Hidden in the Blood: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 5)

Chapter Sixty-Three: Joanie, Saturday

The second one shook his head. "Unfortunately, when the police find the bullet casing, which we'd have to leave to give your story credibility, they'll know the marks on it won't match your service weapon even if we use the same type of gun. They'll know someone else was here and keep looking."

Shit, that was true. "Leave the gun, I'll say it's my home weapon."

The second one chuckled. "Clever, but I'm not leaving you a gun you can then turn on us."

"If you kill me, you're still going to have the same problem," she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. "They're going to look for you because of the gun."

They thought about it for a second. "Actually, they won't," the first said. "Not if we shoot you and then put the gun in his hand." He gestured to Brandon lying on the floor. "They'll think it was a suitor angry at being rebuffed. The flowers will tell the story."

Shit, shit, shit. That made a sick sense, because Brandon had been an angry suitor, except with a box cutter instead of a gun. How was she going to get out of this? "They won't buy it," she bluffed. "Do you remember which hand is his dominant hand? What about the angle of the gunshot wound and his positioning on the floor? They'll know if he was moved, and if you shoot me it won't look right for where he's lying."

The second one sighed, and she thought he was actually sad. "You're good, you know that? You think like a cop, for sure. We saw that press conference you gave, and we thought you were rather impressive; not in the way that sick fuck thought of you," he qualified, gesturing to Brandon, from whom he honestly thought he was different, "but in a worthy adversary way. I'll be sorry to have to kill you, but I think I'd rather take the risk of making this look wrong than leave you alive to tell the story."

She heard the click of the hammer being pulled back and closed her eyes. Oddly, her last thought was that she'd never see Joe again.

The sound of breaking glass sounded within the house, and the two assailants looked around. "What was that?" the first asked.

"Sounded like a window breaking," the second said, pointing to a door off the hallway. "Maybe that's a bedroom through there."

"You're not expecting anyone else, are you, Joanie?" the first asked.

"Honestly? The police," Joanie said. "I thought I'd at least be hearing sirens by now, after that gun shot."  

"I think we'll take you for a walk," the second said. "If anyone's in there and they try anything, you get a bullet in the head."

She released a slow breath as she was prodded forward. For another minute, at least, she got to live. One more minute to think of something, and if someone was in fact behind that door, maybe that person could help.

"Why don't I go in first and sweep the room?" the second said, and suddenly he was at the door with his own gun in his hand. Her odds of surviving had just plummeted. One gun was hard enough to avoid even with two people attempting to disarm someone. Two on two was nigh on impossible.

The second turned the knob slowly, then led in with his gun. The first followed, leading her inside.

There was the broken window, the slight breeze from outside blowing the curtains. Otherwise, the room was empty, but the glass from the window looked purposefully cleared in an area large enough for someone to climb through.  A bed stood in the centre, flanked by night tables, and chests of drawers stood against the other walls. This was where one of Patrick's kids slept when he had them over. No one was there, though. A rock lay on the floor near the window with the broken glass. Someone had thrown a rock through the window and, what, just left?