Page 102 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
She turned to leave, to flee.
But Carl’s head was turned toward her, his dark eyes were open and staring, his finger, smeared with blood, had… had written something on the floor.
She crept closer. She read what he had written.
Then she heard a noise behind her, whipped around and threw a turning side kick at the man who loomed in the doorway.
The kick never landed.
Benedict Howard blocked her, grabbed her wrist, brought her close and said, “What are you doing here?” He looked beyond her. “And what have you done?”
***
“Come on.” Benedict unlocked the door to the carriage house. “Come in here.”
She shook her head. Her face was swollen, her eyes were red and she couldn’t breathe from crying so hard. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie.
Still she looked gorgeous to him. “You don’t want to go in the house, to your rooms. You don’t want anyone to see you now.”
His porch light illuminated her as she signed, “I can’t come in. I need locks on the door. My locks.” She looked toward her car. “I should leave, drive away, never come back.”
He couldn’t let her leave. “Will you be safe if you do that?”
She shook her head. Shook her head again.
“All right. We’ll go to your rooms. But there will be people around so don’t”—he pulled out his handkerchief and blotted her face—“don’t cry. Eyes straight ahead. Walk.” Putting his arm around her waist, he walked her through the back door.
In the kitchen, they saw Phoebe.
Benedict said hello.
Phoebe asked what was wrong.
He said Merida had fallen and cut herself.
Phoebe asked if there was anything she could do, asked if they needed a Band-Aid, advised them to go to the hospital and get stitches.
He thanked her. They walked on.
In the entry, they spotted the newlyweds heading up the stairs to their room.
Benedict gave them a hearty, encouraging, go-for-it wave and a smile.
Merida pulled up her hoodie and furtively searched her pocket.
She couldn’t have looked more guilty.
Benedict took her key and unlocked the door, then asked, “What’s the code?”
She didn’t hesitate; she told him and he took that as a sign of trust, the first he’d seen from her. After he had entered the code, she used her thumbprint to get them through the final security device.
He opened the door and held it for her.
She walked in and collapsed on the ottoman in front of the leather easy chair. “I didn’t do it,” she signed.
“I know.” When he had verified the identity of the corpse, everything had changed. They were in trouble.
“I found him… dead.” Her fingers trembled violently.
