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“He’s a typical teenager. Dying to get his driver’s license even though he doesn’t turn sixteen until next year. The other night, I caught him sneaking out with my car. Needless to say, he’s grounded this weekend.”
Holly studied him as his gaze fell to his mug.
“It can’t be easy being a single parent,” she said.
Clint looked up, shaking his head. “Not always, but he’s a good kid. He normally doesn’t get into much trouble. He’s a big reader and loves true crime. In fact, he’s a big fan of your books.”
“Really?” She felt flattered and surprised that her books would spark the interest of a fifteen-year-old boy. Most of her readers were much older.
Clint nodded.
“Well, tell him thank you. I have a copy ofIn Cold Blood, the first ever true crime novel, upstairs. He’s welcome to borrow it ifhe hasn’t read it.” She smiled. “That is, if you’re okay with him reading while he’s grounded.”
“I’ll tell him, thanks. He loves English.” Clint lifted his mug. “Although, I keep telling him that an English degree isn’t going to pay the bills.” His face faltered. “No offense, you probably have one. And if you do, don’t tell him or he might stop believing I know everything.” Clint winked.
Holly laughed. “I switched my major from English to journalism partway through college, so no offense taken.”
Clint lowered the mug to his lap and stared pensively at a painting of Mount Rainier hanging on the wall. “What got you interested in true crime?”
Holly opened her mouth to tell him about Meg when the sputter of an engine sounded down their cul-de-sac. Clint stood and cracked open the curtains. Holly followed his gaze, seeing a green Bronco pull into Clint’s driveway.
“Sorry.” He turned. “That’s my son getting dropped off. I better go so he doesn’t wonder where I am.”
Holly followed him to the kitchen after he insisted on taking his mug to the sink. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said after putting on his shoes.
“Anytime.”
Clint stood in the entryway for a lingering moment, making her wonder if he was going to kiss her before he reached for the door.
“Oh.” He turned around after stepping outside. “I’ll tell my son about borrowing that book. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
“Great.” Holly returned his smile before he hurried down the porch steps, feeling stupid for thinking a completely ordinary pause was something romantic.
She blew out a breath after closing the door, placing her palms against her temples as she climbed the stairs. It was time to stopthinking about her own life and focus on Roxy Vega’s, who—like Meg—could no longer speak for herself.
Halfway up the staircase, the phone rang in the kitchen. Holly thought about letting it ring, but it was probably Laurie, and if she didn’t answer it, Laurie would drive over to make sure she was okay. And Holly didn’t want any interruptions once she finally immersed herself in work.
She trudged down the stairs, planning what she would say to her publicist slash overly concerned friend. Laurie needed to stop asking Clint to check on her. Not that she minded her handsome neighbor coming over, but it should be on his own terms, not because Laurie asked him to.
The phone was still ringing when she reached the kitchen, where the smell of coffee lingered in the air. Holly pulled the receiver off the wall, glancing at Clint’s house through the side window and seeing the Bronco back out of Clint’s drive. Clint and his son must’ve already gone inside.
“Hello?”
“Holly, it’s me.”
Andy.Her pulse quickened.
“I went to see Jared earlier with Detective O’Malley, who took down your report, and thought you should know what we learned.”
She swallowed, bracing herself for him to tell her Jared was in custody for trying to kill her a second time. “Okay.”
“Jared and his roommate have an alibi for last night, and it’s stronger than their alibi from the night before. They said they were at a bar downtown watching the Mariners opening game only a few blocks from the Major Crimes Unit, from about 6:00 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. They both have receipts for a few beers timestamped to match what they told us.
“Jared’s roommate drives a dark gray Toyota Camry, which I checked for damage while we were there. I didn’t see any. Jared,however, owns a black Ford Escort that he had put in storage when he went to prison.”
A flush of heat crept up her neck.That had to be the car that ran me off the bridge last night.
“But it wasn’t at the house. According to Jared, he hasn’t driven it since getting out. His driver’s license expired while he was in prison, and Jared claimed he’s working to get his license and registration renewed before driving it again.”