Jack didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t need to.

The look in his eyes, though quickly concealed, was all the proof Lexie Dawson needed. Jack Blade—a man she had slept with and still dreamed about—actually thought her capable of murder.

“Would you be willing to let me test your hands for gunpowder residue?” Jack asked. “I’d like to rule you out as a suspect.”

Lexie sat there for several seconds, weighing the request. If her husband had been murdered—no one would believe she was innocent. She had motive, opportunity and they would find gunpowder residue on her hands.

“I spent the afternoon at the gun range, trying out a new pistol.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Maybe two or three,” Lexie said. “And if you’re through with me, I’d like to go now.”

Jack stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid not,” he said. “In fact, I need to read you your rights….”

Secret Alibi
Lori L. Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Mavis Allen, with gratitude.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lori L. Harris has always enjoyed competition. She grew up in southern Ohio, showing Arabian horses and Great Danes. Later she joined a shooting league where she competed head-to-head with police officers—and would be competing today if she hadn’t discovered how much fun and challenging it was to write. Romantic suspense seemed a natural fit. What could be more exciting than writing about life-and-death struggles that include sexy, strong men?

When not in front of a computer, Lori enjoys remodeling her home, gardening and boating. Lori lives in Orlando, Florida, with her very own hero.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jack Blade—He worked undercover on some of the meanest streets in America before taking the job as Deep Water’s police chief. But he knows even quiet streets aren’t always safe. And justice isn’t always so easy to find—even for the innocent.

Lexie Dawson—Without an alibi, this pharmaceutical rep might just find herself on Florida’s death row.

Dr. Dan Dawson—A successful obstetrician and Lexie’s ex-husband. Who would want him dead?

Dr. Fleming Whittemore—Dan Dawson’s partner. Lexie considers him a close friend. But is he? Or does he have his own agenda?

Alec Blade—Jack Blade’s older brother. A top FBI profiler, Alec retired from the FBI after his wife’s brutal slaying and moved to Deep Water, hoping to rebuild his relationship with his brother. It seems as if Alec has brought Jack only more trouble.

Katie Blade—Less than a year ago, targeted by a brutal killer, she fought back and survived. Now she and Alec Blade are happily married.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

10:30 p.m. Deep Water, Florida

What had happened to him?

Unable to move, unable even to lift his head off the desk blotter, Dan Dawson attempted to focus on his surroundings, but couldn’t. The room—his home office—seemed to be a mishmash of colors, one bleeding into another.

The objects closest to him were clearer—the paper clip and the gold pen appeared almost jewel-like as they floated against a bloodred background. Those a few inches beyond were blurred and indistinct.

As he was staring at the paper clip, his eyelids slammed shut, cutting off the one sense that seemed to be working, the one thing that kept him feeling connected to his surroundings. Even as the panic ripped through him, he tried to fight it. But it was as if he’d been closed into a box—a coffin.

His eyelids suddenly sprang open, the sharp reentry of light painful but not unbearable.

Don’t panic. Panic was…was counterproductive.

Stay calm. Approach it as if it was one of his patients who was in trouble. He needed to…he needed to do… What? He tried to focus, but it was as if his brain had locked him out.

Vitals. Like a life ring, the word suddenly floated past in the black sea of nothingness, and he grabbed on tight. If he really concentrated, he realized he could feel the air moving in and out of his chest. Respiration slow and shallow, but steady.

A sudden explosion of pain struck at the base of his skull, then ravaged downward through him, sucking the air from his lungs. His throat muscles contracted hard, and he felt his body gasp for oxygen.

What the hell was wrong with him?

His sluggish mind grappled with and discarded possible diagnoses. Stroke? Too young. Cardiomyopathy? Overdose? He hadn’t taken any drugs in months…or had he? Had he taken something tonight?

Sweat slid slowly down his back, morphing into a living thing, a parasite that devoured his life force before escaping through his pores and oozing downward toward the floor, toward escape. Like rats from a burning building.

A distorted sound shattered the silence. Not in the room with him, but in the foyer or the kitchen. He felt a warm rush of relief. Rescue. He would be rescued.

Dan again tried to raise his head, but it was like trying to lift a watermelon that dangled from the end of a swizzle stick.

When he attempted to speak, the muscles of his throat refused to cooperate, the sound coming out more a cough than a plea.

More noise drifted from beyond the room. Drawers opening. Closing. Not in a hurry, but slowly, as if someone wanted to go unheard.

A shapeless shadow entered the room. For a moment, he thought he’d imagined the movement, but then, as the form passed in front of the flickering light from the fireplace, he realized he hadn’t.

Dan again tried to speak, but the pitifully weak sound that came from his lips was barely audible. “Help…”

The shadow made no attempt to render aid. Dan’s vision partially cleared, and he made out a hand encased in latex. The disembodied hand hovered ghostlike, and then slowly slid open the top right drawer of the desk.

With sudden lucidity, Dan knew what had left him paralyzed. Worse, he knew what was about to happen.

And this time, there was no controlling the panic.

LEXIE DAWSON GLANCED longingly at the exit of Baldacci’s.

Even before she had arrived for this business dinner, it had been a long day for her, and the conversation among the three surgeons at the table had drifted into more technical realms. As a pharmaceutical rep of a large drug company, she was well versed in her product, but not this stuff.

Fortunately, none of the three seemed to notice that her attention had shifted.

Dr. Dennis Rafferty, the oldest and least forward-thinking of her three guests, had chosen the upscale, overpriced restaurant, which was located in what eighty years ago had been Deep Water’s theater house. Back then, the interior would have been quite ornate, but now, all that remained of the once-gracious building were exposed brick walls and large, unadorned windows, giving it the warmth of an empty operating room.

Small wonder that Rafferty had chosen the place. She didn’t even want to think about what this one night was going to do to next month’s expense report. But if it paid off, if she sold another doctor on using Talzepam, the meal would be well worth it.

“What’s your opinion, Lexie?”

Lexie refocused her attention on the man directly across from her. Ken Lattimer was a thirtysomething orthopedic surgeon with dark hair and liquid brown eyes. Good-looking by most standards, but not by hers. He was reputed to be the Southeast’s best hand and wrist surgeon. But his nickname around the hospital—Dr. Hands—had nothing to do with surgical talent.

