The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  However, when Theresa’s only son Peyton got into trouble with drugs, she’d sold Lance a percentage to help finance his expensive, top-of-the-line rehab. With Caitlin’s share, Lance would finally legally own the controlling interest in the business. Since he and Theresa often disagreed with regard to the direction the company should take, she wasn’t pleased about the prospect of losing control.

  “Well, too bad,” was Caitlin’s assessment. She abhorred business politics, and didn’t even pretend to know enough about the medical device industry to offer any sort of input. And she had her own reasons to be unhappy with Theresa.

  And with Peyton.

  “Are you sure you want to sell?” Connie continued. “Because if the company goes public, you could stand to make a small fortune on stock.”

  “I thought Lance was totally against shareholders.”

  “He is. But otherwise it’s tough to come up with the capital needed for expansion without going into debt, which Lance is even more against. He’s been pouring everything into the tech development, which makes sense, as you’re only as good as the product you sell. However, it’s increasingly difficult to attract the best salesforce when you can’t offer competitive compensation packages.”

  Caitlin frowned. “I’ve always been under the impression that Lance treats his employees really well.”

  “Oh, he does. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. You know that. It’s just that my life for the past few years has been trying to ride herd on a sales team that continually changes as they gain experience and then go to higher paying positions with other, mostly public companies.”

  “Sounds like you want to go public.”

  Connie shrugged. “The idea has its benefits. But I get why Lance is against it. You can ask your brother when you see him. Although I think you’ll have plenty of more important stuff to talk about.” She leaned up on her elbow, her expression concerned. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you? Lance can always take a cab. And I’d be lying if I said that… message last night didn’t freak me out. You downplayed everything when you were still in Atlanta, but honestly Caitlin. That woman is bunny-boiling crazy.”

  That woman, of course, was Lydia Fasteland.

  Caitlin was tempted – very tempted – to take Connie up on her offer. But at the same time, she hated to give Lydia that power. She’d already allowed the other woman to push her into running away. And now it looked like maybe she’d followed her anyway. Caitlin wasn’t stupid, and she didn’t take her safety lightly. But she also knew that showing fear to a bully was often the worst thing you could do.

  Besides, they’d checked into the hotel under an assumed name, and she was taking a cab to the police station. As much as she was wary of the cops right now, she figured she couldn’t pick a place that was safer.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks,” she told Connie. “I’ll be surrounded by cops, and then I’ll be with my attorney.”

  “Just… be careful, okay? I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  Connie frequently got “feelings” about things, as it was part and parcel of her superstitious nature. But the thing was, she wasn’t often wrong. “I’ll be fine,” Caitlin insisted, ignoring the fingers of unease that walked up her spine. “And so will Lance.”

  Caitlin said a little prayer that both would remain true as she asked her cab driver to wait while she went into the police station. Anxiety caused her stomach to twist, much as it had during yesterday’s interview. At least she’d had the foresight to eat an energy bar with her antibiotic this time.

  Pulling open the door, she forced her face to a pleasant expression as she approached the front desk. The officer sitting there glanced up, and when he did a double take Caitlin almost winced, remembering the dress. Instead, she squared her shoulders.

  “My name is Caitlin Cavanaugh, and I’m here to retrieve my purse.”

  “Could you spell that for me, please?”

  Caitlin did, and after he’d typed it into his computer, he studied the screen a moment longer. His eyes were less friendly when he looked back up. “Could you wait over there, please?”

  Caitlin glanced at the seat along the wall. “I’m afraid I have a cab waiting outside.”

  “It’ll just be a minute.”

  “But my attorney said –”

  “Right over there.”

  When he pointed to the chair again, Caitlin figured she was wasting time by arguing any further. Hopefully he simply had to send someone down to the evidence room, or whatever they called it, to get her purse. So she thanked him and took a seat. When the rather intimidating-looking woman occupying a chair across from her blatantly stared, Caitlin tucked her dress around her thighs. Maybe she’d been better off looking like a bag lady.

  “Miss Cavanaugh?” a familiar masculine voice said, and Caitlin looked up to see Detective Clark standing at the entrance to the hallway which led to the interview room. “I have your property. If you could just follow me for a second, we’ll get the paper work signed and have you on your way.”

  Shit. What was the detective doing here? He wasn’t supposed to be in for another fifteen minutes. Caitlin had called to check last night.

  Those fingers of unease began their march again, but she didn’t exactly have a choice. And signing paperwork wasn’t the same thing as talking to him, right? She could simply scratch out her signature, get her purse, and go.

  Mustering her resolve, Caitlin stood on legs that weren’t quite steady – a feeling with which she was becoming all too familiar. But when Detective Clark smiled at her, she managed to smile back.

  Even if she didn’t trust his easygoing demeanor any more than she did the relatively harmless appearance of a snapping turtle. Both were likely to take a chunk out of you if you weren’t paying attention.

