The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) by Carrie Bedford Page B

glanced at the bedside table, then rummaged through the sheets. “Damn. I must have left it in the kitchen.”
    Although that meant passing the entry door, we had no choice. As we crept down the stairs, the noise from outside grew louder, but two locks and a chain secured the door, and the chair formed another obstacle that would hinder an intruder.
    Claire stopped on the bottom stair. “Could it be Ethan?”
    “Does he have a key?”
    She nodded.
    “But he’d have texted or called, wouldn’t he? Not just turned up here?”
    There was no window overlooking the front, no way to see who was out there, and I for one wasn’t opening that door, so we scurried into the kitchen, where Claire found her phone on the counter. Her fingers were trembling so violently that she had trouble entering the number. I took the phone from her and dialed, then handed it back to her. She gave the operator the address and told them it was urgent.
    “He said the police will come up the canal,” she said when she finished the call. “Let’s go down the back stairs to the dock and wait there.”
    “Ok, I’ll get the book and papers,” I said. “Get dressed and grab your things.”
    While Claire ran back upstairs, I went to the library to put the paperback, the envelope with the old documents, and Simon’s notebook in my bag. The key in its leather pouch was already in there. It was like carrying a ticking bomb around with me.
    We crept across the entry hall towards the rear exit where Claire turned the key in the lock. The click sounded thunderous in the small stone hallway, and was immediately echoed by louder metallic scraping at the front door. A narrow staircase led down to a locked door that opened to the small moss-slicked jetty. I’d thought the jetty was connected to a street, but it wasn’t. The only way off it was by water.
    It was very quiet. Although a glance at my watch showed it was nearly six, not long until dawn, night was still heavy around us, the darkness thick between the pools of light cast by wrought iron street lamps. The wooden rowboat bobbed up and down, secured to the dock by a crumbling, mildewed rope. I stared up the canal, waiting anxiously for the police to arrive.
    Suddenly we heard a thump and a clank of metal from inside the house. Claire grabbed at my arm. It seemed the intruder had succeeded in picking the locks and cutting the chain. I didn’t know how hard it would be to dislodge the chair, but I didn’t want to take the chance of someone appearing next to us on the dock.
    “Get in the boat,” I said. “We’ll row a little distance out and hope our rescuers turn up soon.”
    I clambered in and gathered the oars, fitting them into the rowlocks. I dipped them into water that looked black and greasy under the lamplights while Claire lifted the heavy rope from the post. She climbed in, rocking the small boat so much that I thought we’d turn over, but we stayed upright. A few clumsy pulls on the paddles soon had us out in the center of the canal. Within seconds, water was seeping in between the timbers in the bottom of our ark; the thing had probably been sitting there unused for years. Claire gripped the sides of the boat with both hands, watching the water bubble up between the boards.
    “Let’s head over there and wait.” She pointed to the narrow pavement that ran along the other side of the canal. I pulled on the oars to get us there.
    “Which way would the police launch come?” I asked.
    “No idea,” she said.
    Should we keep moving or stay where we were? My question was answered when a man appeared on the dock we’d just left. If he had a gun and meant us harm, we were completely exposed. We had to get away.
    I began rowing, propelling our leaky vessel under the arched bridge. A shout erupted in the darkness behind us, and I leaned into the oars, feeling the fragile craft surge forward. Now there were two figures pounding down the narrow street on the far side of the canal. The