The third man at the table was Joe Lemon, a slightly over-weight, fortysomething pulmonary specialist with a wife, two kids and a booming practice.

Straightening in her seat, she hoped to buy some time by reaching for the glass of water. With any luck, someone would unknowingly clue her in on the direction of the conversation. When she lifted her gaze above the glass rim, though, she realized all three doctors were waiting for her to respond.

It was Ken who rescued her. “I was telling Joe and Rafferty that I’ve been using Talzepam for about two months now. Or has it been three?”

“Three.” Lexie had started repping the drug about six months ago and had found it a difficult sell. Most anesthesiologists and surgeons were slow to make changes. In fact, Ken was one of the few doctors at Cougar County Regional Hospital who embraced Talzepam.

She understood the reluctance the others had. Talzepam’s competitors, Valium and flurazepam, had been used in the operating room with good success for years. Why take a chance on a new drug—even if it offered some advantages to the patient?

“Like Ken, most surgeons who have tried Talzepam have found it to be fast-acting and dependable,” Lexie continued.

Ken agreed. “And so far I’ve seen very few post-op side effects. At least with my patients.”

She scanned the faces of the other two men—the unconverted—then swung her gaze back to Ken. “Not just your patients. I’ve been hearing the same from all my accounts. In every trial, Talzepam outperformed its counterparts. There were fewer reports of vision changes post-op, as well as problems with breathing or a slow heartbeat.”

Rafferty leaned forward. “Perhaps fewer incidences of respiratory problems, but those that did occur were more severe.”

Lexie maintained her relaxed posture. “You’re right. Several early studies did suggest that when breathing problems occurred with Talzepam, there was greater difficulty stabilizing the patient’s respiration—especially during long procedures. But it was found that, in all but one case, the anesthetist had overcompensated for the patient’s body weight. Talzepam is a powerful drug and dosing guidelines have to be strictly adhered to.”

His expression thoughtful, Ken nodded. “I’ve been following Talzepam since the trial stages. I think it has something to offer both the medical community and the patient.”

“In what ways?” Joe Lemon asked, and in the next instant, Ken was off and running, discussing his experiences with the drug.

Lexie knew that doctors tended to listen to other doctors more than sales representatives. Which made sense, really. The key was to pick the right doctor—usually the young ones were more open to new drugs. And if you could nab one who was both well-liked and respected by his peers, as Ken Lattimer was, the selling became that much easier.

She still was puzzled, though, by Ken’s phone call this morning. He’d asked her if it would be possible for him to join the group. That had never happened to her before, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was in it for him. It could hardly be the free meal. Or that he was without other social options for the evening. Reaching for the nearly full glass of red wine, she realized what she was most afraid of was that his interest was not in Talzepam, but her.

The cell phone tucked discreetly beneath her black tweed jacket vibrated. Pretending to smooth the napkin in her lap, she glanced down. Her ex-husband’s home phone number appeared on the backlit screen.

Great. She’d been expecting some form of communication from Dan all day. Dreading it, actually.

Lexie straightened her jacket, concealing the phone once more. Even if it had been someone she was interested in talking to, she would have ignored it. She’d already been caught once being less than attentive; she wasn’t about to look unprofessional a second time in one evening.

The discussion at the table again drifted away from her product, briefly touching on hospital politics and the current shortage of nurses. When the conversation veered to Tampa Bay’s chances in the playoffs, she excused herself from the table and headed for the ladies’ room. She’d nearly made it there when her phone began to vibrate again.

Flipping it open, she scanned the text message: have anniversary surprise stop by drink.

What in the hell was wrong with her ex-husband? Didn’t he understand that as far as she was concerned the only anniversary worth celebrating was March 15, the day she’d been awarded a divorce from him?

Fed up, she stopped just inside the short hallway where the restrooms were located and quickly manipulated the phone pad keys.

Don’t drink with murderers. Cruel words, but Dan would know exactly what she meant.

Only after hitting Send did she notice her hands were trembling. Calm down, she reminded herself. He’s just doing this to get a rise out of you. Or because he was drunk…. It didn’t really matter why he was doing it, though. She was pissed.

She clipped the phone to her waistband again. Right now, she needed to forget about Dan and keep her mind on business.

When she returned to the table a few minutes later, something in her face must have given her away, because Rafferty leaned toward her. “Everything okay?”

She glanced at him. He’d always seemed like such a cold fish, so she was surprised when he picked up on her emotional state. “Everything is fine.” She offered a tight smile. “Can I interest anyone in some coffee and dessert?”

Rafferty shook his head. “I have an eight o’clock surgery scheduled.” He placed his napkin on the table. “Time to call it a night, gentlemen.”

“I’ll drop by with samples of Talzepam in the morning,” Lexie said as she, too, stood.

“Sounds good. Wait up, Dennis.” Joe Lemon shook her hand, then hurried after Dr. Rafferty. Lexie caught the words prolapsed and ICU, and knew the two men were discussing a mutual patient.

Ken was the last to get to his feet, and he made no move to follow the other two men.

Here it comes, she thought. He’s going to suggest a nightcap or something. How was she going to turn him down without damaging the professional relationship?

She bent to retrieve her briefcase. By the time she straightened, Ken had walked around the table.

“Care to come by my place for that dessert?”

He didn’t look quite as confident as he usually did. Which surprised her. She tried to formulate some type of reply in her head, but after several seconds realized that the longer she waited to say something, the more awkward it was going to be for both of them. She settled for simple and direct. “No, thanks.”

He nodded, his mouth tightening ever so slightly. “I didn’t think so, but figured it was worth asking.”

He offered his hand, and she took it without hesitation. “Thanks, Ken, for helping tonight.”

Again, his mouth tightened briefly. “It’s a good product, Lexie. In time, it will outsell its competitors. Can I see you to your car?”

She had barely declined his offer when he tossed his jacket over his shoulder and, with one hand tucked into a pants pocket, strolled toward the front door. Several women a few tables over watched with interest. For a moment, Lexie envied them.

What did they see that she didn’t? She was twenty-seven, not ninety-seven. Sex was a healthy part of being an adult—one of the few perks, when you came right down to it. But in the eleven months since she and Dan had gone their separate ways, she’d had sex only one time. With a stranger who hadn’t stayed a stranger. Her abdominal muscles tensed at the memory of all the things they’d done that night. But more than the mechanics of sex, she’d been able to do something she hadn’t done in months—she had cried. He’d held her while she sobbed, never asking why, seeming to understand that her pain couldn’t be mollified with words.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Lexie realized she had no idea how long the busboy had been standing there looking at her.

“Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. Ducking her head, she moved away from the table. She had to stop thinking about that night, glorifying it as something more than it had been. Pity sex. That’s all it could have been for him. What was more embarrassing and depressing than that? To know a man had taken you to bed because he felt sorry for you?

After leaving the restaurant, she dropped last month’s expense account report into the box in front of the post office, and then took Alligator Creek Road toward home.

Temperatures had taken a hard dive into the high thirties—uncommon for early December in central Florida. A misting rain forced her to turn on the windshield wipers. She was used to the fifteen-minute drive, having moved out to Riverhouse, her grandparents’ old weekend retreat on the river, when she and Dan had separated. She’d expected the move to be a temporary one, lasting only until Dan vacated the house in town.

The majority of the land out this way belonged to the state now, so she was unlikely to see another car at this time of night. The dense line of vegetation, mostly palmettos and scrub oaks, with a few slash pines mixed in, formed a wall on either side.

Usually the drive relaxed her, but not tonight. She couldn’t seem to quite let go of her irritation over Dan’s interruption, or her uncertainty over the dinner meeting’s success.

Her headlights skimmed across a small family of armadillos that had wandered out of the undergrowth toward the road. Braking, she hit the horn and watched them scatter back into the brush.

She had just stopped in front of the house when her cell phone went off again. She checked the message screen.

paprs signd last dink

“Do you really think I’m that stupid, Dan?”

That was a fatal drawback to text messaging—you couldn’t really tell with any certainty the condition of the person on the other end. But the dropped letters in his message suggested that Dan was at least on his way to being drunk.

She should never have answered the first text message, she realized. As soon as she had, she’d given him what he really wanted from her. Not to be ignored.

Which was exactly what she needed to do. She reached for her briefcase and then paused, staring down at the phone she still held in her left hand.

But what if he wasn’t screwing with her? What if this time was different? What if he had signed the amended property settlement? She’d heard talk about his seeing a woman. Maybe he had finally started to move on.

She glanced through the rain-pocked window toward the front door of Riverhouse, wanting a hot shower and a soft bed. Wanting to forget about her ex-husband and legal documents. She wanted the mindless oblivion of sleep.

Lexie rubbed her forehead. No. As much as she would like to believe this time might be different, it would be like all the others. She’d lost count of the times he’d agreed to sign the papers, only to refuse when they were face-to-face.

She flipped the phone back open and, after briefly debating what her response should be, settled for being brutally frank. F off

She’d wanted to say that for months now, but hadn’t. Partially because she wanted to keep things as civilized as possible between them, figuring as long as she played nice, Dan would also. Boy had she been wrong.

She was reaching for her briefcase again when the phone vibrated in her hand. Startled, she dropped it on the floorboard. As she picked it up and straightened, she read the screen.

Pick up tnight Or brn them n house.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Lexie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm down. Just a head game. That’s all the threat was. He might burn the papers, but he wouldn’t burn the house. He wasn’t quite that crazy.

As she sat there in the dark, though, she realized that she was wrong. Drunk and mad, Dan might be capable of almost anything.

“Okay, Dan. We’ll play it your way one last time.”

She tossed the phone on the seat and turned the key in the ignition. If the papers weren’t signed, that was it. She’d kept her mouth shut for way too long. But no more.

Ten minutes later, Lexie paused at the end of the driveway leading down to the Victorian that she’d once shared with Dan. This house and Riverhouse had passed into her hands nearly four years ago with the death of her grandparents. Just the thought of losing it frightened her. As Dan had known it would.

Unlike most in the neighborhood, the large home with its deep, wraparound porch sat well off the boulevard. Several ancient live oaks blocked the view of the house from the road, their dark limbs so low-slung they appeared to rest on the lawn before rising skyward. As a child, she had spent summers crawling on those sturdy branches, climbing upward to where a thick bounty of leaves had made her invisible. At least once, when her mother had come to collect Lexie at summer’s end, she’d sought refuge there.

And there had been unpleasant consequences for that action.

Lexie took her foot off the brake and let the car creep down the brick drive. Some lessons stayed with you for a lifetime. Avoidance was an option, but it was rarely a solution.

The front light wasn’t on, and large, dense hedges blocked any light from neighboring homes, making the yard extremely dark. A lamp in the foyer and the one in Dan’s office were on, though.

With the rain having increased to a steady drum on the car roof, Lexie removed her coat before getting out. She held it over her head as she made a run for the door. Her eyes darted toward the wide set of stairs that climbed from the brick walkway to the porch, but just as quickly she looked away. She couldn’t go up them. She would never use those stairs again.

As she started for the back of the house, she saw movement, a shadow, just inside the front door. He must have seen her headlights. He’d know to meet her at the back door.

Lexie sprinted across the thick St. Augustine grass, now slick with rain, and ducked under the back porch covering. She shook the dampness off her jacket. Shoving her arms back into the sleeves, she peered through the glass, waiting for Dan to come into view.

They’d remodeled the kitchen two years ago, replacing the ceramic tile countertops of the 1920s with granite and the original cabinets with new ones that had been made to look old. The under-cabinet lighting they’d added gave the room a peaceful glow.

As she stood there, though, the knot in her stomach tightened. The last time he’d gotten her over here with a promise of signed papers, there had been candles, wine and a diamond bracelet waiting instead of the papers.

One look and she’d been out of there.

When she didn’t see Dan after half a minute, she knocked. Pulling her damp suit jacket closed, she crossed her arms to hold it that way. “Come on. It’s too damn cold for this.”

Several seconds later, when there was still no Dan, she tried the door and, finding it unlocked, debated going on in. Was that what he wanted? For her to come in? Was he waiting for her naked on the couch again?

She stood there weighing her options. She didn’t relish the idea of dealing with a drunk, naked man, but it wouldn’t be the first time. There was also the possibility that he had simply passed out. If he had, and if by some miracle the papers were signed, she could just grab them and leave. No confrontations.

Lexie pushed the door open. The first thing that struck her when she stepped inside was the silence.

