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Evidence of Murder
Jill Elizabeth Nelson


The photographs Samantha Reid uncovers in her new store are shocking.Horrifying. And dangerous. This new evidence could reopen a decade-old multiple homicide case that someone wants desperately to keep closed. And when the evidence comes out, a reluctant Samantha is drawn straight into the spotlight. All the attention is wrecking her business–and drawing the killer's eye straight to her.Then she meets Ryan Davidson, the last surviving member of the murdered family. In spite of herself, she's drawn in by his need to find the truth. Together, they work to unravel the mystery, while the killer works to keep the secrets buried–forever.









Samantha’s intercom buzzer sounded. On shaky legs, she padded to the kitchen and pressed the button to hear who was there.


“Ms. Reid, this is Officer Johnson of the Plymouth Police Department. Your intruder says he has a right to be here. Would you mind coming down?”

A few seconds later, Samantha cautiously unlocked her door and peered out into the night. A pair of officers held a man between them—someone she recognized. She glanced up into the stone face of Ryan Davidson, the same man she’d seen in a photo earlier that day.

Their gazes locked, and raw emotion flickered in his blue eyes. The power of his bewildered pain snagged her breath. In recent times, she’d seen that look in another pair of eyes.

Her own.




JILL ELIZABETH NELSON


writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as a housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.




Evidence of Murder

Jill Elizabeth Nelson








Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble, or hardship, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger or sword?…No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.

—Romans 8:35, 37


To the victims and their families affected by

violent crime. May they find peace and comfort

in the Lord who loves them.




Acknowledgments


Heartfelt thanks goes out to numerous people who contributed to this book in priceless ways. First of all, many hugs to my husband, Doug, who is so patient with my busyness and distraction, particularly when deadlines loom. I’m also particularly grateful to my cousin, Neil Wicks, who willingly answered endless questions about the Boundary Waters canoe area based on his personal experience. Also, many thanks go to Ira Casperson and the staff at Monte Cleaners in Montevideo, MN, who provided a tour of their fine facility. Waving from shore to Mike Fries of Great River Houseboats for filling me in on the operation of a houseboat business. Many kudos to my fine editor at Steeple Hill, Emily Rodmell. She applied the necessary sandpaper and polish to this story. Finally, to my agent, Beth Jusino—you’re the bomb!




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 SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




ONE


One more nasty surprise in this old building might send her screaming for the funny farm. Samantha Reid glared at the door in front of her. Another unexplored room to tackle. What mysterious trial lay beyond? They’d disturbed a mouse nest in one of the dryers, and herds of spiders scurried for cover every time they moved something. Did spiders run in herds? They sure seemed to around here, especially down below in the basement—mice and spiders. Sam shuddered.

Good thing nothing was down there except museum-quality dry-cleaning equipment that must have dated back to the early days of the industry. That stuff could stay put until she found a place interested in carting the heavy pieces away. But up here on the main floor, she didn’t have the luxury of delaying the project.

Squaring her shoulders, Sam turned the knob and eased open the door to the storeroom. She groped along the wall and flipped the light switch. A pair of fluorescent tubes flickered to life as smells of dust and chemicals nipped her nose. Her gaze scanned the twelve-foot-square room, and she puffed out a long breath that didn’t stir the sweaty bangs plastered to her forehead.

How had a lifelong bachelor like Abel Morris accumulated so much junk? She stared at a maze of stacked boxes and metal shelves stuffed with dust-coated paint cans and half-empty jugs of cleaning solvent.

“Great!” Sam rubbed the small of her aching back. Her best friends, Jenna and Hallie, were going to be delighted at this discovery of a fresh room full of junkyard treasures. They’d been sorting and throwing things away for hours and had barely made a dent.

Fur brushed Sam’s bare calf. She stiffened then relaxed at the familiar rumble that accompanied the touch. An Abyssinian cat wound around her sneaker-clad feet. Chuckling, she bent and scooped up the long, lean feline. The cat’s motor revved up a notch as he rubbed his head against Sam’s chin.

She stroked the soft, blue-gray fur. “So, Bastian, was I nuts to buy this neighborhood dry cleaners and expect to make a go of it?”

Her breath hitched, as it had many times since she signed on the dotted line. She’d paid out a big chunk of the inheritance money from her grandmother in order to become an independent businesswoman in Apple Valley, Minnesota—a healthy distance from her loving but smothering hometown. Twenty-six ought to be old enough to strike out on her own, shouldn’t it? Nine years had passed since that one horrible night. Sam shook herself and deposited the cat on the cement floor. She had to stop going to that place in her mind.

The throaty tones of Hallie Berglund’s television-personality voice came from the front room, followed by Jenna Newmann’s bright laugh. Sam’s shoulders relaxed. With the help of her friends and God, she could make a success of this business. She would.

Sam studied the room again. Her gaze caught on a toaster-size cardboard box high on a set of freestanding metal shelves in the middle of the room. The side of the box was labeled in red marker: Lost, but alas, not found. She laughed. God rest his soul, Abel Morris had been no ordinary hoarder; he was a poetic packrat. Now that was one box she had to open.

She stepped to the shelves. Her five-foot-five-inch height put the box level with the top of her head. Grasping the sides, she pulled it toward her. It was a little heavier than she liked. She put one foot back to brace herself. Something soft squished beneath the heel of her sneaker.

Mrrrow!

Bastian! Sam jerked her foot up. The box tilted toward her, threatening to land on her head. She ducked, still on one foot, teetered, and grabbed for the shelf. Off balance, she fell forward, toppling the set of shelving onto a stack of boxes, which thumped to the floor every which way, scattering contents.

Umph! Sam found herself spread-eagled and facedown atop the set of shelves that now rested on upended boxes. Acrid fumes from broken solvent bottles stung her throat and eyes. Throbbing from various body parts let her know she’d have a fine set of bruises in the morning.

“What happened?”

Hallie’s alarmed voice brought Sam’s head around. The tall, slender woman stood in the doorway, dark eyes wide, long-fingered hand clamped over her mouth. A short, generous figure shoved past her into the room.

“Phew!” Jenna coughed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, just help me up so we can get out of here.” Sam struggled to push away from the set of shelves and find the floor with her feet. Two pairs of hands grasped her arms and hauled her upright. She pulled her friends with her out the door and slammed it shut.

Choking, they headed for the side exit and fresh air. The route took them between antiquated clothing presses, puffers and a pillow-cleaning machine—nothing like the state-of-the-art equipment due to arrive in a few weeks.

Mere steps behind her friends, Sam barreled into the side alleyway and hauled in a breath of outdoor oxygen.

Next to her, Hallie shook her head like a dog shedding water. “Whoa! Whatever was in those bottles is potent.”

Jenna pinched her nose. “Stink and a half!”

“I know.” Sam slumped against the brick wall of her building. “Perchloroethylene. Perc for short. It’s petroleum-based and so toxic and flammable it’s all but banned in the industry. That’s why I have to pay an arm and a leg to have a hazardous-material company haul it out of here. We’re not to touch it…well, except to clean up the mess I just made.”

In the late afternoon, the two-story dry cleaners cast shade across the space between it and the print shop next door. The coolness was welcome on this late summer day. Sam’s nose and eyes cleared, but a weight still pressed her lungs. How could she possibly finish this gargantuan cleanup task in time to—

Stop it! Breathe in, breathe out. All would be well. This was a minor setback. She—“Bastian!”

Sam tore open the door and raced back inside the building. The smell wasn’t too bad from this distance, but what if she’d shut her cat in the storeroom?

A plaintive meow brought her up short. She changed direction, charged through a doorway and skidded to a halt in a small vestibule facing a closed and locked exit to the rear alleyway. She turned and gazed up the wooden stairs that skirted the wall and led to her second-floor apartment. The Abyssinian perched regally on the top landing, slim body encircled by his long tail. The jerky tip-twitch matched the glare from those copper eyes.

