Free Escape Out of Darkness by Anne Stuart

up. “You may not care that a man is dead, but I do. He was my boss, my lover, and my friend. And I haven’t got enough of them to spare.”
    “Enough what? Lovers or friends?”
    She turned to him, ready to do battle, when she realized that he’d said it on purpose, to jolt her from her grief. His next words verified it.
    “Are you okay?” She looked at him, and his hazel eyes seemed more concerned with her than with their sudden, untenable situation.
    “I’m okay. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.” There wasblood on her hands, and she wiped them on the carpet before rising on surprisingly steady feet.
    “But the police …”
    “Will probably be here any moment. And I don’t think they’re going to want to hear what we have to tell them. I think we’ve been set up. What the hell are you doing down here anyway? I thought you were taking a nap.”
    “I answered the phone,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly. “It was Wallace, asking me to meet him here. What about you? I thought you were buying us some clothes.”
    “I got the clothes. I thought it might be worth checking in here in case Peter got here earlier. Apparently he did.” She was suddenly very still. “Do you hear sirens?”
    “I can’t tell in this building,” Mack said.
    “They’re probably already here,” she said bitterly. “I think—” Her voice stopped as the shrill telephone broke through. They both turned to stare at it with a kind of repulsive fascination.
    “Should I answer it?” Mack asked finally.
    “No.”
    “But what if it’s Van Zandt? What if it’s someone with the answers?”
    “We’ll find out our own answers. Come on, Pulaski. We’re out of here.” She turned back toward the door, unable to give Peter’s corpse even one last look. Three days ago he had been golden, handsome, and regretful in the New York airport. And now he was lying in a pool of his own blood, past regrets, and she didn’t even have the time to mourn for him. Her energies had to be spent on the living, on Pulaski and herself. Later, when some of this began to make sense, she’d grieve for him.
    “What about the gun?” He’d followed her example and tried to wipe some of the blood onto the carpet around his feet.
    “Bring it,” she said grimly. “It looks like we’re going to need it.”
    The corridor was still deserted when they stepped out into it, closing the door on the office and its grisly occupant. Maggiegave him a cursory glance. The blood could have been anything—it was drying to a rusty brown, and if they both looked a little the worse for wear someone would have to look twice to notice.
    “Where are we going?” Mack murmured as she started off.
    “Stairway. They’ll be watching the elevators.”
    “Who will be?”
    “Whoever killed Peter.”
    “I thought you weren’t sure whether I killed him or not?”
    “It was only a temporary thought. You didn’t kill him. If you had, you would have been long gone. And you’re right, you didn’t have any reason to kill him. At least none that I know of.”
    “So I’m not completely exonerated?”
    “I don’t trust anyone completely,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Come on.” She kept moving until she heard the ominous sound of the arriving elevator pinging in the distance. “Damn.” She grabbed his wrist, the bulky bags still under her arm. “Let’s move it.”
    She raced back down the hallway, with Mack keeping up with her. They rounded a corner, and she could hear the noise, the voices, the ominously official sound of what was very likely a large group of Houston police heading in their direction. They hadn’t seen them, but they were moving rapidly toward Peter’s office. By the time they reached it, Maggie and Mack would be in plain sight.
    “I hate to interfere,” he wheezed behind her, “but do you want to get caught?” He suddenly stopped, and she was jerked back against him.
    “Let go of me, you cretin,” she railed at him in a barely