told me to use him, so I am.”
“So? What have you found out?”
“Why didn’t you tell me Samira was implicated in her first husband’s death?” I asked.
He crossed his arms. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out.”
I swallowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my aggravation. “You had her reputation cleaned up online.”
He shrugged. “And?”
“Did she do it?” I asked.
“Are you asking me if my wife’s a murderer?”
“You’re the one that thinks she might be blackmailing you,” I pointed out.