A muted giggle slipped past Sam’s lips. “Your humble servant begs your pardon. I have mightily offended your highness. Allow me to admit you to your chambers.” She trod up the stairs and let him into the apartment, then headed down to find her friends. As she reached the bottom, they came toward her from the direction of the odorous storeroom.

“I’ll take that.” Hallie reached for something Jenna held in her fist.

The shorter woman danced away, tucking the item behind her back. Both of them laughed, but Hallie crossed her arms over her long-tailed shirt. The two friends were a study in contrasts, like a dusky-skinned Amazon queen matched with a jovial munchkin. But they were identical in their attention to personal grooming—except for today.

Not on her life was Sam going to tell the elegant Channel Six news reporter that tufts of her black hair stuck out like she was Einstein’s photonegative image. Nor would she inform the fastidious head chef and part owner of The Meridian “fine dining experience” that she looked like she’d been dipped in wheat flour. Thank the Lord for friends who would give up a Saturday and risk their manicured nails to help with a dirty project like hers.

Sam grinned. “What’s up with you two?” She looked from one to the other.

Jenna held out her arm and opened her fist. A roll of 35 mm film rested on her palm. “I thought I kicked something when I ran out of there. I found it under one of the presses.”

“Strange. Maybe the film was in that box of unclaimed property I was trying to get at when I took my tumble.”

“Could be, but I want to develop it,” Hallie said.

“Why? It’s probably just shots of some stranger’s boring vacation from sometime in the last century.” Jenna surrendered the roll.

Hallie flipped the canister in the air, caught it, and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. “Call it journalistic curiosity. Besides, I don’t often get a chance to process film the old-fashioned way.”

Sam shook her head. “Go upstairs and order a pizza, ladies. I’ll crack a few windows and open that storeroom door so things can air out awhile before I lock up for the night.”

Jenna snorted. “Why not leave the windows ajar? Maybe some idiot thief will sneak in and take a few of these priceless treasures off our hands.”

Thief? Sam’s stomach rolled. Sensory impressions clamored for attention in her head. A door crashing inward. A dirty face with crazed eyes. The sear of burning flesh.

Sam blinked and shook off the flashback as she walked away without a word.

“Nice going, Jen.” Hallie’s fierce whisper carried to Sam’s ears.

On the other side of the building, Sam shoved a window sash upward. Why was she still so touchy about the subject of break-ins? The incident happened when she was seventeen. She was a grown woman now. It was past time to get over it. But the pep talk didn’t wash the sawdust from her mouth.



Two hours later, alone with her cat, Sam started running a bath. As the water splashed into the tub and steam rose, she opened a bottle of scented oil and poured a healthy dollop into the rising pool. The exotic floral aroma enveloped her. Wonderful!

She pulled the padded band out of her ponytail, and her thick, honey-brown hair fell loose to brush her shoulder blades. As soon as the water filled two-thirds of the tub, she eased in. Bubbles tickled her neck, and the knot in the small of her back loosened. The phone jangled, and she sat up, then shook her head and lay back again. Whoever it was could leave a message. She was going to enjoy a good, long soak.

By the time she climbed out, her muscles were relaxed and supple. Sam glanced across her shoulder into the wide mirror as she dried her back. The towel ran with little sensation across pale splotches of faded scars and puckers of skin-graft seams. She took a long-handled sponge, dipped it into an open jar of emollient, and rubbed every inch of the damaged skin until the lotion was absorbed. She rinsed the sponge, then donned pajamas before slipping into the smooth robe of real Chinese silk Jenna had brought back from a mission trip to the Far East.

On slipper-clad feet, she wandered to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Bastian, recovered from his sulk, twined around her legs and purred. Milk in hand, she surveyed her domain. Once the business was up and running, she’d have to remodel this apartment. Fifties retro was back in style, but all this burnt orange wasn’t trendy décor; it was the real deal.

A blinking light on the phone caught her attention. She crossed the room and pushed the button. Static hiss came through, then a shaky sigh, followed by, “I’m coming over. We’ve got a big problem.”

Sam frowned. That husky growl sounded like Hallie. Couldn’t be. Nothing ever got the queen of poise that ruffled.

A buzz sounded near Sam’s ear, and she let out a squawk. Someone was downstairs at the private entrance. The buzz sounded again, loud and long, like the person was leaning on the button. The noise let up. Gingerly, she pressed Talk. “Hello?”

Heavy breathing answered. The hair on Sam’s arms stood at attention.

“It’s me.” A familiar voice spoke—familiar but off. “Let me in. I have to see you. Now!”

“I’ll be right down, Hallie. Are you okay?”

“In! Now!”

Sam bounded down the stairs and opened the door. Hallie barged past her. She’d changed clothes into embroidered white capris and a fitted button-down shirt. Her long legs devoured the steps to the apartment two at a time. Sam trotted behind.

“What’s the matter?”

Hallie didn’t look at her. Lips pressed together, she was laying out photos in a long line on the kitchen table.

Sam crept forward and gazed down at the pictures. Chills cascaded down her spine. Bloody bodies. A woman’s head lolled back on a couch, bright spatters on her slack face. A young girl stared from a separate frame, crimson-chested, eyes wide and lifeless. Another showed someone—maybe a man—with the barrel of a shotgun tucked under his chin and a good portion of his head missing. Samantha let out a shriek and leaped backward, hand to her throat.




TWO


“What are we going to do about those?” Sam stabbed a finger at the photos on the table.

“Burn them, shred them or report them. Take your pick. It’s probably someone’s idea of a sick joke—a staged Halloween prank or something.”

Sam shook her head. “The people look too real. And the blood.”

“Lots can be done with makeup and cameras. I should know.”

“But you raced over here with them. You think they’re genuine. We have to turn the pictures over to the police.”

Hallie blew out a long breath. “I thought you should see them first. Shall I make the call?” She pulled a cell phone from her purse.

“No! We’ll take them to the station ourselves.” Keeping her eyes averted from the gruesome evidence, Sam swept the photos into a stack. “I’m not having a police cruiser pull up outside and cops knocking on my door. This is an upscale neighborhood. If anyone sees, they’ll wonder what hinky things are going on with the new owner.” She handed the pictures to Hallie. “Put these in something. I’ll get dressed.”

Half an hour later, they stood facing the night duty sergeant on the other side of a thick window—bulletproof, no doubt. The man stared at them with pale eyes set in a square face above a pair of Brahma bull shoulders. Intimidation on the hoof.

Sam swallowed. Hard.

“I’m Sergeant Garner. You wish to report a crime?” The officer’s voice was surprisingly gentle coming from that massive package. Graying hair and a lined face put him in his upper forties.

“I’m Hallie Berglund, reporter for Channel Six news, and this is my friend—”

“Samantha Reid.” Sam raised her hand like she was in grade school. Her face heated, and she offered a weak smile as she tucked her arm to her side.

Hallie placed the bag containing the film casing into the dip in the counter that allowed objects to pass under the barrier. “This was found at my friend’s place of business. I developed it tonight and came up with these.” She set another baggie with the prints into the tray. “They appear to be photos of a multiple murder.”

Garner eyed the material without touching it, and then assessed both of them with his gaze. “You haven’t actually seen any bodies?”

Sam and Hallie shook their heads as one.

“Just pictures, and no idea where and when the crime may have occurred.”

They nodded in tandem.

The sergeant pursed his lips. “Can you show me some ID? We’ll take your names and contact information. If we need to talk to you after we see what you’ve got, we’ll be in touch.”



On Wednesday afternoon, Sam lugged another sack of junk out to the rented Dumpster in the back of the building. She hefted the bag and slung it over the edge. A crunch-thump announced a safe landing. She dusted her hands together and headed back inside, humming.

She hadn’t heard a peep about the pictures. That must mean they weren’t really crime scene pics. Good thing, too. She was neck-deep in renovations. Of course, she’d had to break down and hire a cleaning crew—an expense not in the budget, but worth every penny if she could open her business on schedule.

