He stopped in the foyer, just before entering the kitchen. "You don't have to be here when I get back."
Shea caught up with him and laid her hand on his back. "Yes, I do."
"You already have enough for a major story." The back beneath her hand went rigid as his muscles tensed. His hands flexed into fists. "Weathergirl kidnapped by convicted killer and held hostage for seven days should be good for a lot of airtime."
"Probably."
Nick had no intention of turning to look at her, so she slipped around him and glanced up, into his face. Her heart skipped a beat. Last night she'd told him she liked him. She was afraid of how he'd react if she confessed that what she felt for him was much, much more.
"Until we know who killed Winkler, I'm not going anywhere," she said, softly but insistently.
"All right," he agreed in a lifeless voice.
"I'm a part of this, to the end."
"That was never my intention."
"Well, it looks like you're stuck with me."
Something glittered in his eyes. A memory, a spark of hope. Whatever it was, what she saw there gave her hope.
"A kiss for luck," she said, rising up on her toes as he willingly listed down toward her. Their mouths met, briefly, securely, and with a comfort that comes only from practice.
* * *
He went the long way around, sticking to the wooded area of his backyard and Norman's, and out of Lillian Casson's range of sight, until he slipped from the woods and crept up the stairs to the multi-tiered deck. Norman usually had coffee here in the morning, so with any luck … yep, the door was unlocked.
The deck had been built off a large kitchen. Norman's house was bigger than Nick's, grander, with larger rooms and the amenities Nick had not cared about. A fireplace, vaulted ceilings, a fourth bedroom upstairs.
And an office on the ground floor. That was where Norman holed up, most mornings when he could work at home. Nick slipped quietly down the hall, his back to the wall, his heart pounding too fast. What if Shea was right? His lawyer and his ex-girlfriend. Shea suspected Lauren, but what if Lauren and Norman had been in this together? Maybe Norman had discovered his fiancée's crime and covered it by allowing Nick to be convicted. There was only one way to find out.
Before he stepped into Norman's office, his heartbeat slowed, his panic disappeared. He gritted his teeth and prepared himself for anything.
Norman had his head down as he thumbed through a sheaf of papers. He didn't hear Nick come into the room to stand behind him, he was so engrossed in his work.
"Hello, Norman," Nick said in a low voice.
Norman dropped his papers and spun in his swivel chair, coming to his feet in a burst of energy and leaving the chair twirling.
"Nick," he said, his eyes raking up and down and a small smile coming to his face. "Good God, I can't believe it." He laid his hands on Nick's shoulders and the smile grew. "How are you? How's your leg? Where the hell have you been?"
Given his suspicions, it was not the reception Nick had expected. "One question at a time, and I get to start."
Norman's smile faded, and he lowered his hands. "Sure."
He took his chair, leaned back and gestured to the single visitor's chair in the room, a fat, padded armchair just a few feet away. Nick sat.
"When did Lauren move in?"
Norman's face turned to stone. "I should've told you, but you had enough on your—"
"When?" Nick whispered.
"Two and a half months ago."
"When's the wedding?"
"October."
Nick leaned back in his chair, trying for a casual pose. "How very nice for you both."
"I wanted to tell you, and so did Lauren, but Nick…" Norman leaned forward in his chair. "You have more important problems at the present time."
The truth was, Nick didn't care about Lauren. Not anymore. He thought of telling Norman, here and now, how he'd found Lauren and Winkler that night. He decided against it. Norman would discover, soon enough, what kind of woman she was.
He did care that his lawyer and friend had lied to him, that if Norman would hide this fact, he would hide others.
"My turn," Norman said. "How's your leg?"
"Better. I was lucky. It was just a scratch."
"Where have you…" Norman lifted a hand and silenced himself. "Never mind. I don't want to know where you've been or where you're staying now. If I know I'll have to tell the police. But Nick, you have to turn yourself in. If you keep running they will find you, and next time they might do a lot worse than scratch you."
