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CHAPTER EIGHT

F orbes didn’t protest when Brooklynn left him alone in the office, even after he realized she’d taken his phone.

He didn’t need it. He was elbow-deep in his father’s old files, desperately looking for some clue as to what Dad had been up to before that terrible night.

It was evening by the time he heard a soft knock. His stomach was growling, his eyes crossing, thanks to all the dull real estate information he’d been perusing.

He looked up to see his unwanted guest standing in the doorway.

She still wore his joggers and Patriots T-shirt, looking very comfortable—and far too attractive—in the oversized clothes.

She’d braided her hair, which hung over one shoulder.

And she was smiling as though all were right with the world.

Maybe she was, as Grandmother would say, touched.

Crazy. Nuttier than a Payday.

Though he guessed she was in her mid-twenties, she looked about seventeen at the moment, exactly the kind of girl who wouldn’t have given him a second glance back in high school.

Not that he cared. Not that he was looking for a girlfriend.

Girlfriend?

For crying out loud, what was it about this woman that gave him these wild thoughts?

Her head tilted to one side. “What?”

He shook himself. “What what ?”

“What what what ?” Her grin widened. “I feel like we could do this all day.”

“Maybe you could. I’m busy.”

That smile wavered but didn’t fade. “Thought you might be hungry.”

He was, very. He bookmarked the paper he’d been reading and closed the file—a contract from a few months before the murders. Probably had nothing to do with anything. “I’ll fix us something.”

“I already did. I hope you don’t mind.”

Did he mind that she’d helped herself to his kitchen, cooked a meal without his permission?

Nope. Not one bit.

“I made croque monsieur sandwiches. I used all your Gruyère. Hope that was okay.”

Forbes’s assistant had ordered the fancy cheese, but he hadn’t touched it.

“Would you bring me a plate?” He’d meant for that to sound like a request, but it came out more like a demand. “I usually work while I eat.”

“If you’re hungry, you can join me at the table, where we’ll eat like civilized humans.” She nodded to the pile of dirty dishes he’d been meaning to return to the kitchen. “Grab those when you come.” She swiveled and marched out.

She had a lot of nerve ordering him around.

On the other hand, the prospect of a hot meal certainly wasn’t objectionable.

He found Brooklynn in the kitchen, cutting two sandwiches in half.

She shot him a grin over her shoulder, apparently already over their tiff, then went back to plating their dinners and adding a handful of potato chips to each serving.

“I looked for ingredients to make a pasta salad or a green salad, but the only lettuce you had was wilted. I tossed it. Grab the drinks, would you?”

Two glasses had already been filled with water.

“I was going to make iced tea.” She carried the plates into the breakfast room.

The curtains were pulled closed—had been since Taggart’s visit—but the chandelier and the lamp on the china cabinet cast yellow light, making the room look cheerful despite the lack of evening sun.

“I couldn’t find any that wasn’t Earl Gray.” She was still talking about tea. “Not that that wouldn’t make good iced tea, but I wanted to save it for mornings.” She set the plates on the table, sliding into one of the chairs. “You don’t have any lemonade or soda.”

“Water’s fine.” He settled across from her and lifted one of the sandwiches. It was ham and cheese but with some kind of sauce on top.

She cleared her throat, and he looked up.

“I usually pray before I eat.”

“Oh. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Unless you want to. Do you pray?”

“No. I mean, yes, I pray.” Sometimes. Though he doubted anyone listened. “But no, I don’t want to. I mean, out loud.” He clamped his lips shut.

Her smile didn’t dim. She hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d announced the meal. Did she have a secret? Had she discovered some mystery?

Surely she wasn’t that happy. Nobody was that happy.

“I’ll do it then.” She bowed her head and offered a simple blessing, then asked God to protect them and the property. “And help Ford find what he’s looking for. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

Hearing her speak his alias in prayer, guilt pricked his conscience. He’d gone by the moniker since he was a child, but Ford Baker wasn’t who he really was.

Did he owe Brooklynn the truth?

No. If anyone owed anyone, she owed him, not vice versa.

Even so, the guilt didn’t fade.

“Well, dig in,” she said.

He bit the sandwich, enjoying the salty ham and cheese paired with the creamy sauce and the crusty bread. It was nothing more than a fancy grilled cheese. But also, one of the tastiest sandwiches he’d ever eaten.

He might be ruined for normal grilled cheeses for the rest of his life.