She waved at a couple of the workers as she threaded between machines to her cracker-box office beside the customer service area at the front of the building. Seated behind her desk, she pulled out the ledger and checkbook and started working on the stack of bills. Honestly, how did that inheritance money evaporate faster than snow in July? Her business plan showed start-up capital available for at least a year…but only if she didn’t have any setbacks.

Sharp raps sounded at the front door. Who would be at the customer entrance when they were clearly not open for business? The knock came again, and she hurried to answer, then stopped dead in her tracks.

The wide front window showed a police cruiser parked at the curb. At the door stood a lean man in a suit and two uniformed officers, one male, one female. The suited man flipped open a black case and displayed the PD insignia. The guy looked around the age of the duty sergeant from the other night, but he had thinning, silver-sprinkled hair and was angular-bodied where the sergeant had been bulky.

Maybe the visit had nothing to do with the photos. And maybe water flowed uphill.

Sam unlocked the door and eased it open.

“I’m Detective Connell,” the man said. “Are you Samantha Reid?”

“Yes.”

“May we come in and speak with you?”

“Certainly.” Sam held the door wide. “Is this about—”

“It is.” The detective and the uniforms stepped inside. Voices and clatter from the work area drew Connell’s hawkish gaze. “Who’s here with you?”

“Just my cleaning crew. I’m getting ready to open, and this place was a mess.”

“Could you tell your people to stop work?”

“Now?” Sam blinked at the detective.

“Right now. We have a warrant to search.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper.

What had she just been thinking about setbacks? “You’d better come to my office and explain what’s going on.”

Connell jerked a nod to the uniforms and followed her alone.

Sam faced the detective from behind her desk. “Those photos were for real?”

He nodded, dark eyes flat. “A family named Davidson. Ten years ago, they were shot to death in their home a few blocks from here. The incident was ruled murder/suicide. But those photos prove there had to be at least one more person at the scene. Maybe someone who set it up to look like the dad shot his wife and daughter and then himself. The case has been bumped up to straight murder, and now we’re looking for a killer a decade after the deaths.” He jaded tone said he didn’t hold out much hope of solving the crime.

Sam sank into her chair. Here she’d told her mother this was a safe neighborhood. “What do you want with me? I was a clueless teenager ten years ago, zits and giggles and all. And I lived in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.”

“You’re not a suspect, Ms. Reid, but we need to search this building.”

“What else could you possibly expect to find after all this time?”

“We have to be thorough. The film was here. Something else could be.”

“Fine, but you’ll have to assign someone to Dumpster diving.” She marched out into the work area. Her cleaners were gone, and the two uniformed cops were already digging into things.

The detective stepped up beside her. “Could you show me where the film was discovered?”

“Just the room where it was found. Except for some perc cleaning solvent awaiting pickup by the hazmat people, the box it was in and everything else has already been cleaned out. Good luck sorting through the garbage.”

Connell frowned. “Did you save anything from the box?”

Sam headed back toward her office. “Odds and ends. They’re in here.”

She handed him the paperweight from her desk. It was a smoky crystal rendering of a trout mounted on a hefty slab of black obsidian. “That was in the box. And this.” From the front of the filing cabinet, she plucked a ceramic magnet that featured a picture of a baby sitting in a high chair, bawling. The inscription said, No Whining! “Seemed like a good daily reminder.” She gave it to the detective.

“There were any number of hotel key cards accumulated from customer pockets, but I threw them out. I did keep these, however.” She opened the top drawer of the cabinet and pulled out a small bucket. The contents clattered as she plunked it onto the desk. “Lots of regular keys, but no way to know what they open or who owned them.”

“I can have this stuff tested for blood and prints, but if nothing pops up, you’ll likely get them back.” He shook the contents of the bucket. “I’m surprised you haven’t tossed these.”

Sam smiled. “There’s a crafter in my hometown who makes wind chimes out of old keys. I was saving them for her.”

“What else was in the box?”

“I’m not sure. I knocked a shelf over, and the contents spilled out when I was getting it down.” She crossed her arms. “We found assorted manicure items, a few eyeglass cases, combs, pill-boxes, that sort of thing scattered on the floor. But they’re—”

“In the Dumpster.”

“Right.”

The detective’s gaze traveled around the room. “Did you bring in the furnishings for this room, or were these things here when you bought the place?”

“Mr. Morris used this room as a storage area, not an office. Everything in here came from outside.”

“What about the contents of the closet?” He jerked his chin toward the closed door at the side of the room.

“Same thing. I emptied this whole area.”

“More Dumpster work.” One side of his mouth curved downward.

“No. Sorry. This was one of the first places I cleaned out. That Dumpster-load has already been collected by the city. How do your officers feel about combing the landfill?”

Connell shook his head. “I’ll tell the uniforms to leave this room out of their search.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The detective reached inside his jacket and pulled out a five-by-eight photo. Sam took a step backward.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Reid. This one isn’t of a dead body. Have you ever seen this man?”

Sam took the picture and studied a man a little older than herself, wearing faded jeans and a Nike T-shirt. He stood on a dock with a sparkling river in the background. The Mississippi? Close-cut blond hair framed a bold-featured face—straight nose, square chin, wide lips pressed into a thin line. Nothing extraordinary, except for the eyes. Blue as a mountain lake and twice as chilly. Her pulse rate jumped up a notch. “I don’t know him, and I’m glad. Is he a suspect?”

“Our job would be a lot easier if he was. Relatives usually top the list.” Connell took the picture back. “Ryan Davidson. He came home from college and found his family like your photos showed. At least that’s what he’s always claimed, and we have reason to believe he’s telling the truth.”

Sam pressed her palms together. “How awful for him. He still lives around here?”

“A houseboat near Hastings, about thirty-odd miles from here, right where the Mississippi and St. Croix Rivers converge. He owns a rental houseboat company that caters to tourists.”

“Really! What does he do in the winter?”

“He’s got no ties. Just takes the whole shebang south to Missouri.” He shook his head with a tight smile.

Either the detective envied Davidson’s footloose life or thought he was nuts. Personally, she’d go with the latter. What was life about except settling in to become a vital part of a community? “How long will your people be out there?” She gestured toward the workroom.

“At least twenty-four hours. We’ll finish as quickly as we can. Since this isn’t a crime scene and you’re not suspected of anything, feel free to come and go, but don’t remove anything further from the building. Have a good day, Ms. Reid.” The detective walked out.

Sam wilted into her chair. By the end of tomorrow, the rumor mill could have her reputation as trashed as the garbage out back. With that cruiser parked in front and uniformed officers searching, what were the neighbors already thinking in their fine houses up the street? A cloud of suspicion could doom her business before she even opened the doors.



A muted clatter outside her bedroom window jerked Sam awake. Save for the glow from her bedside clock, her room lay wrapped in darkness. She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at the time. The digital numbers read 1:32 a.m. A sharp bang resounded below.

Outside or inside? Her heart kabumped and every nerve ending buzzed. Maybe it was just some critter digging in the garbage. Not likely. She’d closed that lid.

Bastian mewled and leaped up on the captain’s bench in front of the window, his lean form a shadowy outline. The direction of his stare was fixed as if he could see through the curtains and make out something—or someone—in the alley. A rattle carried to Sam’s ears. That sounded like an attempt at the private entrance door.

Muscles rigid, Sam lay motionless. Her pulse throbbed.

Bastian growled, deep and low.

She couldn’t just lie here until whoever it was found her and did whatever he came to do. How many books had she read where the stupid character did that? Or, dumber still, snuck around with some lame weapon like a bat to try and nab the burglar herself? She’d always wanted to yell, “What do you think nine-one-one is for, dummy?”

As suddenly as the paralysis had gripped her, it lifted. Sam sprang upright and grabbed the cordless phone from her nightstand. A few punches and she was talking to a no-nonsense woman who took her information and promised to get a car there immediately.

