Free Unmasked by Ingrid Weaver Page B

noose.

CHAPTER FIVE
    J ACKSON PRESSED HIS head next to hers. His warmth steadied her, enveloping her in his strength. “Deep breaths, Charlie.” His lips brushed her ear. “You’re okay.”
    Charlotte breathed hard through her nose, shoving back the urge to scream. Somehow the beads were more frightening than the knife. To shape something harmless, something that should have been fun, into a threat was just…obscene.
    “Do you have your phone?” he asked.
    “In my pocket.”
    Still keeping his arm around her shoulders, Jackson patted the front of her suit jacket with his free hand. “I need you to call 911 for me.” He slipped the phone from her pocket and held it up. “I’m going to take a look at that attendant, okay?”
    She fumbled to take her phone, tearing her gaze away from her car to look at the kiosk. The young man on the stool inside still hadn’t stirred. “Go ahead. I—”
    “Charlotte? Jackson? Is everything all right?”
    At the call, Charlotte looked toward the street. Her mother’s car was idling at the entrance to the lot, the interior light on and the driver’s door ajar. Anne Marchand was rounding the hood, her expression troubled. As soon as she caught sight of Charlotte’s face, she broke into a jog and headed toward her daughter.
    Charlotte pulled away from Jackson, concern for her mother overriding everything else. “Mama, I’m fine! Don’t run! Please!”
    But as usual, Anne ignored Charlotte’s caution and covered the distance between them like a woman half her age. “I was just coming home and I saw you both here—” Her gaze went to the car. “Oh, no! What happened?”
    “Someone broke my windshield, that’s all.” She hooked her mother’s arm and tried to turn her away from the mess. “I’m calling the police,” she said, thumbing 911 into her phone with her free hand.
    Jackson paused only long enough to scrutinize Anne’s face, then squeezed her shoulder and backed away. “Her color’s good, Charlotte,” he said, “and she’s not out of breath. So don’t worry.”
    Anne whipped her gaze to Jackson. “Jackson Bailey, don’t you start treating me like an invalid, too. It’s bad enough that my daughter thinks I’m spun sugar.”
    He didn’t take time to reply, turning away from them and loping toward the kiosk. By the time he stepped inside, Charlotte had the emergency operator on the line. While she was giving the location of the parking lot, she watched Jackson try to rouse the attendant.
    “What happened to Desmond?” Anne asked.
    Charlotte could see the gleam of blood on the attendant’s forehead. She told the operator to send an ambulance as well as the police, then put away her phone and took her mother by the shoulders. “There’s nothing you can do, Mama,” she said. “It might be best if you go home.”
    “I’m fine, Charlotte. I wish you wouldn’t fuss so…” Annepressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening as she returned her gaze to the car. “Is that a knife?”
    “Mama—”
    “Mon Dieu!” She shrugged off Charlotte’s hold and leaned over to take a closer look at the interior. “And beads? Why in the world would anyone do that?”
    Charlotte tried not to moan in frustration. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her mother more worry. She strove for a calm tone. “You know how it is at Mardi Gras. Some people have too much to drink and do foolish things.”
    “But this is so…gruesome.”
    “The police will handle it, Mama.”
    As if on cue, the sound of a siren rose above the traces of music from the other side of the block. Charlotte could see Jackson pressing what looked like a handkerchief to Desmond’s forehead with his good hand, evidently doing what he could in spite of his handicap. With relief she noticed that the young man had regained consciousness and was moving on his own.
    “It’s horrible.” Anne crossed her arms and rubbed her hands briskly over her sleeves as if she felt a chill. “I know