Dan liked noise. He always had the television going, or left a CD on. He couldn’t handle being alone. It was the same reason he drank. The same reason he occasionally abused Valium.

“Dan?”

When he didn’t respond, the knot in her chest tightened. Something didn’t feel quite right….

“Dan? Where are you?”

As she crossed the kitchen, heading for the door leading into the dining room, she opened her jacket. The house was unusually warm, which wasn’t like him, either. He always kept the place cold enough for a polar bear.

She shoved open the swinging door. When she let it go, it closed behind her, the only light now coming from the lamp on the old English chest in the foyer.

“Dan?”

Her footsteps echoed on the oak flooring, and then were muffled by the foyer’s Persian carpet. A thin swath of light spilled out from where the door to his office stood ajar. She called out one last time when she was still several feet away.

Two scents registered simultaneously. Blood. Fresh blood. She remembered it from the few times she’d entered an operating room. And the underlying scent, the much more subtle one—cordite.

“No!” Her heart crashed inside her rib cage as her gut twisted in fear. Her palms slammed into the door, her forward momentum carrying her halfway across the room before the scene registered: Dan slumped at his desk, his head resting in a large pool of blood. Lexie kept going, something inside her refusing to believe—until she touched his hand.

Releasing cold fingers, she jerked backward, almost as if something had struck her a physical blow. Her hand came up to cover her mouth. Too late, she realized there was blood on it.

She stared at it, then at Dan. She tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. It was as if her brain, her body, had forgotten how, had been short-circuited by what was in front of her.

The first wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to stumble backward, toward the door. She clamped a hand over her mouth as if that could stop the vomit. She made it as far as the small bathroom beneath the stairs.

When the retching passed, she leaned against the sink, afraid her legs would give out. Dear God, this couldn’t be happening! Not to Dan. What would make him commit—?

When she lifted her gaze to the mirror, her thoughts suddenly derailed.

She hadn’t closed the door behind her. She was sure of it. But it was shut tight. And everything inside her told her there was someone on the other side.

Waiting for her.

Chapter Two

Rain came down hard and steady as Deep Water’s chief of police, Jack Blade, was waved through the barricade by a slicker-clad patrolman.

Wadding up the wrapper from a greasy cheeseburger, Jack tossed it back in the sack, then rolled down the window to speak with the officer.

“Who’s all here, Hank?”

“Ellis, Martinez, Shepherd, Fitz. The D.A. did a quick walk-through about forty-five minutes ago.”

“What about our illustrious medical examiner? He make it by yet?”

“Been called.” Hank nodded toward the food bag. “Thought you were swearing off fast food, Chief.”

“Yeah.” Hitting the gas, Jack nosed the car forward before casting a jaundiced glare down at the bag.

Hank was right. He really had to start eating better. He also needed to begin carving out some kind of life for himself. He’d thought making the move to Deep Water would be enough, that with the change of scenery, he would also change. But he hadn’t. It was pretty much business as usual, his life revolving around police work, and not much else.

Except, of course, for that one night nearly two months ago when he’d met a woman. A very intelligent and beautiful woman.

He’d thought they’d made a real connection. He’d called several times after that, hoping to pursue something with her, but she had been pretty blunt the last time he’d contacted her.

Just his luck, the only woman he’d met who interested him wasn’t interested in return. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t seem to get her out of his head.

Reaching down, he switched on the defroster to clear the windshield. Though he’d relocated from Atlanta nearly two years ago, he still couldn’t get used to the damp cold of a Florida winter, where thirty-nine degrees cut through you like thirteen. And where three days of gray skies felt like an eternity.

There was no sign of any media yet, but he suspected it would be only a matter of time before they made an appearance. Reporters and bluebottle flies. Both fed on the dead, but it was the reporters who usually showed up first.

Like any midsize, modern city, Deep Water had its share of murders, but up until tonight, none of them had taken place in Thornton Park, an affluent area of large, historic homes with sweeping, deep-green lawns and brick streets.

Jack looked up as the house came into view. Most of the homes in the area were dark now, but light flooded from this one, and vehicles crowded the driveway as if some swank gala was under way. And in some ways, it was a party—a morbid one—attended by crime scene techs and police officers, and with the host already dead.

Jack swung in behind the department’s white crime-scene van—a recently purchased, fully equipped vehicle. It had taken him nearly a year to convince the city council that the vehicle wasn’t a luxury, but a necessity.

Jack grabbed gloves and shoe covers, dug a roll of mints out of the center console and flicked off two. He could still taste the cheeseburger. In another hour or so the sour taste in his mouth would be even worse.

A patrol officer, Billy Ellis, stood just outside the front door, hunched in a jacket that was too lightweight for the weather, stamping his feet against the cold. As Jack approached, Ellis scribbled down his name in the security log.

“You first officer on the scene?” Jack asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Still outside, Jack slipped on vinyl gloves—he was allergic to the more common latex variety. Glancing up as he was tugging on the second shoe cover, he noticed the kid’s lack of color and shell-shocked expression. “First homicide?”

Ellis nodded nervously. “Yes, sir.”

Jack suspected that no matter how many other homicides Billy Ellis worked in his career, tonight’s would always be the most vivid. At some point during the next week or so, the kid would probably tell himself that the next one would be easier. It wouldn’t be. In Jack’s experience, they never got easier—a man just got better at coping.

Another new recruit looked up as Jack stepped into the foyer. The officer, who stood in front of the chest against the opposite wall, was sifting through what appeared to be mail, and used his head to motion toward a set of double doors. “Body’s in there.”

“Who called it in?”

“The ex-wife. Fitz is in the kitchen with her now.”

After the week he’d had, Jack would have liked to bypass the room with the body—to spend time with the living instead of the dead. But no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Because when it came right down to it, homicide investigations weren’t about the living. They were about the dead—about attaining justice for those who were beyond needing it.

Jack stepped inside what appeared to be a home office. Every lamp had been turned on and additional lights had been brought in to flood the space.

It wasn’t the type of room you expected to see in one of these older homes. The wood floor had been left bare and the walls were a stark white, as was just about everything else in the room. Even the large brushed-metal-and-glass desk seemed too cold and sterile for the space.

The body was slumped over the slick surface and belonged to a white male with his head—at least what was left of it—resting on the desktop.