"I'm not turning myself in until I find out who killed Gary Winkler."
The expression that flitted across Norman's face was one of surprise, but it faded quickly and was replaced by the look Nick had come to recognize. His professional face, the one that gave nothing away.
"You think I did it, don't you?" Nick asked, the pieces coming together easily. No wonder there had been no thorough investigation by his lawyer. No wonder Norman hadn't pushed the police to look into other suspects.
"Now, Nick…"
"Save the condescending voice, Norman," Nick snapped. "All this time, while you defended me, you thought I was guilty."
Amazingly, Norman blushed. "Lauren told me about … about what happened that night."
Now it was Nick's turn to look surprised. So much for Shea's theory. "She did?"
Norman nodded and dropped his head down to stare into his lap. "That night was a turning point for her."
"I can imagine," Nick muttered.
When Norman lifted his head, he no longer wore his cold, unreadable lawyer's face. He looked vulnerable. Older. "She quit drinking after that night and joined AA."
"Lauren's not an alcoholic."
"Yes, she is," Norman insisted. "You never saw it because … because she didn't want you to know and because you have a bad habit of only seeing what you want to see."
Nick didn't appreciate being analyzed by his lawyer at a time like this, but, dammit, it made sense, in retrospect. The erratic behavior he'd thought was a part of Lauren's eccentrically charming personality, the sharp mood swings he'd believed to be a normal part of womanhood, the way she flitted from one undemanding job to another…
"That night, when she realized what she'd almost done, she decided to quit. And she did."
"I notice she didn't offer to testify," Nick said bitterly. "Telling all in court would've damaged her reputation, such as it is."
Norman's face hardened. "And it would've given the jury another piece of evidence against you. She was thinking of you when she kept her mouth shut, Nick. She deliberately stayed away from the courtroom, and when the police interviewed her she said she had been drinking too much to remember clearly what happened that night. It wasn't like they needed another witness against you."
Nick didn't want to feel grateful, he wanted to hate Lauren. And Norman. And Shea. It was easier that way.
But he couldn't do this alone. "I've been convicted. I'll probably get caught long before I can prove that someone else killed Winkler. I have nothing to lose." He leaned forward in his chair, catching and holding Norman's eye. "I have nothing to lose by telling you the truth."
Norman sat stone still, hands in his lap, waiting for Nick's confession.
"I didn't do it. Someone else killed Winkler and planted the evidence against me. Someone who was there that night set me up."
"Oh my God," Norman whispered. "You're telling the truth."
"One of your neighbors is a murderer."
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
Shea wanted to observe before she questioned. The more she knew about the suspects, the more prepared she'd be. Her eyes shifted again and again to Norman Burgess's house, but she saw no sign of Nick or the lawyer. All seemed to be quiet, perfectly normal, there.
Appearances aside, nothing in this neighborhood was perfectly normal.
The Ables and the Blackstones had small childr
en who played on their lawns and in the circle, enjoying the last days of summer. Tricycles, inline skates and basketballs were popular, she noticed. Mrs. Casson worked in her garden until the children were out in force, then with a puckering of her mouth she gathered up her gardening tools and retreated into her own cool house.
At the Realtor's insistence, the electricity in Nick's home was still on and running. Thank goodness. This house wasn't built for a summer day with no air-conditioning, like the house in Marion.
Eventually Burgess left, his car pulling slowly and carefully out of the garage. The kids in the cul-de-sac moved out of his way, and he smiled and waved at them … as if nothing unusual had happened this morning.
Her imagination got the best of her, as it often did. Nick had lied to her. He hadn't gone to talk to Norman, he'd dumped her again. He'd walked away and by now he was in Maude's car driving away from Huntsville, laughing at her for being so trusting, so naive.