  “You look lovely this morning,” he said as they walked down the hall. “If you’ll forgive me for noticing.”

  Oh, he was charming. Charming, and almost heartbreakingly handsome. Caitlin wondered just how many suspects he’d been able to persuade to say more than was good for them under the influence of that smile. If circumstances were different, Caitlin might have been one of them.

  However, her recent experiences made her more than a little distrustful. So while her instinct was to explain that she didn’t normally dress like this in order to run errands, she limited her response to “Thank you.”

  “I was sorry to hear about the additional trouble at your place last night.”

  Because she didn’t want to sound like a broken record, Caitlin merely nodded her head. Particularly given that his expression of regret was likely more fishing expedition than actual sympathy. Maybe the detective realized he wasn’t getting anywhere with the friendly approach, because he didn’t say anything else until they’d reached their destination. He stopped, extending his arm to direct her into the small room, where her purse, enclosed in a labeled plastic bag, rested on a table.

  “Go ahead and check, make sure everything is there.”

  Caitlin shot him a glance before crossing the room, dragging the bag toward her across the table. Her purse – as familiar to her as her own hands – seemed like an alien object. The surreal quality of everything hit her again, the sense that this was the sort of thing that happened to other people. People you heard about on the news. People you read about in books.

  “Everything okay?” Detective Clark said from beside her.

  Caitlin startled. She hadn’t even realized he’d come so close.

  “I’m sorry,” he added softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She glanced up, found herself momentarily caught in his bright blue gaze. From this distance, she could see that his eyes were bloodshot, the fine lines radiating from the corners pronounced from fatigue. His tie was neatly knotted but the shirt beneath it appeared wrinkled.

  So maybe what she’d thought was an early morning for him was in fact a late night. The thought disturbed her, as she wondered if it were her case th
at had kept him working. His eyes – really very pretty – chilled her nonetheless. Because behind them lurked a brain she knew was evaluating everything she did.

  “I’m fine,” she said, pulling open the bag to inspect the contents. Her purse was there, along with her wallet and her keys. Her phone, which she was almost embarrassingly relieved to see. A few feminine products, including hairbrush and tampons, that made her feel angry when she visualized the cops pawing through her purse. An old paperback novel that she kept for those unexpected delays and extended waits that meant reading opportunities.

  And a pair of glasses. Her computer glasses. And one of the lenses was cracked.

  Caitlin’s brows crunched together.

  “Something wrong?”

  Caitlin opened her mouth, started to tell him that these were the wrong glasses – she’d been wearing her other pair that night. And she had no idea how they’d been damaged.

  She almost wanted to ask if that happened while in his custody, but that wasn’t the sort of thing she should be discussing without her attorney present. Of that much she was certain.

  “No. It looks like everything is here.”

  “Except the lipstick. I’m afraid that will remain in evidence.”

  “Oh.” She’d almost forgotten about that. “Yes, I understand.”

  “I’ve got a sister,” the detective said. “She’s super picky about her lipstick. Will only wear one color from one brand – one of those expensive brands that you get at the makeup counter in the department stores. I know, because I bought her a bunch of that stuff for Christmas. Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice that you aren’t wearing any lipstick yourself today. So I thought maybe you were real picky, too. And might be upset that we kept your special lipstick.”

  Caitlin stared at him. His tone was easy enough, his expression guileless. But she didn’t think for a moment that he’d brought up the subject idly. It was especially disconcerting since she had highly sensitive skin, and did indeed favor a certain organic, hypoallergenic brand. Where he was going with that, she had no idea. But she suspected she wouldn’t care for the destination.

  “I don’t wear lipstick very often. Or much makeup in general,” she told him. “So… no. I’m not upset.”

  He nodded. “I’m happy to hear it.”

  Because Caitlin was feeling like a bug crawling past a can of Raid, she shoved everything back in her purse without bothering to check the rest of the contents. “Where do I sign?” she asked the detective.

  “Right here.”

  He slid a clipboard toward her, the paperwork conveniently marked with an X where it required her signature. Caitlin was tempted to quickly sign it and leave, but she took the time to read it over. She could just see trying to explain to Jack how she’d signed a confession without realizing it. Not that she expected Detective Clark to be that devious, but her trust in her fellow man wasn’t quite what it used to be.

  “Thank you,” she said after she’d scrawled her name with him watching her every movement. And because she was growing increasingly uncomfortable in the detective’s presence added “I believe I remember the way out.”

  He smiled at her, an expression that bore little resemblance to amusement. “I’m sure you do.”

  Caitlin was almost to the door before Detective Clark’s voice caused her to freeze in place.

  “By the way, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Caitlin hesitated before slowly turning her head. He was perched against the edge of the table, one leg swinging slowly back and forth, a cat toying with its prey.

  “What loss?”

  “Well, I guess it isn’t technically your loss, since he was married to another woman, but that doesn’t make it less painful to lose someone. Especially in such a manner.”

