“I’m not.” He knew Mark let a few choice friends hang out at the house without accompanying them. Nanette was one. “Isn’t that Emma’s car?” He pointed toward the vehicle. “She let you drive it?”
She titled her head slightly to the side, causing her long ponytail to drift over her shoulder. The ends curled around the tip of her breast. Her eyes narrowed into playful, scrutinizing slits. “Oh. That’s what shocks you.”
“With your driving skills, it does.” Nan had a fender bender with Mark’s car a few weeks earlier. Nothing serious. Nan hadn’t wanted her parents to know about the accident, so she came up with the money and paid off the guy whose rear taillight she’d taken out. He suspected Mark helped her out with the funds. The question of where he’d gotten the cash remained.
“O…K,” Nan said, drawing the word out like there was a question hidden between the letters. She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Do you want to come in? I’m getting a little chilly.”
The gooseflesh covering her arms and the pucker of her nipples against the stretchy top supported that truth. She uncrossed her bare feet and tiptoed backwards on the entry’s tile floor, pulling the door open for him to follow.
He stepped inside. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Yoga. You?”
Cocking a brow, he faced her. “You came out here to do yoga?” The wet curls that clung to her face and her skin’s sheen were an indication she’d been doing some type of physical activity for a considerable length of time.
She closed the door. “Actually, I came here to straighten up. Emma and I spent yesterday afternoon and last night here. She was upset after the cops finished drilling her. People are idiots. They hounded me with questions, thinking I had a clue as to what had happened.” Nanette’s eyes popped wide and she moaned an apology and cursed in French. “You heard about Denise, right? You know Emma found her.”
At the mention of Denise’s name Bart’s intestines twisted with guilt because over the past few hours he’d forgotten all about her. He’d been so angry and so focused on his own troubles. “Yeah. I heard, but I didn’t know Emma found her.”
Nanette gave him the Cliff Notes version of events and when she finished, he asked, “How is Emma?”
“Sick with the memory, but you know Emma. She’s a trooper. One step in front of the other.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry about Denise. I know you liked her a lot.”
Feeling emotion thickening in his throat, he simply nodded.
Nanette closed the door and then headed into the great room. “I hope the police catch whoever killed her, and quickly,” she said over her shoulder. “Just thinking there might be a murderer stalking the campus gives me the shivers.” She rubbed her arms and then grabbed a bulky sweater from the back of the sofa. She slipped it over her head and the oversized pullover draped her trim body to mid-thigh.
“Why do you think Denise was murdered? I heard she committed suicide.”
Nanette released her long hair from the band holding it in a ponytail. The soft waves fell over her shoulders. “You knew her. Do you think she would’ve committed suicide?”
The memory of Denise’s giggle filled his ears.
“No. Not, Denise. She was the happiest person I’ve ever met.” Thinking someone had hurt Denise made Bart grind his molars. He didn’t want to imagine the last few seconds of her life but it was hard not to wonder. Had she thought about her family and friends? Surely she had regrets. Things she had left undone, unsaid. He didn’t want to have regrets when his time came to leave this world and that’s why he needed to commit to his own drummer and not follow the path his parents seemed to think he should take. He wanted a career in research. He didn’t want to take on the corporate role of the family business.
“Are you OK?” Nan’s question pulled him from the evaluation of his life.
The slight tilt of her head and the flicker of curiosity in her narrowed eyes made him wonder if he had verbalized any part of his fears. “Yeah. Why?”
She laughed. “I asked you again what you’re doing here?”
Her question brought his worst accomplishment to date, to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t tell her he needed to check the greenhouse and make sure his secret was forever buried. He walked to the other side of the room, giving himself a moment to come up with an acceptable reason for visiting the lake house. His mind whirled. The action provided him with the perfect excuse. “Mark’s having a party here Saturday night. You know that, right?”
“Duh. Mark always invites me. He counts on me to provide half of the munchies.” Nan tiptoed across the area carpet like she was a dancer about to leap into a routine.
That was true enough. “Well then, you know Mark always waits until the last minute to get things together. I dropped a date off near here, at her parents’ house,” he lied, “and I thought I’d swing by and see how well the bar is stocked, so if need be, we could hit the state store during the week instead of standing in line on Saturday night.”
“Good idea.”
He paused at the bar’s edge and picked up Nan’s baby. “I see you brought your camera with you.”
“I never go anywhere without it. You never know when an interesting shot will pop up.”
“Have you found any?”
Nan held out her hands, wiggling her fingers, and took the camera from him. “Not yet.” She reached up and mussed his hair and then pointed the lens at him, focusing for a shot. “You have an interesting face. Very photogenic. Did you know that?”
The camera clicked several times and Bart felt heat prickle the skin around his collar. He didn’t like having his picture taken. Never had. Unlike the rest of his immediate family.
“Give me a come-hither look,” she ordered.
“I don’t think so.” Ignoring her as she snapped another shot, he walked behind the bar and pretended to take inventory, pulling bottle after bottle from the shelf below. “So where is Emma tonight?”
“You like Emma a lot, don’t you?”