A worse possibility occurred to her. What if Norman was the murderer, or he was covering for Lauren, and he'd killed Nick? Right now Nick could be lying in that man's house, dead or bleeding, or stuffed into the trunk of that fancy car that had driven so cautiously down the street. Her imagination ran wild, until she could see the horrific possibilities in her mind. The what-ifs plagued her, until she was certain something had gone terribly wrong.
There was only one way to be sure.
She gathered up her duffel bag and Nick's, in case the Realtor should come by, and left by the back door. She circled around, keeping to the cover of the trees at the back of the lot, and with her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, she crept onto the deck. With credit card in hand, she easily slipped the lock on Burgess's door.
All was quiet, cool and clean and well ordered. Here she could see the woman's touch that had been missing in Nick's house. The lace curtains in the kitchen, the yellow-and-white-checked dish towels, the fresh flowers.
There was no sign of foul play. Yet.
Confident that neither Norman nor Lauren would return anytime soon, she dropped her bag and Nick's onto the living room sofa and continued her search. Up until now she'd been careful not to do anything too blatantly illegal, but this was definitely against the rules. This was breaking and entering. Dean would be furious, if he ever found out.
But her crime was justified, she reasoned. What if Nick was hurt?
"Nick?" she whispered as she walked down the hallway. "Are you here?" She poked her head into a small office, searching for a clue. Nothing. No blood, no signs of a struggle.
After searching the ground floor, she climbed the stairway to the second floor. Unlike Nick, Burgess had furnished all his bedrooms. Four bedrooms, each with a bed and a dresser. Three of them looked like impersonal guest rooms. Winter clothes were stored in one closet, but the others were almost empty. A roll of wrapping paper, a box of Christmas decorations. Nothing sinister.
And no Nick.
There was only one room left to check, and that was the bathroom at the end of the hall. She stepped inside, pulled back the shower curtain and stared into an empty, gleaming white bathtub.
And next door she heard a car door slam.
Peering through the narrow window, she had a clear view of the street. A long gray sedan had parked at the curb, and five people walked toward Nick's front door.
In the lead was a stout woman in a navy blue power suit, and even from here Shea could see she was not happy. She carried a ring of keys in her hand.
Luther Malone, his handsome face set in a mask of pure annoyance, followed her. He seemed to be grumbling to himself as they approached the porch.
And behind Luther, Dean, Boone and Clint stalked, side by side and looking for blood. Hers this time, she imagined.
* * *
Luther sat in the living room while the poor Realtor, the harried Ms. Tilton, tried to keep up with all three Sinclair brothers as they searched the house. Luther leaned back on the soft leather couch and tried to relax.
The brothers hadn't listened when he'd told them Shea would not be stupid enough to come to Nick Taggert's house. She'd have to know they would search for her here. Taggert sure as hell wouldn't take the chance of returning to the scene of the crime.
Maybe Shea was right and Taggert was heading for Montana. Maybe she was heading for Montana herself.
In the past couple of days, he'd spent most of his spare time looking into the Winkler murder and the Taggert investigation. What he'd found had been skimpy, to say the least. Everything about this case had fallen into Daniels's lap, and he'd happily accepted the gift.
Daniels had never investigated the wife, who was usually suspect number one. He'd never investigated the neighbors, who all apparently had a motive of one kind or another. Daniels was lazy, but Luther had to wonder if he himself would've looked any further, given the preponderance of evidence. Usually what came too easily was the truth.
But after Luther spent a couple of days looking into the other possible suspects, at Grace's request, an uneasy feeling had grown steadily in his gut. Something here was not right. He felt it, deep down and he had learned to never ignore his instincts.
"Nothing," Clint said as he marched into the living room.
Luther withheld the urge to say "I told you so" as Clint dropped into a fat leather chair that sank slowly under his weight.
Dean, a scowl on his face, was right behind Clint. "She's not here."
Boone entered shortly after Dean, the persimmon-faced Ms. Tilton directly behind him. "What next?" he barked.
"We got nowhere with her friend Grace, and her cameraman swears she hasn't called him this time."
