CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Paige looked up Antoinette’s address with the DMV, then drove to her house as quickly as she dared, not wanting to waste a minute when there was a chance that she was being targeted by a killer.
While she did it, Paige considered whether to call Christopher for backup. After all, she could be heading into a potentially dangerous situation, and standard procedure said not to do that without the assistance of her partner.
Paige didn’t call, though, not yet. In spite of the worry that she felt for Antoinette Couchon, she didn’t have any real proof that the woman was in immediate danger. Besides, Christopher had already made it clear that he thought Mark Zint was the killer. Paige would need more than a few suspicions based on a facial mark to change his mind.
Besides, she didn’t want to have to rely on Christopher for everything. She couldn’t just assume that he would be there whenever she wanted. Paige had to deal with some things on her own. She wanted to show him that she could deal with them, too.
No, she would go to Antoinette’s house, find out more, and then call Christopher, if she needed to. This might all be nothing. She might get there and find Antoinette alive and well. She might get there and Antoinette might give her more proof about Stephen, but it might take an hour. Paige couldn’t imagine Christopher being patient through that when he had every reason to believe that he already had the killer in custody. He would see that as a waste of time he needed to crack Mark Zint.
No, it was better if Paige did this alone for now. She would find more evidence of what was going on, and only then contact Christopher.
Antoinette’s house turned out to be a large house in the suburbs of Las Vegas, looking pretty old by the standards of the city. It was big and well cared for, with roses in the front garden, and a climbing honeysuckle winding its way up a trellis on the front wall. It seemed quite a large place for someone living alone, as if she’d inherited it from someone else, or bought it in expectation of having a large family that never materialized. It stood amid a row of family homes, all with the seemingly obligatory minivan or SUV on the driveway.
Antoinette’s driveway was empty, and that simple fact made Paige worry a little. Still, she told herself that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe Antoinette’s car was in the shop, or maybe she had gone out for an hour or two with friends.
Paige slid her car into Antoinette’s driveway, and found herself readying her gun without thinking about it. She’d only been an agent for a few days now, but she found herself reacting the way she’d been trained, ready for danger.
Paige got out of the car and approached the door, ringing the bell. She stood there waiting, but also listening for any sound that might mean trouble inside, anything that might mean there was already a killer in there.
Paige couldn’t hear anything, the silence stretching the seconds around Paige until each one seemed like an eternity.
“Antoinette?” Paige called out, hoping for any kind of response. There was still nothing.
Paige moved around the house now, looking through the windows, checking for any sign that Antoinette might be inside. Even more importantly, she was checking for any sign that the former magician’s assistant might be in danger in there.
If it came to that, what would she do? Would she be able to kick in the door, burst in there, and take down the serial killer all alone?
Paige would do anything she had to do to keep this woman safe.
The first thing she needed to do was establish exactly where Antoinette was. Paige took out her phone. She had one advantage in this situation: she wasn’t a consultant anymore; she was an agent.
That meant that she had the power to ask for help without going through Christopher. Paige made a call to Quantico, rehearsing what she would say once she got an answer.
“FBI,” a voice on the other end of the line said.
“This is Agent Paige King. I’m calling for technical assistance with trying to trace someone. I need a phone number for a woman named Antoinette Couchon, of Las Vegas.”
“Give us a moment,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Yes, we have her. Sending the number to your phone now.”
Paige’s phone pinged with the number. “Um… thank you.”
She wasn’t used to things happening so fast for her. She was used to having to work for every scrap of information on a case, every hint of insight.
She called Antoinette’s number, hoping that she would simply answer, and that Paige would have a slightly embarrassing conversation with a woman who was out seeing a show or dating some guy somewhere in Vegas.
She picked up, briefly, but there wasn’t a voice on the other end of the line. No one answered. There was a protected silence instead, as if someone didn’t dare to speak, or as if they were simply listening.
“Antoinette? This is Agent King of the FBI.”
The line went suddenly, abruptly, dead, cut off so sharply that Paige was almost certain that it was in response to her announcing who she was.
Was that just because Antoinette hadn’t wanted to talk to the FBI, or was it because someone else had been there, listening in? Had the killer been there?
In that moment, Paige was terrified for Antoinette’s safety. Scared enough that she found herself going around to the rear door of the house, checking it. When it wouldn’t open, Paige braced herself, and then kicked the door as hard as she could.
She wasn’t a large woman, but Paige still had her full weight behind the kick, and it was enough that she heard the crack of the lock giving way. She had her gun out in an instant as she burst into the house, hoping that Antoinette was safe.