  “Detective,” Caitlin said evenly, despite the fact that her stomach seemed to have slid down to her feet while her heart climbed into her throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” His brows shot up. “I thought you would have known. Your ex-boyfriend. The professor. He was murdered two weeks ago.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JACK studied his computer screen with increasing foreboding, before glancing across his desk. “This says he was stabbed.”

  Caitlin, who already resembled a stone statue perched on the edge of the chair, seemed to harden even further. Jack was about to ask her if she needed a glass of water or a bag to breathe in when she finally spoke.

  “Thank you. I… my phone’s battery is dead and I didn’t have a charger, so I couldn’t look it up before I got here.” She paused, and then cleared her throat. “Was it his wife? Did Lydia kill him?”

  “The case is still open. If the Atlanta PD has a suspect at this time, they haven’t disclosed it. No arrests have been made.”

  “I see.”

  Jack barely restrained himself from cursing out loud. He’d called his investigator last night, told Evan to dig up everything he could about Lydia Fasteland ASAP, including her current location. But while Evan was compiling his report, it looked like Detective Clark had been doing much the same thing.

  And unfortunately, he’d gotten to Caitlin sooner.

  Jack didn’t like feeling like he was playing catch up, and he really didn’t like the look on his client’s face. But from a strategic standpoint, he understood why Clark had thrown that particular punch. The manner of Ryan Fasteland’s death couldn’t be overlooked. Not only was he Caitlin’s ex, but he and his estranged wife were the reason she’d fled Atlanta. Love triangles were notorious breeding grounds for jealousy and violence, up to and including murder. Wives and girlfriends – and sometimes even the two in collusion – were the first place any investigator would look.

  How or if this all connected to the man Caitlin had found stabbed to death, possibly by her own hand, Jack wasn’t sure. But he was dead certain that Detectives Clark and Donaldson were working overtime to establish just such a connection.

  Jack’s brows drew together. He didn’t doubt but what the cops would have discovered Fasteland’s demise sooner or later as they delved into Caitlin’s background, unless evidence arose to conclusively clear her first. But that note left on her windshield last night had brought it about sooner. And ironically, it was Jack who’d pointed them in that direction. First, because it hadn’t taken a tremendous leap to associate the message with the sort of harassment Caitlin had endured at the hands of the professor’s estranged wife, and second, because he’d thought that particular piece of evidence might take some of the heat off Caitlin.

  Instead, it turned up the flame.

  Unaccustomed to feeling that he’d been caught flat-footed, Jack’s jaw tightened. He turned his monitor around so that Caitlin could read the online news brief he’d pulled up.

  “I don’t have my PI’s report yet,” he told her “but I know you have to be wondering about the details. It’s human nature. This article is probably about as comprehensive as you’re going to get from a media source, so go ahead and read it. And then you and I need to talk.”

  His hard tone snapped her out of the slight state of shock she’d been in, and her gaze turned wary. But she opened her purse and pulled out a pair of glasses, frowning at them before slipping them on and leaning toward the monitor.

  And despite the fact that it probably made him an asshole, Jack couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering down the front of her pretty pink dress. She looked like a confection. A double scoop of sensual bliss.

  It was the thought that had popped into his head the moment she’d walked into his office, right before he’d realized the level of her distress. So he’d shoved it out of his mind while he listened with growing irritation to her story about being blindsided by Detective Clark, and then looked up confirmation regarding Ryan Fasteland’s death.

  But now, even though it was still wholly inappropriate, he allowed his mind to wander. He couldn’t recall being especially attracted to women who wore glasses, particularly not
when they were a client of his. But a brief, hot, librarian fantasy involving the stacks and a tub of pink frosting occupied his time while Caitlin read about her murdered ex-boyfriend.

  Yep. He was an asshole, alright.

  But he couldn’t fault bartender Danny’s earlier observation: Caitlin Cavanaugh did indeed have a very nice rack.

  Jack reined in his wayward thoughts when Caitlin leaned away from the monitor. She stared at her lap for several moments before raising her head to meet Jack’s gaze. She looked grim, but far more emotionally together than she had when she’d first arrived.

  “Are you okay?” Jack asked anyway.

  She let out a breath, and then nodded. “I’m horrified, obviously. And sorry for what amounts to a senseless loss. Despite the fact that we parted on less than positive terms, I don’t think Ryan was a bad person. He did a dumb, selfish thing, but he didn’t deserve…” she gestured toward the monitor. “That.”

  “Not many people do.”

  “No, they don’t. And while he may not have deserved it, I can’t help but feel a little angry that I seem to have become caught in if not the same net, then one that looks an awful lot like it. The parallels between what happened to him and what happened to me are… disturbing, to say the least.”

  “Or, from the point of view of the investigators, what happened to Fasteland and what happened to Henry Cox bear marked similarities.”

  Her color faded again, and not even the pink dress could brighten her complexion. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”