It was always the odor that hit Jack the hardest. With a new body, there was the raw, metallic scent of fresh blood, sometimes so strong that when you opened your mouth to speak, it seemed to collect on your tongue. If the victim had gone undiscovered for a longer period of time, the odors were even stronger, but no more unpleasant. Death was simply death.

Two men worked the room. Detective Frank Shepherd was a 30-year veteran of Deep Water PD. A tall, rail-thin man with sharp features. Even though the department had relaxed its dress code for detectives, Shepherd continued to wear starched shirts and neckties. And freshly polished shoes. Jack liked him for his intellect and his thoroughness—both important qualities in a detective. At the moment, Shepherd was shining a flashlight at an oblique angle, looking for prints around the front window.

“Window’s unlocked. And I have what appears to be a decent thumbprint,” Shepherd called over his shoulder. Neither man had yet seen Jack.

The other man was 26-year-old Andy Martinez, the only crime scene tech currently employed by Deep Water PD. Where Frank wore a starched shirt and a necktie, Andy wore a white T-shirt, with CRIME SCENE printed on front and back, and jeans. A black ball cap turned backward and athletic shoes encased in paper covers completed his uniform. At the moment, Andy was digging through the large, black case that he liked to call his toy chest. The box contained everything he needed, from pencils and pliers to dusting powder and a strong flashlight.

“Been expecting you, Chief,” Andy commented without looking up.

Everyone in the department knew that Jack showed up at every homicide. Mostly to make sure his detectives were getting what they needed to do their jobs. Sometimes, especially if there was DNA evidence involved, that meant contacting the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab in Daytona Beach, and other times it just meant handling the media and running interference with several town councillors.

“I didn’t get the call until the plane hit the ground,” Jack said.

Shepherd had turned as soon as Andy had spoken, and nodded a greeting in Jack’s direction before going back to studying the area near the window.

“That explains the suit,” Andy said as he walked across the room to hand Shepherd dusting powder and lift tape.

“How’d it go in Philly?” Andy asked as he passed Jack the second time.

Jack had flown up to Philadelphia to be at his brother’s side. Not because Alec wanted company, but because Alec’s eight-months-pregnant wife, Katie, had wanted Jack there.

“Jury deliberated for six hours before coming back with a guilty verdict,” Jack said. “Penalty phase starts next week.”

“Let’s hope the bastard gets what he deserves,” Andy said.

The man on trial was responsible for the brutal slaying of Alec’s first wife nearly two years ago. At the time of her murder, Alec had been a criminal profiler with the FBI. He’d retired only months after his wife’s death so that he could, with his usual tenacity, devote every moment of his time to bringing down her killer.

Alec didn’t know how to fail at anything. It was one of the things Jack admired about his brother. It was also one of the characteristics that at times could get under Jack’s skin.

He moved farther into the room, careful to stick with a straight path that he could later backtrack. “What do you have so far?”

Andy had closed in on the body’s right side and seemed to be examining its position. “The victim is a 36-year-old male. Cause of death appears to be gunshot to the head at very close range. By the look of it, he didn’t go right away. Too much blood.”

“I assume we have a name?”

“Dan Dawson. Local doc.”

At the name, Jack looked up from the body, everything inside him tightening. If this was Dr. Daniel Dawson, then that made the woman in the other room… Not a stranger.

Andy, who had been examining the floor beneath the victim, stuck his head above the desk edge, but didn’t seem to record Jack’s reaction to the name.

“I completed the video and sketches, as well as the preliminary 35 mms and a few digital shots. There was a nickel-plated .357 revolver on the floor on the victim’s right, and I found powder residue on the victim’s right hand, right cheek and shirt collar.”

“So you think it was self-inflicted?” Jack asked, and waited tense seconds for Andy’s answer.

“You’ll have to ask the medical examiner that one.”

“I’m asking for your opinion, Andy.”

The crime scene tech looked up from what he was doing. Jack wasn’t surprised to encounter speculation in his eyes. Andy was probably wondering what was different about this murder, why his boss had just asked him to comment on an aspect of the scene that was clearly the M.E.’s territory.

After nearly a half minute, Andy looked down at the corpse. “I obviously haven’t moved the body, so the most I can tell you is that the bullet appears to have entered just behind the right condyle and then exited low on the left side of the skull.”

“Not the usual positioning of the weapon for a suicide,” Jack said.

Shrugging, Andy started to collect items from the desktop. “The bullet trajectory pretty much did away with any chance of survival. Which is usually the goal.”

“Damn,” Jack whispered. “What drives a man, a seemingly successful one, to just give away his life?”

Andy picked up a photo that had been facedown on the desk. Blood dripped from the frame edge as he held it for Jack to see. “Maybe losing something like that.”

Both men knew who she was. Andy because he would have seen her when he arrived, and Jack because they’d met once before—under very different circumstances.

The photograph was a close-up and had been cropped so there was no background—just hair and face. An interesting face with a strong chin and steel-gray eyes so direct that some would find them intimidating. Then there was all that dark gold hair, not smooth and neat, but full and, from the looks of it, hard to restrain. What the picture didn’t show was the supple, well-muscled body. Jack’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he tried to forget the warm, satiny skin.

Andy placed the frame in the box with other items that would be transported to the lab for evaluation.

Jack scanned the room again. With the exception of the evidence markers scattered about like a toddler’s toys, the space looked tidy. Definitely no signs of a struggle.

“Were there any indications of forced entry?”

It was Shepherd who responded this time. “No. At least not on the first floor. When I finish up in here, I’ll check upstairs.”

Andy had collected a pile of manila files from one corner of the desk and was placing them in another cardboard box.

“What are those?” Jack asked.

“They look to be patient charts.”

As Jack moved closer to the victim, he was still very aware of where he placed his feet. “It appears as if he may have been sitting here reviewing them.”

On the surface, the pieces seemed to fit, but…

Jack lifted his hand, intending to massage the stiffness in his neck, then realized he was still gloved, and allowed it to drop again. “He brings work home with him, and then stops in the middle to put a gun to his head? Why look over charts if you have no intention of seeing or treating the patients?” Jack paused. “Unless you were being sued?”

“And the charts belong to women who might be called as witnesses at a trial?” Andy had keyed in on the direction Jack was going. “He realizes he’s screwed and reaches into the drawer…. Bam. No suit. No trial.”

“Just happy trails,” Shepherd chimed in.

Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Or he brought the charts home because he hadn’t had time to take care of them at the office. Someone comes in here and puts a gun to his head.” He looked over at Andy. “The powder residue on his hand—any possibility that it got on him when he was trying to grab the gun from someone else at the time it went off?”

“Sure.”

Shepherd moved in closer to the body. “The only entrance is in front of the desk. If he didn’t do this to himself, then whoever did knew him well enough to get in close and personal.”

Jack scanned the room again. Shepherd was right. There was no way anyone could’ve snuck up on him.

Shepherd handed the dusting powder back to Martinez. “My money is on the ex-wife.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. The possibility that the woman in the other room—the same woman who had too briefly shared his bed two months ago and who had haunted his mind ever since—had put a gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger left him feeling exposed.

LEXIE HAD BEEN SITTING in the kitchen’s breakfast nook for nearly two hours now. For the last hour, she’d been answering questions asked by Detective Joe Fitz. He was somewhere deep into middle age and had one of those Moon Pie faces that would go unnoticed in a group photo.

“So you arrived around eleven-fifteen?” Fitz asked.

“No. I arrived at eleven-thirty.” How many different ways were there to ask the same question? She leaned back, pressing her spine against the hard surface of the bench. She was so tired. Not just physically exhausted, but she was weary of answering the unending questions from the police.

“I know you’re just trying to establish when it happened, but I guess I don’t see why it really matters when Dan…when it happened.”

“It’s just routine procedure, ma’am.”

She nodded in understanding, and solemnly waited for the next question.

Fitz glanced at his notes. “You came in through the back door?”

“Yes. It was open.”

“Was it unlocked, or was it open?”

“Unlocked.” Lifting her chin, she massaged the back of her neck slowly. Even without the black tweed jacket that was folded on the banquette next to her, the room was suffocatingly warm. There was blood on the coat, just as there was on one sleeve of her blouse. Unable to face the sight of it, she’d concealed both—that on the jacket by removing the garment and carefully folding it in half, and that on the blouse by turning back the cuffs. But it was still there. Just as the bloody images of Dan were there when she closed her eyes. Just as the smell of blood and death seemed to cling inside her nostrils.

“Was it normal for the door to be left unlocked?”

Shaking her head, she hunched forward, her fingers tightening around the mug on the table in front of her. She didn’t want the coffee, but couldn’t seem to let go of it, either—just as she couldn’t seem to let go of what was happening inside her head.

If she had arrived earlier, would Dan still be alive? Could she have talked him out of it? Or would he only have killed her, too? Was that his intention when he’d called? Had the anniversary gift been a bullet and not signed legal papers?

The thought that Dan had hated her enough to want her dead left her fighting to breathe. How could two people who had once loved each other end up as they had? How did that happen?

“Mrs. Dawson?”

She looked up, realizing Fitz must have asked her another question. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Did you see anyone when you arrived?”

“No.” She pushed the coffee to one side. Obviously, she’d imagined the shadow inside the front door, just as she’d briefly imagined she wasn’t alone in the house. Of course, as soon as she opened the bathroom door and there had been no one waiting for her on the other side, she’d realized her mistake.

Just then the door into the dining room swung open. Her chest instantly tight with renewed apprehension, Lexie looked up, praying that it wouldn’t be Jack Blade.

She relaxed as soon as she realized that it was one of the officers who had been in and out of the kitchen several times in the past few hours.

“Medical examiner’s here for the body,” the officer announced.

Detective Fitz flipped his notebook shut and stood.

She looked up at him. “Can I go now?”

“You’re free to go at any time, though it would be helpful if you could stick around a bit longer.” The detective shrugged. “At least until we finish processing the crime scene.”

Lexie nodded with resignation. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to sleep even if she did go home. Better to stay here. To help as much as she could.

As soon as the detective left the room, she closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the wall behind her. Her backside ached from the hard seating and her head hurt. There would be aspirin in the cabinet next to the sink, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to get them.

She still couldn’t get her mind around it. Dan was dead. He’d put a gun to his head. It just didn’t mesh. He was a doctor. If he’d wanted to take his own life, why not end it with pills?

Lexie let go of that line of thought because it wasn’t helping anyone. Certainly not Dan, who was beyond help, or herself.

For a period of time, in a numb trance, she listened to the clomp of feet just beyond the door and those overhead on the second floor. The not-so-quiet opening of doors and drawers as not only Dan’s death was probed, but his life, as well.

She recalled how when they were first married, she’d awaken early on Sunday mornings sometimes. She’d be sitting in the very place she was now, sipping coffee and reading the paper, when Dan, having slept in after a late night at the hospital, would come stumbling downstairs. They’d talk about the baby he’d delivered and about the three or four they wanted. He’d reach across the table, his fingers capturing hers, and he’d tell her that he wanted to make a baby with her, not sometime in the future, but right then. Had that all been an act?

What she wouldn’t give to go back to one of those uncomplicated mornings right now. To feel about Dan the way she had before everything went so wrong between them.

Reaching for her phone, needing to hear a familiar voice, she tried Fleming’s number again. Dan and Fleming were— had been—partners. As it had the last time she’d called, which had been just after she’d dialed 9-1-1, Fleming’s voice mail picked up. She hadn’t left a message before, but did this time. “Fleming, I really need to talk to you. I’m at Dan’s. Something awful has hap—” Voice mail cut off the rest.

And when it did, she realized just how alone she felt sitting there in the kitchen. The house was full of people, but she felt isolated, as if she’d been shut out, shut away.

Lexie scooted to the end of the bench and climbed to her feet. How pathetic was that—feeling sorry for herself? She had a dozen friends she could call. Who would do whatever she asked of them. But she was stronger than that.

She located the aspirin and poured water into a glass. As she took the pills, she thought about what morning would bring. Funeral arrangements needed to be made. And someone should call Dan’s parents. It would be easier on them if the news came from someone they knew and not from the police. Not from her, though.

Up until she filed for divorce, she’d always gotten along well with her in-laws. Better than she had with her mother and stepfather. And because she had, she felt the loss of them in her life more than she did the loss of her own parents, who, when the divorce was announced, had cut off all contact with her, but not with Dan.

Something banged in Dan’s office, a loud sound followed by tense voices. What was going on in there now? Had Dan’s body been carried out? In her mind, she envisioned him being placed in a body bag. She could almost hear the hiss of the zipper closing over his face.

