Page 93 of The Murder Club

Eric rolled his eyes. “That again? How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

“At least once more,” Dom said, his voice hard.

“I came out of work. The dude was leaning against my car and he handed me the phone.”

“And he told you to take pictures of me?” Bailey took back command of the questioning.

Eric did more hunching. “I don’t remember his exact words. He might have said your name or he might have called you my friend. Either way, I knew what he wanted.”

“And you believed he was an artist in search of a muse?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Bailey studied his thin face. He looked genuinely annoyed. As if he didn’t understand why she was asking the question.

“We’ve discovered that he’s been lying since he arrived in Pike,” she informed him.

Eric stared at her, as if waiting for her to go on. “Lying about what?” he finally demanded.

“Everything. He’s not Ford Smithson and he’s not an artist.”

“Who is he?”

“Thorpe Curry.” Bailey shrugged. “Or at least that’s the professional name he uses. He might have another one,” she conceded.

It’d been Dom who’d suggested that the man might be using a pen name to sell his photographs. Ford/Thorpe was obviously fond of remaining incognito. Probably to avoid being smothered in his sleep.

“Professional what?”

“Paparazzo.”

Eric’s lips parted, as if he was struggling to process what she was telling him. “You’re being followed by the paparazzi?”

“Not me. Or not exactly. He wanted a way to get to Lia and through her to Kaden.”

Eric remained confused. “Did Ford . . . or whoever . . . want me to take pictures of Lia? She’s not my friend. And I’ve never met Kaden Vaughn.”

Bailey risked a quick glance toward Dom. His expression was grim as a visible tension hummed around his body, as if preparing for a surprise attack. But he shook his head in response to her silent question.

He didn’t think Eric was involved with Thorpe Curry. Not unless you counted being a clueless accessory.

“It doesn’t matter,” she reassured Eric again. Time to move on. “I just wanted to warn you that he can’t be trusted.”

“Thanks.” Eric’s wary expression softened as he studied her with a disturbing intensity. “You’ve always looked out for me, Bailey. You’re the only one.” He reached to grab her hand. “I wish you were still at the nursing home. It’s not the same there without you.”

Bailey gently tugged her hand free. She had to be careful not to offend Eric. He had the emotional maturity of a child, but she didn’t want him touching her. His clammy skin gave her the creeps.

She forced a smile to her lips. “Speaking of the nursing home . . .”

The gray eyes widened with hope. “Are you coming back?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Why not? It’s not that bad of a place to work.”

“I didn’t think so.” She paused, as if reluctant to reveal her reasons for avoiding her old job. “Not until the Donaldsons accused me of abusing my patients. Perhaps even killing one of them.”

Eric was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “I’m sure they never believed that.”