“It shows, huh?”
“Not really. Most people think you’re a rich playboy with no plans for the future, but me, I see someone who has his whole future planned out. And I think Emma is part of the plan.”
“You’re a very smart woman, Nanette.”
“I know. So why don’t you tell her how you feel?”
“I’ve asked her out a couple of times, but she turned me down.”
“It’s not just you, you know. I don’t mean she has a zillion men after her, but a few have been interested. She says she doesn’t have time. She’s all about her work.”
“That’s what she keeps telling me. She doesn’t have time. Her academic drive is one of the things I love about her.”
“Well, don’t you give up. I’m working on her.”
He nodded.
She leaned over the counter, watching him replace a bottle of scotch. “Do you want me to check the wine in the cellar for you?”
He shut out images of Emma from his mind and focused on actually checking the bottles of booze. “Sure.”
Nanette smiled and pushed away from the bar. He couldn’t help himself. He watched the swing of her hips as she padded toward the hallway where the stairs to the lower floor of the home were. The relief he felt that she’d bought his excuse for dropping by ended a second later when he recalled where he’d parked his car. How could he explain why he’d parked on the old logging road parallel to the property?
He couldn’t.
He had to leave before Nan, or she’d see he hadn’t parked in front or to the side of the house.
Hearing her footsteps grow louder as she climbed the stairway, he pulled his cell from his pocket and double-timed it across the great room. He pretended to talk to someone as he came face to face with Nan at the landing.
“The shelves are full,” she said, and noticing the phone, abruptly sealed her lips tight.
“Good,” he whispered, holding his index finger up. “I’ll be right
there.” He hit the side button, pretending to shut down his call.
“I’m sorry,” Nan said. “I didn’t realize you were on the phone.”
“No problem. I’ve got to run. Are you finished here? Do you want me to wait for you? I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“No. I want to empty the dishwasher, and I stripped the beds. The sheets are in the dryer now. I’ll make up the beds again before I go. I’m fine. Go.”
“Are you sure? I could help you.”
Her brow peaked and her brown eyes twinkled with humor. “Wow! A Logan who does domestic chores. What a find.” She pushed on his arm and then backed away. “Go.”
Bart only hesitated for a second before he headed to the door. “Look if you need me to turn around, call. Please.”
She laid her hand over her heart. “And such a gentleman too. My grandpapa would’ve loved you. I’ll be fine. I’ll only be here another half hour or so.”
Bart blew out a sigh as he closed the door behind him. Nan upped the volume on the violin composition.
His secret was buried.
Chapter Five
Normally, Emma relished a leisurely stroll on a cool, fall day. She loved autumn, but not today. Today her mind was on overload. Her heart grew heavier with each step she took toward the bridge. Her attention was drawn to the aqua blue sky where a hawk swooped and swirled on the air currents. Or was it a buzzard? Its dark wing feathers were jagged.
A buzzard.
She held her books tighter against the ache in her belly, knowing the bird searched for prey, or something already dead.
Since she’d found Denise’s body on Sunday, everything reminded her of death. Even the oatmeal she’d eaten for breakfast had once been a living organism which had been reaped. Its demise had served a purpose, however. Denise’s death was senseless.
She’d heard the rumors. No way would Denise commit suicide. She had her whole life ahead of her. Someone had to have harmed her. Why?
Leaves rustled above Emma’s head and one by one, the foliage lost its hold, snapped from the branches and fell to the ground in an array of shimmering color. Someone close by took advantage of the bright sunny day and grilled burgers. Her mouth watered in response to the delicious aroma.
Life went on. Guilt tightened Emma’s chest—she would live on too.
With her chin tucked into the thin scarf encircling her neck, she walked toward the bridge. Why had she come this way? The bridge connected the two sections of campus, the classrooms and the students’ living quarters. The only alternatives would be to trek or drive the longer distance over High-crest Bridge or take the jogging path past the stables, using the old wooden bridge. Time was too precious.
Behind her, on the north side and spread across thirty rolling acres, stood stately buildings which held the college’s administration offices, classrooms and an assortment of sports stadiums and fields. Ribbons of silver concrete linked the structures. Bunches of red oaks and golden maples dotted the landscape. Off in the far distance, she saw the barns.
Ahead, on the south side of the brook, stood a dozen brick student dormitories and the huge activity center which housed a laundry, food court, gym and the student lounge—The Lair.
As she neared the bridge, she spied a gathering of students and followed their line of sight. Draping from tree to a shrub and then to another tree, a yellow police tape flapped in the breeze and formed an odd triangle. It marked the grassy area at the river’s edge where a dead Denise Davidson had lain.
Emma halted, unable to move, hoping the dozen or so students would move on so she wouldn’t have to squeeze through them and endure their stares. The news she’d been the one to find Denise had spread across campus like a tornado gathering dust above dry fields. Everyone wanted to know what she saw. The only one who had not asked her any questions was Nan.
After the police had finished questioning her, Nanette had done everything to make the remainder of Emma’s Sunday easy. She was grateful for Nan’s friendship. And felt a level of guilt about Denise.