After wolfing down one half and most of the chips, he sipped his water, catching her watching him from the opposite side of the glass table.

“What?”

“I take it you like it?”

“It’s fine.” He set the glass down, adding, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Niceties managed, he resumed eating.

“Why do you tell people you’re a handyman?” She’d barely made a dent in her sandwich and didn’t seem at all hurried. “I’m sure the town would roll out the Welcome Wagon if they knew why you were here.”

“That’s the last thing I want.”

“Because?”

“When people find out I’m investigating an unsolved mystery, they get curious. They start coming around.”

“I guess you have some experience.”

He shrugged, not wanting to lie again. He didn’t have experience with it, but he guessed how people would react.

“Either they’ll want to know what I’ve learned or they’ll want to share their theories—or both.”

“You’re not interested in their theories? Or you just don’t like people that much.”

“I’m interested, but I want to formulate my own ideas before I hear from others.”

“So you will eventually ask the locals what they remember?”

“Depends on what I learn.”

“But if you do, then you’ll have to admit you were lying. Do you really think that’s going to generate a lot of goodwill?”

“I’ve met four people.” All that very day, and two of whom were smugglers. He decided not to point that out. “I don’t care about goodwill.”

“Right.” She laughed, the sound lighthearted and free, completely incongruous with the conversation. “I probably could’ve guessed that. But you know the old saying about catching more flies with honey.” As the words came out, her nose wrinkled. He assumed she was thinking of the spider incident.

Which brought the memory of Brooklynn after she’d taken off the insect-infested clothes. He’d known, intellectually, that she wore shorts beneath his button-down, but the shorts hadn’t shown. What had shown were long, shapely legs.

Everything about this woman was a distraction.

“Speaking of insects, I put my clothes and the ones you let me borrow—the other ones, obviously—into the wash. They’re taking forever to dry.”

“It’s an old dryer.” He lifted the second half of his sandwich.

“I bet you’d learn more in an hour at The Salty Frog than you’ll learn all day long holed up in that office.”

He set his food down. “The what?”

“It’s a restaurant, coffee shop, bar, depending on what time of day you get there. Been there since before I was born. It’s where a lot of locals hang out.”

“I’ll try it, if it comes to that.” He lifted the sandwich again.

“But not yet.”

He didn’t stifle his sigh. “Not yet.”

“Because you want to formulate your own opinions, which I get. But the people who were around at the time can probably tell you more than those papers in the office.”

He lowered his meal once more. “I know you think all the people of Shadow Cove are above reproach, that not a single one of them could be involved in…whatever you saw this morning. And I’m sure it’s never crossed your mind that one of them could’ve had anything to do with the murders that happened in this house twenty-five years ago.

But somebody knows something. I’d rather not paint a big target on my back just yet. ”

If anything, her smile only broadened.

“What?” She was the most annoying person he’d ever met.

“I have a theory about you.”

He inhaled, counted to three, then exhaled slowly.

He was supposed to ask her theory—that was what she expected. But he didn’t feel like playing games.

He lifted his sandwich and took a huge bite. Waiting for her to share her stupid theory and telling himself he wasn’t curious.

“If somebody was involved in the murders back then,” she asked, “what makes you think they still live here? Wouldn’t they leave town?”

He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Why would they? They got what they wanted and never got caught.”

“Well, because…because don’t guilty people run?”

“Running makes you look guilty.”

“But also keeps you out of prison.”

Except nobody had gone to prison. Nobody had ever paid for his family’s murders.

“You don’t think the murderer is still here?” Brooklynn’s cheerful demeanor faded. “After all these years.”

“Maybe. They might still live right where they did before. These particular guilty people?—”

“You think there’re more than one?”

“I don’t know.”

He did know. But he couldn’t say so. And why was he having this conversation?

He ate the rest of the sandwich, lifted the plate, and headed for the door. “Thanks for dinner,” he called over his shoulder.

“You’re welcome. I was wondering if I could ask a favor?”

He slid his plate into the dishwasher, knowing he could either hear the favor here or back in the office. Since he wanted her to leave him alone, he opted to hear it now.

She moved into the opening between the breakfast room and the kitchen. “Could I borrow your computer?”

“No.”

“No? Just…no?”

Since his answer had been clear, he saw no reason to expand on it. He closed the dishwasher and started to leave.

“Wait.” Of course she followed. “I need to send the photos I took this morning to the police.”