With the line still open to the dispatcher, Sam scooped Bastian up and perched on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness. Her hand ran the length of her cat’s back. Again. Again. Bastian’s fur crackled and stood on end. He hopped off her lap, growling a protest. The operator kept assuring her help was on the way, but where were they? Sam gripped the edges of the mattress, ears perked. Sure, the police hung around here all day, and now when she needed them—

Sirens blared outside and lights flashed. Voices yelled, followed by clatters, then quiet. The cruiser lights continued to strobe.

Her intercom buzzer sounded. On jelly legs, Sam padded to her kitchen and answered.

“Ms. Reid, this is Officer Johnson of the Apple Valley Police Department. Your intruder says he has a right to be here. Would you mind coming down?”

Why did the police always ask questions like a person really had the option to say no? “Let me get my robe.”

A few seconds later, Sam unlocked her private entrance and peered out into the night. Under the entrance light, a pair of officers she’d never seen held a man between them—someone she did recognize. She glared up into the stone face of Ryan Davidson.

Their gazes locked, and raw emotion flickered in those intense blue eyes. The power of his bewildered pain snagged her breath. In times not long enough past, she’d seen that look of a stunned victim in another pair of eyes…whenever she looked in the mirror.



Why was this woman staring right through him, all white face and big green eyes? Was he a ghost or something?

Ryan studied her. One arm hugged her trim waist. The opposite hand clutched her robe at the neck. She was kind of cute with that heart-shaped face and tousled hair, but it looked like he’d scared her something fierce. Not his intention. So what had he meant to accomplish by his impulsive visit to the old neighborhood? Insomnia wasn’t much of an excuse.

His shoulders slumped, but the officers retained their grips like manacles around his biceps. He was lucky he wasn’t in handcuffs. Yet. “I’m sorry, ah…Miss Reid, isn’t it? I didn’t mean any harm.”

She frowned. “Why are you skulking around my property?”

“I wasn’t skulking exactly. Not even looking for physical clues. I was searching my memory of that night. Did you know I cruised by here right before I went home to find—” His voice cracked. “Anyway, I ended up pacing back and forth in this alley. Kicked the Dumpster in frustration, and I’ve got the throbbing toe to prove it.” He lifted a tennis-shoed foot. “I suppose that’s what woke you.”

“Do you want us to run this guy in for trespassing, Ms. Reid?” asked the officer who’d identified himself as Johnson.

Ryan held his breath. She wouldn’t. Would she?

Her gaze darted away, and the tips of white teeth nibbled at her bottom lip. “I don’t know. I doubt Mr. Davidson poses a danger, but—”

“You know him?”

“You know me?”

Ryan’s words tangled with Johnson’s.

“From a photo.” A flush spread across her cheekbones.

Yes, definitely attractive, but where had she seen a picture of him? “I wasn’t in those photos you turned in. The detective laid out the whole roll for me to see.” What shadowed her eyes? Pity? Ryan’s jaw clenched.

She met his stare. “I assume it was the same detective who showed me a print of you down by the river.”

Ryan snorted. “Sure, updating their file with a sneak shot after they get me all riled up. Bet I looked like a lunatic.”

Static crackled from the nearby police cruiser, followed by a garbled voice. The officers released Ryan and backed away. “If you’re not going to press charges, Miss,” Johnson said, “we need to answer that call.”

“You should go, too, Mr. Davidson.” Samantha Reid narrowed the door opening so he could only see half of her body. “There’s nothing for you to find here. The police haven’t uncovered anything new, and I doubt they will.”

She moved to close the door, but before she could, a small creature darted from the doorway into the alley.

“Bastian, come back here!” the woman called. “Oh, no, I must not have shut the door tight above.”

“I’ll find him. Little animals have certain ways of moving in the dark. Hang tight. I’ll bring him to you.”

“But—”

“It’s the least I can do for getting you up in the middle of the night. Besides, you’re not dressed for a walk.”

Her brows scrunched together. “Bastian won’t come to you.”

“We’ll see.” He headed in the direction the cat had disappeared, a mental Here, kitty, kitty going in his head. Not that he’d ever talk out loud that way to such a dignified animal.



“Of all the arrogant guys!” Samantha fumed as she threw on jeans and a T-shirt. He’d better be gone by the time she got downstairs again, or she’d clobber him with her flashlight. Bastian was particular about who he allowed to touch him. She was the only one who could get close, and who knew how long that would take? Her night’s rest was officially over.

She stormed down the stairs and flung open the outside door.

“Hi.” Ryan Davidson grinned down at her, the purring Abyssinian cradled in his arms. “He was just investigating your alley and didn’t go far.”

She gaped up at him.

“Here.” He handed her the cat.

A mewl mixed with his purr. The cat’s head swiveled toward Davidson.

“Nice Aby. Good ticking in his coat.” He scratched behind Bastian’s ear, and the cat nosed the man’s hand. “Well, g’night, then. Hope you can still catch some z’s.” He gave her a lopsided grin and turned away.

“Th-thank you.” Sam watched his broad-shouldered figure stride into the night. She hugged her cat close. “Traitor,” she murmured into his perked ear. Her heart was a traitor, too. It had done a distinct pitty-pat when Ryan Davidson smiled.




THREE


Muted dock lighting played over Ryan’s bedroom ceiling in rhythm with the slight sway of the water beneath the boat. He lay on his back with his arms under his head. The murmur of the river teased his ears. The soothing sights and sounds usually had him out in seconds, but his carefully constructed world had blown apart again with the discovery of those pictures.

How had the roll of film ended up at Old Man Morris’s dry cleaners?

He’d hoped a walk through the area might jar his recollection of something suspicious he’d seen that night. But then, who was to say he’d encountered a single thing connected to his family’s deaths? Would he even have noticed if he had? Arriving in Apple Valley following the end of his sophomore year at the University of Wisconsin, he’d zigged and zagged aimlessly through the neighborhood, dreading going home, his father’s angry words from their phone call echoing in his head.

His gut soured. He heaved himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and rubbed his forehead.

Dad, would you ever have understood my decision not to follow in your footsteps as an investment banker? His family’s deaths had robbed him of the opportunity to find out. What if he’d headed straight home? Could he have saved them? Or would he have joined them stone-cold in the grave?

At least his dad hadn’t killed himself or mom and Cassie. A breath trembled in his lungs. How did he feel about that? Relieved. Yeah, beyond belief. But guilty, too. Why had he ever believed the cops’ conclusion about that night?

But if his dad didn’t do it, then someone else murdered them all. Ryan shot to his feet. He paced, fists clenched, bare feet smacking the hardwood floor.

Who would do such a thing? A psycho? Then why hadn’t the nutcase been caught committing similar atrocities? That kind seldom stopped killing voluntarily.

But if the murders were done in cold blood for a reason, then finding the cause would reveal the killer. Sure, the police were back on the case, but why should he trust them? They’d treated the tragedy like a slam-dunk murder/suicide and closed the book. Now, ten years after the fact, the authorities were sniffing up a cold trail with dozens of hotter cases piled on their docket.

No, he was the only one with a strong enough motive to dig and not give up until he found something.

Dad, I promise I’ll find out who killed our ladies and you.

Too bad he couldn’t have a chat with Abel Morris and ask where the guy found the film. Miss Reid sure got stuck with a mess not of her own making, but maybe she knew something from scouring through the building that she didn’t realize was important. It might be in his best interests to be friendly with her. He’d shot himself in the foot tonight with his prowler act, but maybe finding the cat had helped his cause.

Tomorrow, he’d do what he could to cement a better impression. Besides, even if nothing further panned out in the investigation, a guy would be certifiable to pass up the opportunity to get acquainted with a smart, fine-looking woman who showed rare character by turning in those photos. Not many people would step forward these days to get involved in someone else’s troubles. He knew lots of people who would have just shredded the nasty pictures and gone on with their lives without a second thought.

Ryan stretched out on the bed and willed his limbs to relax. What would it take to make Miss Reid smile?



At 9:00 a.m., someone knocked on the front door of the cleaners. Not the police. They were already here. She answered the summons to find a grinning teenage boy bearing a gift.

Flowers? Who would they be from?

