The Evasion by Adrienne Giordano Page A

of the bag before peering inside.
    Jo huddled beside him. “What is it?”
    “Can’t see. There’s a load of tissue paper. Were you expecting something?”
    “No.”
    She reached for one of the handles and he stopped her. “Don’t touch it.” After snagging latex gloves from his go-bag, he inched the mouth of the bag open. “Son of a bitch.”
    “What is it?”
    He turned back. “Well, shucks, honey, it looks like a knockoff Barelli bag.”
    “Stop it.”
    Crowding even closer, she looked in the bag. “Is there a note?”
    “In addition to the knife rammed through the purse? Yes, there’s a note.”
    Sharp, spidery pricks traveled up her neck. “There’s a knife ?”
    How could this have happened? The only people who knew they were down here were the sheriff and the other task force members. Could they have a leak somewhere?
    Gabe held the bag wider, gestured with his chin for her to look. “Got tweezers? I’ll dig the note out.”
    “In my toiletry bag.”
    Tweezers retrieved, he lifted the note—a flat piece of stationary folded in half—out of the bag and nudged it open.
    The message couldn’t have been more simple. Welcome to South Carolina.
    —:—
    Gabe hauled ass down the creaky wooden steps leading to the lobby-slash-parlor below.
    Don’t yell, don’t yell, don’t yell. But— son of a bitch —this asshole Martinson was not going to terrorize Jo. And if someone’s ass needed to get kicked to make that happen, well, Gabe would get the job done. No question.
    “Don’t start yelling,” she called from somewhere behind him.
    At the landing, he strode to the giant reception desk and banged— ding, ding, ding— on the obnoxious bell.
    “Gabe, calm down. You going off won’t help us.”
    He held his hand up, shushing her, knowing goddamned well that she’d hate that and give him an earful, but he’d deal with it later. More pressing matters to handle now.
    Hello? Was no one going to answer this fucking bell?
    He smacked it again just as Jo came up beside him and set her hand over his. “Please calm down.”
    No. He would not calm down. Not when someone got into their room and left a taunting message. And the only person who supposedly knew their true identities was that backwoods sheriff. From this moment he’d been renamed Sheriff Dead Meat.
    Dead. Meat.
    Mrs. Jenkins, the hotel’s owner, entered the reception area from the door on the far corner. “Is there a problem?”
    “You bet there is,” Gabe said. “There’s a bag in our room. A gift bag. Who put it there?”
    The woman slid her eyes to Jo and back. “I did.”
    She did. Terrific. “And you got it where?”
    “Um…” She looked at Jo again. Came back to Gabe. “It was delivered earlier.”
    “By who?”
    “Whom.”
    What. The. Hell. Harsh, brutal pounding filled his head, the strain so intense his eyes might be bleeding. He turned to Jo with his— is-she-fucking-kidding-me ?—face. Jo grabbed his wrist and squeezed—code for don’t yell— and that small touch, the connection of warm skin, released some of the pressure.
    “Mrs. Jenkins,” she said her voice even and direct, “was it a messenger service that delivered it?”
    The woman glanced at him again, then shifted her body to Jo. “In a way.”
    Right there, Gabe thought his head would shoot straight off. Just bam! He clenched his muscles. Don’t yell, don’t yell, don’t yell . Jo squeezed his wrist again. He inhaled a massive breath, hoping the overdose of oxygen would settle his temper.
    “It was little Timmy Thompson,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Though, that boy isn’t so little anymore. No, sir, he’s a grown man now. Got a baby on the way too.”
    Gabe slapped his hand over his face and the sound cracked the air. Don’t strangle her .
    “Is there a problem?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.
    He dropped his hand. “Big problem. I need to talk to Little Timmy.”
    “It’s rather late now.”
    Nine o’clock?
    Done deal. Time to go to guns. He reached