Lexie turned around and stared at the door leading into the dining room. A sense of claustrophobia closed in on her. She couldn’t stay any longer. She had to get out of here. Go anywhere. She crossed to the bench where she’d left her purse and jacket.

Straightening, she came face-to-face with Jack Blade.

A solid jolt of panic shot through her. The last time they’d been this close he’d been smiling down at her, the look in his pale blue eyes… She derailed all thoughts about what she’d seen in his eyes that night.

She had been praying he wouldn’t show up. It was hard enough keeping herself together in the presence of strangers, of people who didn’t know her, who hadn’t seen her without the protective armor of clothing. Hadn’t held her during the most vulnerable moments experienced by a woman.

The warm rush of heat hit her cheeks at the same time that cold dread settled at her core.

“Hello, Lexie.” There was an edge to his voice that had also been absent during their last conversation.

She offered a tight smile and a brief nod, but decided to wait before saying anything. At least he wasn’t pretending they were strangers. It would have been even more awkward if he had.

He motioned for her to sit. “I know you’ve already answered a lot of questions for Detective Fitz, but I need to ask you a few more.”

She slowly sank onto the bench. Instead of also sitting, as she’d expected, Jack crossed to where the coffeepot remained nearly full. He was dressed in a suit. Had he been out on a date? Had he sat across from a beautiful woman tonight in an expensive restaurant?

Lexie retrieved her cold cup of coffee. Where Jack Blade went or what he did when he got there was none of her business. In every way that was meaningful, they were strangers.

So why couldn’t she just forget about that night two months ago? They’d met in a restaurant bar. He’d been wearing faded jeans and an equally faded T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. He’d looked very male, not as civilized as he did now. And by the end of the evening, the T-shirt had been smeared with her tears and makeup.

It had gotten only worse from there. He’d driven her home to her place and taken her to bed. She became uncomfortable at the memory of the gloriously hot sex they’d shared.

He’d phoned several times after that night. Finally, she’d lied, telling him that she wasn’t interested. The pathetic and cowardly truth, though, was that it was easier to pretend she was okay when there was no one there to see her fall apart.

As she watched, Jack poured two cups. Putting both on the table, he slid in across from her, facing her as Fitz had, but because he was taller than the other man, his knee brushed hers. Both of them ignored the contact.

He looked better than she remembered. Blond hair, longer on top and with some darker streaks running through it. Penetrating, deep-blue eyes; a strong jawline. But it was his mouth that was the real attention grabber. No woman would be able to resist imagining how it would feel. And not just on her lips.

Lexie pushed the old cup of coffee to the side and pulled the fresh one toward her, then waited in silence.

“Was your ex-husband right-or left-handed?”

It wasn’t a question that she’d been expecting, so it took her a second to answer it. “Actually, Dan was ambidextrous. He did some things with his right hand and others with his left.” She leaned back. “He was born a lefty and still played most sports that way, but during medical school he trained himself to use his right hand for just about everything else. Said it made things easier for everyone. That nurses didn’t have to spend a lot of time changing setups and rearranging the equipment in operating rooms.”

“How about with a gun? Would he have used his right or his left hand?”

She fiddled with the cup handle. “I don’t know. I never saw him pick one up.”

He seemed surprised by the answer. “There was a .357 found next to the…next to your ex-husband. Nickel-plated, which means it was sort of a silvery color.”

“I’m familiar with the term.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but Lexie wasn’t in the mood to apologize. She took a hurried sip of the cooling coffee. That she hadn’t seen the gun or given any thought to the weapon that had been used bothered her. She should have, she realized. Was the revolver hers? She hadn’t been worried when she’d moved out and left it secured in the gun safe. Dan had never shown any interest in her grandfather’s collection of weapons.

Jack seemed to study her for several seconds. “So, as far as you knew, Dr. Dawson didn’t own a .357?”

“No. But when I moved out I left one locked in the gun safe upstairs.”

“So the weapon may be yours?”

“If it’s the one from the safe, it would be registered to my grandfather.”

“But you had possession of it?” Jack said.

Lexie frowned. “Yes. I suppose you could say the gun was mine.”

“When was the last time you shot it?”

“Never.”

“Why keep it then?”

“Sentimental reasons.” She drew air deep into her lungs, let it back out. The questions were really starting to get to her. She was beginning to wish that she’d left when Fitz had said she could.

“Most people don’t consider guns to be very sentimental.”

“I kept it because my grandfather enjoyed taking it to the range and shooting with his buddies. When I visited as a little girl, he’d take me with him. When I got older, he taught me how to handle a gun. After that, it became something we shared. The gun meant something to him, so it means something to me.”

“When’s the last time you saw your grandfather’s gun?”

“Eleven months ago.”

“But not tonight? When you found the body?”

She shook her head. “As soon as I saw Dan, I called 9-1-1.”

“The call came in around eleven-forty,” Jack said. “What were you doing here at that time of night?” Unlike Detective Fitz, he wasn’t making notes, so his gaze never left her face. It had been the same the night they’d met. But it hadn’t been just his eyes that had seemed completely focused on her; it had been everything else, too. Every movement, every touch had seemed meant for her. Had seemed meant to heal her deep down inside. It was no wonder she couldn’t get him out of her head, and yet at the same time couldn’t allow him anywhere near her.

She realized that he was waiting for her to answer, but it took her a moment to recall his question. “I had come by to collect some documents.”

“What type of documents?”

“Property settlement papers,” she said. “Dan called me earlier. He’d signed them and wanted me to pick them up.”

“At eleven-thirty at night?”

Lexie felt her pulse pick up, but tried to ignore it. She had nothing to worry about. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Everyone became a little nervous when a cop asked questions.

“Dan was a night owl,” she said after a several-second hesitation.

“How did he seem when he contacted you tonight?”

“Fine.”

“Who wanted the divorce?”

“This is a no-fault state.” As soon as she said it, she realized that, though she didn’t like the direction the question had taken, it was still a police investigation and personal feelings shouldn’t play into it. “I was the one who wanted out.”

“May I ask why?”

“Irreconcilable differences,” she offered. It was nothing more than a twentieth-century sound bite that explained very little, but then, she’d learned that pigeonholing the reason a relationship failed was nearly impossible.