Sam took the enormous glass vase from the delivery person’s hand, tipped him, and then carried the vase of white calla lilies to her office desk. She worked the small envelope from its holder and opened it.

Humble apologies. Your Midnight Marauder.

Sam laughed. Who would ever have thought she’d find anything funny about an apparent break-in attempt? Her eyes narrowed. Oooh, this Davidson guy was slick. He’d better not have some notion of getting on her good side so she’d let him hang around. She had a business to get started and enough distractions without adding one more to the list, even if Bastian had given his stamp of approval to the big, blond outdoorsman.

A crisp thank-you note accepting his apology ought to be the end of it. A quick search on the Internet yielded the address for Davidson Houseboats. Sam dashed off her thanks and took the note with her as she headed out the door to meet Hallie for lunch at Jenna’s restaurant. Then she had a truckload of errands to run. She might as well make herself scarce until the police finished combing the building later today. Hopefully.

A fifteen-minute drive through busy suburban streets brought her to the white stucco and half-timbered restaurant in Lakeville. Sam stepped into the welcome of savory and delicate aromas. Her gaze searched the wood-beamed dining room for Hallie. She spotted her, sleekly groomed in a tailored green pantsuit, waiting at a cloth-covered table. Sam waved and Hallie answered with a wide grin. Sam settled opposite her friend, and they ordered their favorites—seafood fetuccini alfredo for Hallie and a chicken salad pita with a garlic dill pickle for herself.

“You look frazzled.” Hallie spread her napkin on her lap. “You need to ease up and take time to smell the roses.”

Sam wrinkled her nose. “How about the calla lilies?”

Hallie’s eyebrows climbed. “Spill your guts, girl.”

By the time Sam finished telling about the police intrusion yesterday, the Davidson disturbance last night, and the flowers on her desk this morning, her friend was leaning halfway across the table, jaw slack.

“Oh, hon.” She settled back. “And I thought a reporter’s life was adventurous.”

Sam sniffed. “This feels more like a trial.”

“The Perils of Samantha Reid.” Jenna’s words and chuckle brought Sam’s head around.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to get the whole scoop, as Hal might say.” Jenna winked a hazel eye. “That Ryan fellow sounds like a dish. Better keep him.”

“I second the motion.” Hallie lifted a hand and waggled slim fingers.

Sam scowled from one to the other. “Romance has no place in my life right now, and certainly not in his. He’s got a murder investigation swirling around him.” She groaned at the conspiratorial look her friends exchanged. Thank goodness, the food came just then, and Jenna glided back to her kitchen while she and Hallie dug in.

A half hour later, Sam paid her bill and exited into the warm sunlight outside the restaurant.

“Just a minute!”

Hallie’s urgent tone stopped Sam halfway across the parking lot. She turned to find her friend striding toward her, unsmiling.

Sam’s brows drew together. “What’s up?”

Hallie stopped in front of her. “I didn’t want to mention it over lunch. Spoil anyone’s appetite, you know. But now that something’s happened with those pictures, I have to come clean with my station about what we found.” Her gaze darted away and then returned to meet Sam’s. “I have to do my job, or I’ll lose it. There will be media attention, most of it directed toward Ryan, but—”

“I get it. Someone besides the police will be asking me questions. Will they assign you to the story?”

“If the main crime reporter is too busy, I might get a taste of the action.” A smile crossed her lips then morphed into a frown. “I just wish you weren’t involved.”

“Don’t worry about it. Maybe some good can come of this mess, and you’ll get another step closer to that anchor spot.”

Hallie’s gaze warmed. “Spoken like a true friend, thinking about the other person first. You can always say, ‘No comment,’ and let us get our answers from the police and Davidson.”

Sam shrugged. “It might be kind of nice to speak my piece. At least people will know that all the police attention isn’t because I’m running drugs out of the dry cleaners or some other nefarious activity at my shop.” She smiled, but the edges of her mouth quivered. How would she handle a camera in her face? She barely managed standing up front in the church choir.

Hallie put a hand on her arm. “I know you hate the spotlight. Too bad you’ve got a reporter for a friend.”

“Finding that film wasn’t your fault, and we both turned it in.”

“Like we had a choice?”

“Right. But none of this involves us directly. It’ll blow over. You’ll see.” It better, or her family would start camping out on her doorstep. Aaagh!

“Speaking from experience,” Hallie said, “with the next homicide, this cold case will go in the deep freeze again, and you’ll open your business on time.”

“Sure, but Ryan will be stuck not knowing who killed his family.”

“Ryan, is it? I knew you liked him.” Hallie strolled away, laughing.

Scowl plastered on her face, Sam hustled to her car. She gripped her car key, tip pointing through her fingers, a defensive preparation that had become second nature. “Just because I feel for the guy’s situation doesn’t mean I’m the least interested in any other way,” she grumbled under her breath. “I’ve got too much on my plate to take on old mysteries.” She slid into the driver’s seat and picked up the thank-you note from the center console. After she mailed this, there would be no reason for further contact with Ryan Davidson.

At the end of the afternoon, Sam returned to the dry cleaners to find the police gone, but a mess left. Evidently, their job description only required tearing things apart but excluded returning anything to proper order. She spent over an hour in the back alley chucking things back into the Dumpster. The disarray inside the building could wait. It would have to, because her energy fuel gauge was running on empty.

She called the cleaning crew to resume in the morning then handled a few bookkeeping chores before shutting the office door and checking the locks on all of the outside doors and windows. Hallie was right. She was exhausted and needed to unwind. A movie and popcorn sounded like a great evening.

When she opened her apartment door, Bastian darted out. The feline streaked down the stairs and into the main building.

Sam shook her head. “Okay, so you’re annoyed at being cooped up all afternoon. Enjoy playing watchcat tonight.” Stifling a yawn, she stepped into her kitchen. He’d be all right. He had a litter box, a bed and food and water in a corner near the storage room.

A few hours later, Sam crawled between the sheets and slept so deeply a tornado could have blown her out of bed and she might not have noticed. The next day, feeling rested, she went out for her morning run in the nearby park. When she returned, sweaty and breathing hard, she headed for her office. A truck would be here in a few days to cart the old machines away, and with a little extra hustle the building should be ready on time to receive the new stuff. The plan was back on track.

She opened her office door, stepped over the threshold, and halted on a gasp. Her beautiful vase lay shattered on the floor, flowers strewn everywhere. “Bastian, what did you do?”

No, the cat couldn’t have been in here. The door was closed.

The desk phone shrilled and Sam jumped. It rang again, and she tiptoed between glass shards to answer it.

“Hello, I’m Vince Graham from Channel Six news.” A male voice rumbled. “We’d like to speak to you about—”

“Sorry. No comment.” Sam smacked the phone into the receiver. Who cared about news stories right now? Somebody had been in her building!

Heart pounding, she scurried from window to door, testing all the locks. At last she came to the window above Bastian’s empty bed. A breeze caressed her face like a subtle taunt. The sash gaped open wide, and the antiquated window had been missing its screen since the day she bought the place. She’d meant to have one installed, but it hadn’t happened yet, and now—Sam hugged herself, the scars on her back tingling. She’d had an intruder for real, and she slept through it. And where was the Abyssinian? In all her racing around, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

Her spine stiffened. Only one person had shown an unnatural interest in this building besides the police. And he’d mesmerized her cat. Maybe Bastian went with him when he snuck out after rummaging through her office. So much for apologies. The louse!

She should call the police immediately. She—Oh, no, not that again.

Her business didn’t need any more attention from the authorities. With the police search and a middle-of-the-night visit from a squad car, neighborhood confidence in her business was probably in the tank. She could confront Davidson herself. Sure, she could. What was he going to do to her? It was broad daylight, and if she went right now, she’d catch him at his business. Let him take some negative publicity this time, the sneak. Someone needed to tell him he’d gone over the line—and he’d better have her cat all safe and sound.

Sam whirled on her heel. If Davidson thought his life was insane right now with the police investigation and reporters sniffing a story, he was about to get a visit from one mad woman.




