by Rita Herron
The men left with Sophie, and Abby prepared to take her leave, also. “I think Mr. Tall, Dark and Deadly has a thing for you,” she teased as she collected her purse and sunglasses from the kitchen counter.
“Marco?” Lauren’s face grew warm. “He was just being nice.”
“Marco is never ‘just nice,’” Abby said. “Not that he’s not a decent guy, but he’s very reserved. And a little scary.”
“Do you think so?” She’d never felt afraid with Marco.
“He was in Special Forces,” Abby said. “Those guys are all a little scary. But very sexy, too.” She nudged Lauren. “And I think he definitely likes you. You should ask him out.”
“I don’t need another rejection right now.”
“I don’t think he’d reject you,” Abby said.
“Even if you’re right, now’s not the time to start a new relationship. I really need to get my life together.”
“Maybe Marco would help.” At Lauren’s scowl, Abby held up her hands in a defensive gesture. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop matchmaking. But, you know—keep it in mind.”
The apartment felt emptier than ever when the women were gone. Lauren set about putting away coffee cups and wiping down the counter. After she spoke with Shawn, her lawyer friend, she should update her résumé. And maybe see about doing some freelancing. The local university might need someone in their television department.
She returned to her list and began making notes. Was there a way to get hold of Richard Prentice’s tax records? Maybe through some kind of public records request? That might be revealing...
Pounding on the door made her jump—not a friendly knock, but a heavy beating against the wood that made the wall shake. She grabbed up her phone, ready to hit the speed dial for 9-1-1. “Who is it?” she called in a shaky voice.
“I have a delivery for Lauren Starling.”
She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. A burly man in a tracksuit stood on the landing. “You’re not with a delivery company,” she said. “Go away.”
“I have a package for you.” He held up a box about eight inches square.
“I don’t want it. Go away.”
“I’m going to leave it here on the landing. You need to open it.”
“Go away before I call the police.”
“Suit yourself.”
She watched as he set the box on the doormat and walked away. She waited a full five minutes, heart racing, mind whirling. Who was sending her a package? Was this some kind of joke, or a bomb?
Finally, reasoning there was only one way to learn the answer to her questions, she eased open the door and looked around. The area was deserted. Quickly, she picked up the package and took it inside, where she set it carefully on the table and stared at it.
No return address. No postage or metered label, either. She put her ear to it. No ticking. But would a bomb necessarily tick? She wished Rand and Lotte were still here. The dog could probably tell if the package contained explosives. She could call them, but Rand had enough on his mind right now without worrying about her. The local police might help—or they would just as easily dismiss her as that crazy woman who’d been on television. She couldn’t take any more humiliation. Better to handle this herself.
Feeling a little silly, she grabbed a knife and slit open the end of the box. Inside, she glimpsed red foil paper and white silk ribbon. Less afraid now, she worked the knife around until she could lift off the top. Inside the first box was a second, gift-wrapped package. Again, no label.
She carefully worked loose the ribbon on this box and opened the flaps. Inside was a single dried rose and a printed card. “In loving memory,” the card read, “of Lauren Montgomery Starling.”
Trembling, she turned the card over. Printed in pencil, in neat block letters, were the words, “Such a short life wasted. We’ll all miss you when you’re gone.”
Copyright © 2015 by Cynthia Myers
ISBN-13: 9781460388174
McCullen’s Secret Son
Copyright © 2015 by Rita B. Herron
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