His mouth tightened. Jack had yet to take a sip of coffee, and she suspected that he’d poured it only to give the illusion that they were two people having a conversation. But that’s where the illusion started and stopped, she realized, wondering why she hadn’t sensed it earlier with Detective Fitz.

What Fitz had labeled an informal, fact-gathering interview had deteriorated into something more intense. More uncomfortable for her. Had the police found something that led them to believe Dan’s death wasn’t suicide? Did they think she was somehow involved? She almost wanted to laugh at the idea. Great. She’d gone from terrorized to paranoid in a matter of seconds.

“Was he alone when you spoke to him?”

Leaning back, Lexie folded her arms. “I don’t know. He was text messaging me.”

“Did you erase his messages?”

“No.” She dug the phone out of her purse and placed it on the table in front of her. “I usually make notes of important calls when I get home at night.”

“May I look?”

She slid the phone across to him, and then watched as he manipulated the buttons. After several moments, he turned the screen and held it up for her to see.

Anniversary surprise stop by drink.

“That was the first one,” she said.

“Wedding anniversary, I assume?”

She nodded solemnly.

He looked at the phone again, though she suspected he really didn’t need to.

“The call came in at ten-fifteen. Where were you when you received it?”

“Dinner.”

“Kinda late for dinner. Were you alone?”

“It was a business dinner. At Baldacci’s. My guests were Drs. Rafferty, Lemon and Lattimer. We were discussing a new drug, one that I rep. The reservation was for eight o’clock. We finished up a little before eleven.”

“Eleven,” he repeated. He hit a few more keys and again turned the screen so she could see it.

paprs signd last dink

“This one came in at 11:05. Were you still at the restaurant?”

She shook her head. “I had just arrived home.”

“Alone?”

The question bothered her. Perhaps because of what had happened between them two months ago, and what she sensed to be the underlying suggestion that she often spent the night with near-strangers.

“Very alone.”

If she hadn’t been watching his face closely, she wouldn’t have seen the barely perceptible tightening of his mouth and the infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes.

He nodded. “So why don’t you tell me more about these property settlement papers? Was your divorce not final?”

Again, she sensed a hidden question—had Lexie been married when they’d slept together?

“The divorce was final six months ago. However, there was a problem with the paperwork, something fairly minor that only recently came to light. Dan took advantage of it, though, and filed an appeal of the original settlement, claiming that the division of property hadn’t been equitable, and that he should retain possession of this house.”

“And you didn’t agree?”

“No. The house belonged to my grandparents and had been willed to me nearly a year before Dan and I married. Besides, he didn’t really want the house. He hated it. He just wanted to drag things out.”

“What makes you say that?”

“This wasn’t the first time he claimed to have signed the documents,” she said.

Instead of commenting, Jack punched more keys. He held up the phone.

Pick up tnight or brn them n house

“Where were you when this came in?”

“At home. I was still sitting in my car, debating what I should do.”

“Did you believe that he might actually burn the papers and the house?”

“Dan never threatened. He warned of consequences.”

“So you thought him capable?”

“Of burning the papers?” She glanced away. “Yes. I thought him capable.”

“And the house?”

She rubbed her forehead. The headache really pounded now, making it difficult to think.

“Lexie, did you think he might burn the house?”

She shoved the hair that had fallen forward off her face as she looked up, meeting his gaze. “Intentionally? No. Accidentally? Maybe. If he’d been drinking,” she admitted.

“Did he have a drinking problem?”

She fiddled with the charm bracelet again, her fingers automatically searching out and finding the smooth, heart-shaped locket. “Not as far as he was concerned.”

Once again, Jack’s eyes narrowed, but this time that wasn’t the only change. It was like watching an approaching tornado, the clear skies of a summer afternoon suddenly turning dark and lethal. Treacherous and unpredictable.

And in that moment, it hit Lexie that she wasn’t being paranoid earlier. Jack did think she might somehow be involved. Probably Detective Fitz did, too. How had she not picked up on it sooner?

Without saying a word, Jack got up and left the room briefly. When he came back, he had a cell phone encased in a plastic bag, the inside of which was smeared with blood. He wasn’t alone this time, either. A Hispanic man followed him in, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt printed with CRIME SCENE, but stopped just inside the door.

This time Jack didn’t sit down. Deep Water’s police chief held up the phone, as he had the last one.

Silently, she read the screen: Don’t drink with murderers

“Care to explain that?”

She realized that if they’d been looking for motive, she’d given them several in a matter of minutes. Her ex-husband was bullying her on a property settlement. He’d threatened to burn a house that she obviously wanted enough to fight him for. And then there was the most damning reason—the one they didn’t even know about yet.

“Lexie?” There was menace in Jack’s tone.

She lifted her eyes to his but remained mute. Should she ask to see an attorney? No one had read her her rights yet. Didn’t they have to do that? Wasn’t anything she said up until now inadmissible in court?

Jack punched more buttons, held the phone up yet again. F off

“Were you angry?”

“Irritated. And…” Lexie closed her mouth, worried that her response would be misinterpreted.

Jack placed the phone on the table in front of her, the screen still lit and the words still there. The smeared blood on the inside of the bag blurred the screen. She looked away, her gaze stumbling onto Jack’s as he watched her.

“You don’t believe Dan’s death to be a suicide?” Her voice was pitched lower than usual. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her. Lexie looked toward the Hispanic man, who hadn’t moved. “Do you?”

Jack’s voice came as if from a distance. “It’s up to the medical examiner to make that determination. Our job is to do a thorough investigation in the meantime. Anytime there is a questionable death, we have to approach it as if it’s a homicide.”

She didn’t believe him. Maybe they had to wait on the official word, but her gut told her they were already building a case. Against her.

“Would you be willing to submit to a gunpowder residue test? Just to help rule yourself out?”

Lexie sat there for several seconds, weighing the request. She was really and truly screwed, wasn’t she? If Dan hadn’t killed himself—if he had instead been murdered—no one would buy her innocence, would they? She had opportunity and more than enough motive. And now they would have a residual test?

She stood slowly, her gaze moving from the man who waited near the door—the reason for his presence now obvious—to the man in front of her, who stood between her and the back door.

“It would be a waste of time,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I spent part of my afternoon at the gun range, trying out a new pistol.”

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