If only she had done something to change the course of events in the last night of Denise’s life. She’d seen Denise leaving The Lair with a group of students on Saturday night. The third-year student had been so alive, laughing and chatting with her friends. Then Sunday morning, she was here. Gone.
Honestly, as a grad student who only knew Denise through her study group, she’d had no reason to join the group of juniors.
“It’s tough losing a friend.” A smooth baritone voice behind her caused Emma to jump.
Realizing she blocked the sidewalk, she spun around and came face to face with a pair of sunglasses hanging from the unbuttoned collar of a sage-colored Henley. The chest behind them was made wider by the fact the man had his hands deep inside the back pockets of his jeans. She stepped back and looked up over lips still full, despite being pulled into a smile—and met eyes that challenged the autumn’s clear blue sky.
A gust of wind lifted the stranger’s blond bangs and she noticed a thin white scar in the shape of a crescent moon near his hairline. His brow pulled together in concern while eyelashes the color of wheat blinked at her, questioning her silence.
“Excuse me,” she said, swiping back a wisp of hair the wind forced across her face.
“The woman who died…” His strong chin jutted toward the taped-off area. “Was she a friend of yours?”
She shook her head, recalling Denise’s warm smile again. Perhaps they would’ve become friends, if Denise had lived. She swallowed. “No. Not really.”
“Oh.” He tilted his head and studied her. “By your expression, I thought maybe you were close.”
She looked away. He didn’t need to know she’d found Denise. “No. It’s… It’s so sad. She seemed nice.”
He stepped around her and then looked back over his shoulder. “Did she have a lot of friends?”
“I guess.” She shrugged, while trying to recall if she’d ever seen him before. “I saw her around campus with other students.”
“I’d heard rumors she overdosed on ice?”
Emma’s hair prickled at her nape. Was he a reporter looking to dig up dirt on Denise to use in some tabloid?
Why just that morning, over breakfast, she’d scanned the story published in the local paper concerning the two other students who’d recently died from an overdose of meth, and it outlined the possibility Denise’s demise was connected. Had a third student death provoked a national tabloid to pick up on the tragic events?
He didn’t carry any books or a bag and he had intelligent quizzical eyes that appeared to read her thoughts. “I don’t know the details,” she responded to his query.
Her gaze trailed down over his strong frame to his backside when he turned to survey the area. He had an earthy, bad-boy thing going on, accentuated by his five-o’clock-shadowed face and hair long enough to cover his collar. Surely, if they’d crossed paths before, she’d have noticed him.
Had he learned she’d found Denise and approached her with the intention of gaining firsthand information? She should just walk away, however, an overwhelming need to defend Denise’s reputation kept Emma’s feet planted. Denise had been a nice person. She could no longer speak for herself.
“Until the facts surrounding her death are confirmed by reliable sources, no one should assume the worst—much less report false allegations to the world.” She shifted her laptop to the crook of her left arm and then hitched her purse strap up on her right shoulder before moving to his side. She scrutinized his strong profile, and watched for his reaction as she asked, “Are you a reporter?”
“What?” He chuckled and pointed at his broad chest. “Me? No. What gave you that impression?”
He wore a poker face well. She cocked a knowing brow.
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“I was just making conversation.”
His eyes widened and looked left as if he hid something from her.
“There are o
ther things we could talk about,” she suggested.
He ducked his head, but not quickly enough to hide the pull of his lips into a grin.
He actually found her, this situation, amusing. She pressed her laptop and books to her chest. Her heartbeat magnified against them with increasingly aggravated thumps. “What’s so funny?”
He sighed, as if he were about to bare his soul, and faced her. “Look, I don’t know anyone on campus and I’d like to make a few friends. I saw you as I left the library.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder.
She noticed the skin on the back of his left hand had a pinkish sheen to it, like he had been burned.
He pocketed his hand quickly and then continued. “A little voice inside my head said, ‘meet that girl,’ so I followed you. I’m sorry I picked the wrong place and the wrong topic to start a conversation. Forgive me. Please.”
He pitched a line of bull, but the shy way he held his head and the glimmer in his blue eyes caused Emma’s pulse to quicken. She broke the trance forming between them and glanced at the building that stood off in the distance. “You followed me from the library?”
“Yes.”
How had she not noticed him following her? An uneasy feeling she’d carried since Sunday had her glancing over her shoulder every few minutes. And every coed who passed by them noticed him, so why hadn’t she? She’d been thinking about her own work, the afternoon class she had to conduct for Professor Langson, and that night’s study group meeting she had to prepare for. That’s probably why she’d missed seeing him today, but what about yesterday or last week?
Still not satisfied that he wasn’t searching for a story, she asked, “Why should I believe you’re not a reporter? I don’t remember seeing you around before.”
“Do you know everyone who goes to school here?”
“No. Of course not.” Her cheeks warmed slightly. “It’s a big campus.”
“My point is made.”
Slick! He still hadn’t confessed to being a student, and somehow he’d put her on the defensive. The conversation had headed totally off track and she was determined to steer it right.
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