"We'll find her," Dean said.
They had tried to interrogate Grace this morning, but hadn't gotten far. Luther still wanted to know exactly how Ray had gotten rid of the Sinclair brothers so quickly. God knows he wouldn't allow them to berate or upset his pregnant wife! Ray had been overprotective before, but he was now safeguarding Grace with everything he had.
Ms. Tilton stood in the foyer, nervously fiddling with her keys.
"I hate to break it to you boys," Luther said. "But Shea is all grown up."
In unison, they gave him a warning glare he ignored.
"She doesn't have to tell you where she is at all times, she doesn't have to report in like she's twelve years old." Given the looks he was already getting, he decided not to share his theory that they were likely to find Shea wherever they found Nick Taggert. They wouldn't like it and besides … they were smart guys. They'd figure it out on their own soon enough, if they hadn't already.
"Cut her some slack," he said as he rose to his feet.
Boone cursed, Clint stood up in turn and they headed for the door, much to the Realtor's relief.
"I was sure she'd be here," Dean said as Ms. Tilton closed and locked the door behind them. "She thinks Taggert is innocent, and if I know her she's trying to prove it. This is the logical place to start."
Boone made a snorting noise of disgust. "There's your problem right there. Shea has never been logical! I can't believe she let that bastard Taggert sucker her in like that. I can't believe she actually thinks he didn't do it!"
Luther let them all pile into his car before he took the driver's seat. The poor Realtor was once again squeezed into the back between Clint and Boone.
He looked at the houses on the peaceful cul-de-sac, at the playing children, at the homes of the people who had been at the barbecue that night.
As he started the car, Luther stared at Dean, who was the most reasonable of the three, he had discovered. "I don't know if it will make you feel any better or not," he said. "But I'm beginning to think she might be right."
* * *
She was relieved when Nick came home. So relieved that she almost ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. She refrained, though, not wanting to do anything to make him send her away … or to make him want to stay gone the next time. He was still wary of her, for some reason, suspicious of he
r motives and uncertain about her loyalties.
He brought food. Sandwiches, juice, two sodas and what remained of the bag Maude had packed. Cookies, mostly.
"Where'd you get the money for the food?" she asked as they laid out their feast in the upstairs bedroom, where they could watch the comings and goings on the street below and still be shielded from view by the partially closed miniblinds.
"Norman gave me the money," he said, his eyes on the street. "You can strike him and Lauren off your list of suspects."
Nick was not as suspicious as she was, and she had a feeling he'd wanted all along to believe that his friend and ex-girlfriend were innocent. "Does he know you're staying here?"
"No."
"Good."
Nick turned his eyes to her then, accusing and intense. "He explained everything. More than I wanted to know, to tell the truth."
"And you believed him."
"Yes."
When they had eaten and Shea cleared the garbage away, Nick sat on the floor by the bed and stared out the window. He couldn't see much from there, she imagined. Sitting beside him, she discovered she was right: she could see only a small segment of the street in front of his house.
"Lauren's an alcoholic," he said softly, and without looking at her. "I never saw it, but Norman did. That night, she realized she had fallen too far, and she quit. Norman helped her. He's been good for her, I think."
"What about his wife?" Shea snapped.
"They'd been having trouble for years, he said. There wasn't another woman or another man, they simply fell out of love. Decided they didn't want the same things anymore. It happens." He shifted uncomfortably on the floor. "I didn't see that, either."
"It's the sort of thing people hide very well," Shea said. "We never know…"
"I should've known. About Lauren, about Norman." Nick shook his head. "I've been going through the past few years with blinders on. I was so determined to start over, to make sure I left the crap of my childhood behind me, that I … I painted a pretty picture. My eyes were wide-open but I saw only what I wanted to see."
"We all do that, to a certain extent."
Nick turned his head and looked down at her, his blue eyes piercing. "You do that when you look at me—I know it. You dismiss what you should see and get caught up in something that isn't entirely true."
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