FOUR


Standing on the dock, Ryan shook his customer’s hand and gave him the keys to the four-passenger houseboat that swayed on the river’s current. “Take it nice and easy navigating the locks and dams, Mr. Timmons. When you stop, make sure to set your anchor like I showed you, and keep your outside lights on during the night so other craft won’t run into you. Printed instructions are in the wheelhouse, if you need to refresh yourself on anything. But most of all,” Ryan stretched his lips into a smile, “enjoy yourselves.”

“Sounds good.” The pudgy man beamed. Behind him, a pair of grade school–age girls chased each other, giggling, on the upper deck. The man’s stocky wife, clad in shorts and a tank top, lolled on a lounge chair in the bow of the boat.

Ryan waved as Timmons joined his family on board. “You folks have a great time on the Old Miss.” He untied the boat from the dock and watched them go on their way. Heat from the morning sun bathed his neck. Too bad the sun couldn’t warm anything beneath his skin or make his smile for real.

“Mr. Davidson.” The clack of feet on the dock accompanied the voice.

Ryan turned to see a tall woman with a caramel complexion picking her way toward him across the boards. Why did females torture themselves with high heels? If one of those silly spikes wedged in a board, she’d topple over, and he’d be fishing her out of the drink. The woman’s face looked vaguely familiar. Behind her clomped a shaggy-haired guy toting a video camera on his shoulder. Ryan looked beyond the mismatched pair, and his stomach clenched. A van with the Channel Six logo painted on the side sat on the asphalt in front of his log-cabin-style office building.

Uh-oh! How had the news media gotten wind so quickly?

The smiling woman reached him and held out a slender hand. “Hi, I’m Hallie Berglund, a friend of Samantha Reid’s.”

Ryan narrowed his eyes at his visitor. So that was how. Ms. Reid couldn’t wait to garner attention for her business by letting her reporter pal in on the action. He’d misjudged her as a woman of integrity when she was really out for number one like anybody else.

The reporter-woman’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. I know this must be a difficult time for you, dredging up bad memories. Looking at those pictures was bad enough for me, but—”

“You saw the photos?” Ryan’s spine stiffened. “Did the police show you? Not hardly! Or was it the lady dry cleaner angling for a little free publicity?”

Color bloomed in Hallie’s cheeks. “I developed those photos.” She squared her shoulders. “And Samantha’s other friend, Jenna, found the film at Sam’s place. We’re all in this happy little conspiracy together. Sam and I turned them in to the police, so maybe now you and your family will have an opportunity for a killer to be caught. All I want is to chat with you so we can air a segment that maybe, just maybe, will flush a rat out of hiding…or, at the least, entice someone to come forward with helpful information.”

Ryan’s mouth opened, but he was fresh out of things to say. How could a guy speak with a mouth full of crow anyway? A wry chuckle gusted from his chest. “Come on in.” He waved toward his office. “I guess I could share some more of my foul mood, if it’ll help your ratings and my family’s chance for justice.”

“Now you’re talking.” The smile returned to the reporter’s face.

They stepped up the dock toward the sidewalk that would take them up to the building, the cameraman backpedaling ahead of them. Ryan shook his head. The guy’d been filming the whole time. How much of himself shooting blanks from the hip would come out on the TV news? Ouch! He hadn’t been firing harmless blanks; he’d been filling his own foot with lead—again—where the attractive Samantha Reid was concerned.

“Don’t worry.” The woman next to him spoke under her breath. “Your quantum leap to Planet Wrong Conclusion will end up on the editing floor. You have a lot to learn about Sam, and I’d like you to still have that chance.”

Ryan stared down at her. Was the woman a mind reader? And what was that knowing smirk all about? Her gaze turned toward the parking lot, and his followed. A midsized car jerked to a halt on the tarmac, and a woman dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a practical pair of running shoes lunged out of the vehicle. She charged toward them, small purse slung over her shoulder, glossy ponytail swinging.

Sam? Er, Miss Reid? She looked steamed enough to blow a gasket. No way could she have heard his conversation with her friend.

“Where’s Bastian?” She halted in front of them, hands on hips. Little gold flecks in her green eyes glinted up at him.

“Ba—Oh, your cat. Last time I saw him, he was purring in your arms.”

“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t sneak into the dry cleaners last night to finish your snooping expedition. My vase is broken, my flowers are wilted, a window is open and my cat is gone!”

“Someone broke into your building?” The reporter gripped her friend’s arm. “Oh, how awful! Are you all right?”

Ryan looked from one woman to the other. Hallie’s mouth had drawn up into a tight line, and Sam deflated and that full lower lip quivered.

“I’m f-fine.” She sure didn’t look it. “I slept through the whole thing.”

The women’s stares at each other conveyed volumes of information Ryan couldn’t read.

“Honest, Miss Reid—”

“Sam.” She met his gaze.

Good. Now he had official permission. “Sam, I was nowhere near your neighborhood last night. You have my word on it.”

Her gaze searched his face. “Then who…” The words trailed away.

“Maybe the same person we’re all looking for.”

“Please don’t tell me that. As furious as I was with you, I wanted you—no, needed you to be the one. Then I wouldn’t have to imagine other possibilities.”

If only he was guilty. Maybe that would take the haunted look from her eyes. He knew the feeling all too well. What was her story, anyway?

“It seems like none of us is going to have any peace of mind until we get to the bottom of this.” Hallie’s voice drew their attention. “Maybe finishing the interview will be a step in the right direction.”

Ryan nodded in unison with Sam.

The reporter grinned. “You two make quite a pair of intergalactic travelers. You arrived at the same planet on the same morning!”

Clearing his throat, Ryan led the way toward his office building. The cameraman brought up the rear, not filming for the moment.

“What did Hallie mean by that?” Sam asked as she fell in step beside him. The girl had long legs and a runner’s stride. Another thing to like about her.

Ryan shrugged. “Oh, some remark she made earlier about a quantum leap to a conclusion.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

As they climbed onto the porch, Old Jake heaved himself to his feet and ambled over.

Sam scratched the animal’s head. “Labrador, right?”

Jake groaned his ecstasy and leaned into Sam’s leg.

Ryan laughed. “We figure he’s mostly Chocolate Lab with a little Springer Spaniel thrown in.”

“Is that why he’s got a few splotches of white in his coat and around his muzzle?”

“The gray face is his age showing.”

“You must’ve had him for a long time then.”

“This summer. He’s mostly deaf, as well as old and a little arthritic. Whoever owned him decided he was no good for hunting and dumped him off in the country to fend for himself.”

Her eyes flashed. “That’s awful!”

“No argument from me. He wandered up here this spring, skin and bones.”

“He’s well fed now.” She ran her hands down his sides.

A throat cleared behind him. “Oops, sorry!” Ryan turned and motioned to the reporter and the cameraman.

Then he led the way into the cool office lobby. A faint scent of cedar greeted them from the genuine wood that lined the walls and floor.

Larry, one of the staff, looked up from behind the long reception counter and froze with his hand poised over calculator keys. “Did I space out some business interview we were supposed to do today?”

Ryan waved at him. “Personal. About…you know.”

Larry jerked a nod then went back to pecking at the machine. Ryan led his guests into his office, which looked out the side of the building nearest the guest parking lot.

“Not much for frills, are you?” Sam stood gazing around the room. “And I thought my office was bare.”

Ryan took fresh stock of his surroundings. An old metal desk, a bit scuffed and dented but serviceable, took up much of the floor space. A lone filing cabinet stood nearby, and a state-of-the-art computer center filled one corner. No artwork hung on the pale walls, just a plaque indicating membership in the local chamber of commerce. No photos or other personal memorabilia sat on the desk.

The nicest piece in the room was a rather crude oak gun case that he’d cobbled together in high school. It worked fine to hold his several shotguns and rifles, though. The only other item of interest was the view from the French doors behind his desk, and that showed only a small deck, the paved guest parking lot and a wall of trees beyond that.

