Mac took the bag of trash from Priscilla. “I’ll take care of the trash. I have to check in with the others anyway. Priscilla, trust me when I say that this will end soon.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Do you really think it’s Culvert?” Luc’s voice had an edge to it she hadn’t heard before. Maybe the nearly constant tension was getting to him as well.
“The marshals think so.” Her head ached. Priscilla wanted to sink down onto the bed and sleep for a week, but the kind of rest she needed would only happen once Culvert was caught.
Luc got to his feet, his eyes earnest as he took her hand. “Priscilla, you know something’s not right with this whole situation. You heard Mac—Culvert doesn’t have access to the contacts he once did. How is it that he always seems to be dogging our steps so closely?”
While she drew comfort from Luc’s presence in her life during this difficult time, she couldn’t completely dismiss that none of this had started happening until Luc appeared at the salon.
Luc relaxed his grip on her hands, maybe sensing it was too much. “I know you think I’m meddling where I don’t belong, but it’s too much of a coincidence to believe a man as well versed in assassinations as Culvert could miss that many times.”
“Mac explained that.” Her brain hurt. Too much had happened over the course of a few days for her to make sense of any of it. All she knew for certain was that her life was in danger. Culvert had to be the one behind it all because she’d barely had any acquaintances, let alone enemies, in the past seven years. “Physically, Culvert’s not one hundred percent right now—he’s still recovering from the operation. It’s possible his wound is infected, and he wouldn’t think clearly or be able to perform like he’s done in the past.”
“That still doesn’t mesh with all that we know of Culvert. Plus, what about that phone call from Culvert?”
“You heard Mac—he thought Culvert was simply trying to muddy the waters.” She withdrew her hands from his. “You don’t know Culvert at all.”
“You don’t either.” Luc persisted. “You’re making him out to be some kind of supervillain.”
Her ire rose to near boiling. She pointed a finger at him. “You didn’t see him kill three people as calm as a cucumber.” Her voice rose. “You haven’t been looking over your shoulder for the past seven years, wondering if the man with the dead eyes was going to ring your doorbell and shoot you in the head. You haven’t lived like I have!”
“No, I haven’t.” Luc crossed his arms. “But you’re not hearing me.”
Priscilla gritted her teeth as he plowed on.
“Culvert is a professional—these attempts on your life have not been as meticulously planned as missions he’s done his entire career.”
“You said that already.” She shook her head, irritation rising to clash with his obstinacy. “Since you’re going over old ground, let me remind you that all of this started when you showed up at the hair salon where I worked.”
“I explained that—it’s just a coincidence.”
“It’s that coincidence that passes muster, but not the other coincidences that have happened since then?” Anger tightened her shoulders as tension poured into her muscles. “That’s very convenient for you, isn’t it? How do I know that you aren’t behind the entire thing? I’ve managed to escape being hurt, a few times because of your supposed quick thinking. What if it wasn’t quick thinking but preplanned to make me trust you?”
“What are you saying, Priscilla?” His voice turned icy and caused her to shiver. “You think I’m behind the attacks? That I would sanction killing those marshals just to gain your trust?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know!” She threw up her hands. “The point is that I don’t know you.” Moving a tendril of hair from her face, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. “You show up out of the blue, saying you’re my long-lost husband of whom I have no memory and boom! Scary things, deadly things started happening.”