She was about to open the door and get out when he hung up and climbed in behind the wheel.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“He hasn’t regained consciousness yet, and the doctors induced a coma to deal with the swelling on the brain. It looks like it may be a while before we get any answers out of him.”
She sat back in her seat and buckled the belt. “But at least he’s still alive.”
“Detective Morrison is going to position some cops inside his room. They still don’t know if he’s a victim or if he received his wounds when Gretchen tried to fight him off.”
“He’s a victim,” she said, sure of herself and ignoring the hesitation in Ashton’s unconvinced gaze.
They drove back to her house and pulled up. He led her inside and locked the doors behind them.
He peeked out the window as she tossed her bag onto the living room table. “You worried we were followed?”
“We weren’t. Detective Morrison said he’d have a detail parked outside. I was just making sure he didn’t forget.”
“And did he forget?” she asked.
“No.” He dropped the curtain. “They’re parked outside.”
Night had fallen. Dusk had diminished long ago, as had their lunch.
“I know it’s kind of late, but what do you have here to cook?”
She grinned. “Oh, I don’t cook on Wednesdays. Tonight is pizza night.”
“You never cook on Wednesdays?”
“Nope. Well, not since my art kids told me that the pizza place started taking Wednesday proceeds and giving them to underprivileged school kids in our area.”
“I’m going to grab a quick shower and go change while you order. You still have a big heart,” Ashton said as he jogged up the stairs.
“I’ll remind you that you said that after I order pineapple on the pizza.”
He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”
She grinned. “Says you.”
She walked into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, digging out a bottle of wine she’d just opened last night.
“You’ve got your choice of red wine or soda,” she called out.
There was a thump from her room above.
She froze with the wine bottle in her hand.
“Ashton?” she called out.
No answer. Stella set the bottle down and grabbed a butcher knife from the block.
“Ashton?” she called out again as she stepped from the dining room out to the living room. She turned and glanced up at the top of the stairs, straining to hear.
Her heart raced as she eased up the stairs, keeping her back to the wall. She peeked around the corner to find Ashton lying half out of her bedroom in the hallway. His clothes and towel were scattered along the floor. He was knocked out cold.
She hurried down the steps the way she’d come and ran for the door, knife in hand. Tossing the locks, she bolted out the door and to the car across the street, where two men were sitting.
They climbed out as she approached.