Yeah, his world had gotten pretty stark. The fault of one devious killer, and Ryan meant to find out who that was.

“Let’s do the interview out there.” Hallie pointed toward the deck. “That will give us the outdoorsy feel without standing under the hot sun.”

“I’m game.” The deck offered a clear view of his boats and docks, as well as the access road to his property. He did as much of his paperwork as possible out there, listening to the wind ruffle through the pines that crowded his place.

Ryan opened the French doors, and soon he and the reporter stood on the end of the deck closest to the river. The camera would be able to take in the water and boats behind them. Sam perched on a bench built into the deck rail, out of range of the electronic eye. Ryan wiped his palms on his jeans and glanced at the reporter. “What would you like to know?”

She looked toward the camera. “You rolling, Stan?”

“Still getting the angle and focus,” he answered, fiddling with his lens.

“Could we have a quick practice run?” Ryan cleared his throat. “I’d kind of like to know what you’re going to ask.” And maybe take the edge off his gut reactions before the real deal.

“That’s fair.” Hallie nodded. “I’ll probably start out with something like this—It’s been ten years since you found your family shot dead in your home. In all this time, did you never suspect that they had all been murdered?”

“No, I didn’t.” He shook his head. “My dad was under unusual stress at work and not acting like himself. Besides, I was too busy blaming myself to take a closer look.”

“How could their deaths have been your fault?” Sam’s cry broke in. “You weren’t there.”

Her gaze riveted with Ryan’s. His face went hot and tense. “We had a major fight on the telephone that evening, my dad and I. I figured I broke his heart, and that was why I lost my family.” What was it about this woman? That was more than he’d ever told anybody.

Her lips molded into a soft O. “What a terrible way for things to end between you.” If he didn’t know better, he would have said she was seeing straight into his soul, just like the other night.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Ryan’s voice came out rough. “Whoever killed my mom, and my sister and my dad had better hide under the biggest rock he can find, because I won’t rest until I find out what happened. And why?”

Hallie’s shoulder moved between him and Sam. “What do you hope the discovery of the photos will accomplish?”

He returned his attention to the reporter. “New evidence means a fresh investigation that is bound to uncover facts that were never looked at before.”

“Anything specific you can share with us?”

“Let’s just say I’ve given the police access to—”

Brakes squealed and tires screeched. Ryan turned. The next client wasn’t due for twenty minutes…but this was no client. Yikes! None of those vehicles held clients. A Minneapolis Star Tribune newspaper van roared up the drive, followed by a Channel 11 TV truck, flanked by a St. Paul Pioneer Press car, jockeying for position. The whole world chased a scoop.

Hallie whirled toward Sam, who sat with mouth agape. “So do you want to wait around and be mobbed or get out of here?”

“But what about your interview?”

“If I know Stan the Man, he got it the first time.”

“Too right.” Grinning, the camera guy lowered his equipment from his shoulder.

Ryan glared from reporter to cameraman. All that personal stuff that popped out of his mouth had been caught on film? Wasn’t the cameraman supposed to wait for some kind of cue from the reporter?

Sam rose. “My car sits between the ones for the Press and the Trib. We’ll never make a getaway.”

“There’s a pickup in the back.” Hallie nodded toward Ryan. “Yours, right?”

“Wait a minute—”

“If you wait ten seconds, you’ll have a feeding frenzy, not an interview.” She pinned him beneath a pointed stare. “Go. Leave us. We’ll stay and thumb our noses at the competition.”

People were piling out of the vehicles in his public parking lot. It was hard enough to talk to one reporter about his family’s murder. If a mob of them got in his face, he’d probably slug somebody.

He met Sam’s beseeching gaze. “We’re outta here!”

Her teeth flashed as she grinned and headed for the French doors. “I’m with you.”

Ryan grabbed her hand, and they dashed inside through his office and out into the hallway behind the reception desk. “Circle the wagons!” he called to Larry, who gazed at them wide-eyed. “Don’t let them take you alive.”

A throaty laugh came from the woman next to him. Her warm hand in his, Ryan tugged her up the hall and out the back door, leaving his employee gaping after them. They piled into his gray Silverado, and he peeled out of the staff lot toward the gravel road that provided a second egress to the property.

“Where are we headed?” Sam turned toward him, flushed face alight.

He smiled. “Your place. I feel like huntin’ me a cat. And while we’re at it, we may as well catch a burglar.”

By the wary glint that entered her eyes, he knew he’d better not add killer. He hated to tell her, but whoever sneaked into her place and snooped through her office might be connected to the murders. She was up to her dainty nose in this investigation whether she wanted to be or not.




FIVE


Sam studied the profile of the man behind the wheel of the pickup. Nice strong chin, a little on the square side, but not jutting, and definitely not weak. Just right. And his hand holding hers had been just right, too, wrapping her palm and fingers in a big grip, but not squeezing.

All well and good, but why was she alone in a pickup with a guy she’d just met? She’d wanted to escape the deluge of reporters as much as Ryan, but why did she feel perfectly at home sitting here? And safe? The police maintained he wasn’t a suspect in the murder case. However, those words hadn’t meant a lot to her inner security barometer. Less than an hour ago she’d believed him capable of breaking and entering. What had changed?

The dog. Despite his tough exterior, the man had a core of kindness. Even her moody cat knew it and trusted him. And Sam trusted animals. They had a sense about people that human beings often didn’t.

Ryan shot her a glance with his intense blue eyes, and the corners of his mouth tilted up.

What was the matter with her? She’d better quit staring, or the guy would get the wrong idea.

She looked out the window where the tree-lined bluffs of this picturesque area flashed past. Ryan’s place of business was roughly a half hour from her dry cleaners. Funny that they both lived where they worked and owned their own businesses. Did that mean they were the same sort of people?

Not really, because that was where the similarities ended. He lived in a secluded woodland area, she in a business district. His house traveled with him whenever he wanted to pick up and leave, while hers stayed planted where she intended to put down roots. No, when a person looked at it logically, they weren’t much alike at all. If they could get this awful investigation behind them, they would have no basis to develop an ongoing relationship. She’d just have to disappoint Jenna and Hallie in the matchmaking department. So why did that thought make her heart sink?

Shake it off, girl. Stick with the program. “Why do the police say you couldn’t have been the one who—er, you know? They generally look at family first. Excuse me for asking. My gut says you’re okay, but my head’s not quite there yet.”

Ryan let out a short laugh. “I’m familiar with that internal tug-of-war, and I don’t blame you for asking. They did suspect me at first. Who wouldn’t? But they ran into a brick wall when they considered timing and gunshot residue.”

“I don’t follow what you’re saying.”

“A stray pellet stopped the clock on the wall behind my dad’s desk, pinpointing when the shootings took place. When the crime scene techs tested me from top to bottom for gunshot residue, they didn’t find a speck. No way could I have taken a shower, changed clothes, dried my hair, and dispose of my tainted outfit between the time the murders were committed and the time the first squad car arrived on the scene. They were pretty much forced to acknowledge that my part in events was exactly as I said. That’s when they decided the whole thing was murder/suicide, and my dad was the bad guy.” He snorted.

“Precisely what whoever did it wanted people to believe.”

Ryan met her gaze, grim-faced, then turned his attention back to the road. “And I was no better than the cops in my thinking.”

“Why should you have been?”

“Because he was my dad, that’s why! A son should know better!”

Sam lifted her hands, palms out. “I get the point.”

His shoulders sagged. “Sorry. I’m still riled about all this.”

“I don’t blame you. When you and Hallie were talking, what were you about to say you gave the police?”

“The code for a storage unit. They said they’d check it out today. I rented a unit near the old neighborhood, and that’s where I stuck all the family stuff I didn’t get rid of after the funerals. I was pretty shook up and didn’t sort through anything after selling the house and the furniture. Just boxed it and stuffed it into a rental garage. I pay the rent bill every month, but to tell you the truth, I haven’t been back since.”

Sam frowned. “I can understand why you were in no shape to look at things at the time, but ten years is quite a while to leave your family memories locked away in a storeroom.”

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “Not if you think your bid for independence as good as pulled the trigger.”

“Do I ever understand that ‘bid for independence’ thing! I’m still fighting for mine.”

“What do you mean? You own a business, and I don’t see you living with parents.”

“A month ago you would have seen exactly that.” Sam rolled her eyes. “And no business, either.”

“No kidding!”

She bobbed her head. “Not even a teensy exaggeration. After finishing high school half a year behind the rest of my class, it took me another six to finish college because I needed to work so much to help pay old medical bills. Happily, my job was in a dry cleaners, where I learned a trade hands-on. So when my maternal grandmother left her only granddaughter a sizable chunk in her will, I suddenly found myself free of financial obligation and able to pursue a career that combined my experience with my business degree.” Sam stretched out her legs in the roomy interior and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “The only hitch was finding a dry-cleaning establishment to purchase that would get me out from under my family’s watchful eye and yet not be so far away that they would have instant heart failure when I told them I was moving.”

Ryan chuckled. “Where are you from?”

“Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Hallie’s from there, too, as well as another friend I’m close with, Jenna. She’s part owner and full-time chef at The Meridian.”

Ryan whistled under his breath. “I’ve heard that restaurant is the hottest taste sensation since buttered toast.”

Sam laughed. “I take it you haven’t paid a visit.”

He waved a hand over his polo shirt and jeans. “Suits and ties and power lunches were my dad’s thing, not mine.”

“Jenna’s restaurant welcomes tennis shoes seated next to designer leather loafers. We’ll have to go sometime.” Sam halted on an intake of breath. Did she just ask this guy out?

“Sounds great!”

By the size of Ryan’s smile, that’s exactly what she’d done, and there was no taking it back now. At least not totally. “You know, to apologize for accusing you of taking my cat. You did flowers—I guess I can do lunch.” She forced a big smile. Could he see her pulse racing? Well, he probably couldn’t miss the flush that heated her face.

“You know,” Ryan said, “Bastian likely just slipped out to explore the neighborhood. He seems to possess a normal case of curiosity, considering his species.”

“You’re probably right. If you can find him as easily today as you did the other night, I’ll owe you big-time.”

“Like dinner and a movie?”

Sam sank in the seat, face blazing. This guy was milking her mistake for all it was worth. Why? With all that was on his mind right now, romancing the woman who found those brutal photos couldn’t be high on his priority list.

“Did you call the police about the break-in?”

What did he say? She shook her head free of confusion fumes. “Oh, the break-in? No, I thought it was you.”

“So, it’s okay if I break into your place, but no one else?”

“Davidson, if you’re trying to push my buttons, you’re doing a stellar job. I’ll call the police right now.” She snatched her purse from the floor where she’d tossed it and yanked out her cell phone. She almost dropped it when she heard a shrill ring. But it wasn’t her tune. She looked over at Ryan.

He pulled a cell from a belt holder. “Davidson here.” Long pause. “What? How did anyone get there before you? The case hasn’t even broken on the news yet.” Another pause. “Oh, I see. Yes, I’ll be right there.”

Ryan snapped the phone shut and turned toward Sam, gaze bleak. “That was the police. They opened my storage unit, but someone beat them to it…years ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone made a stew of my family’s stuff, but it wasn’t a recent job. Everything’s covered with dust. They want me to get over there pronto and tell them if something’s missing. The trouble is I’m not sure if I’ll know. I was in such a fog when I put everything in storage.”

The rasp in his tone jerked a knot in Sam’s heartstrings. “If they need you now, let’s do it.”

“You’d go with me?” Furrows smoothed from Ryan’s brow, and his ice-blue gaze heated.

Sam’s heart-knot melted. “Well, I’m not too keen on being left on the side of the road. Besides, I can report my break-in to the authorities there.”

Ryan smiled. “Smart lady.”



Ryan stared at the carnage in the Gopher Storage garage. Boxes had been upended and the contents rooted through—loose papers tossed everywhere, his mom’s novels jumbled amidst his dad’s textbooks. Broken items were strewn across what little floor space remained among the crammed-in personal belongings. He spotted his mother’s favorite white blouse, torn and dusty and yellowed, tossed carelessly on top of a collection of his sister’s high school tennis trophies.

Memories sucked him under like quicksand.

He tore himself away and staggered the few feet to his pickup. Gripping the edge of the truck box, he hung his head, hauling in deep breaths. A warm hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced down into solemn green eyes.

“Give yourself a minute,” she murmured. “You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled loud and long. “Seeing that stuff hit me hard.”

“Mr. Davidson,” a terse voice spoke from behind them, “did you notice anything missing?”

Ryan turned to face the officer who had introduced himself as Detective Connell. The lean man stood with a pen and small notebook in hand. Ryan shook his head. “Nothing obvious, but I’ll have to go through things in order to be able to give a better answer.”

“Fair enough.” The detective stuffed the pen and notebook in his suit jacket pocket. “Our guys will be through dusting for prints soon, and then we can turn you loose on the place.”

“Thanks.”

“Detective Connell,” Sam spoke up, “my business was broken into last night.”

The officer stiffened.

“I found evidence of the intrusion this morning,” Sam continued, “and my cat is gone. At first, I thought it was Ryan paying me a return visit, but he says not, and I believe him.”

Connell cocked a brow at Ryan. “Yes, I heard you were prowling the old neighborhood the other night.”

“I didn’t break into the dry cleaners.”

Seconds ticked past as their stares dueled. Ryan’s jaw clenched. What did the guy expect to see—a guilty sign flashing behind his eyeballs?

Abruptly, Connell shifted his attention to Sam. “We’ll look into this as soon as we’re done here.” He crossed the pavement toward the garage where a pair of technicians worked.

“Let’s get in the truck and turn on the AC while they finish,” Ryan said to Sam.

They climbed in, and Ryan started the vehicle. He ran his palms up and down the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the white police van that sat nose to nose with the Silverado. “It’ll be tough to go through that stuff, but it’s probably needed to be done for a long time.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just nodded. Silence fell, not uncomfortable, just…heavy, as if patiently awaiting something significant.

Ryan cleared his throat, swallowing the lump that kept creeping up his windpipe. “The last time I spoke to any of my family wasn’t much fun.”

“Tell me.”

Ryan closed his eyes and tumbled back in time.



He whizzed up the Interstate, tunes from a mellow country radio station keeping him company. His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID then turned down the radio. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

No “Are you all right, son? We’ve been worried.” Ryan squelched the sarcasm before it reached his lips. Michael T. Davidson didn’t have warm fuzzies in his vocabulary. Why should his offspring expect any? “I’m almost to St. Paul.”

“Good. You’ll be home in less than an hour. Your mom and sister have nose prints all over the front window.”

“Yeah, I got a late start. Loose ends to tie up.”

“I’m on the Internet right now studying the business offerings for junior year, and I’ve got a plan mapped out that will shoot you straight into Stanford for your postgraduate work.”

Ryan squeezed his eyes shut then popped them open. Dad’s voice droned on about “the plan” that would have Davidson and Son printed on the stationery of his investment firm. A sour taste settled on Ryan’s tongue.

“I’m not going to major in business. I’ve decided to take forestry.” Wow! Did that pop out of his mouth right here on the phone? Silence roared from the opposite end of the connection. “Sure, I get good grades in the number-cruncher classes,” Ryan continued, “but I’m bored stiff. I love the outdoors—working with nature. Remember those Boundary Waters canoe trips I went on with my youth group? And all those weekends on our Mississippi houseboat? When you let me tag along hunting with your business clients, you said I had a knack—”

“I’m not in the mood for this joke, young man.” Dad’s tone was a brick wall. “You know my position. Hunting and fishing are relaxing hobbies, but there’s no money in it. My son is not making a career out of such wasted effort.”

“Too late, Dad. Before I left school, I declared forestry my major.”

“Are you on drugs, nature boy?” The words sliced like razors.

“Huh?”

“We’re not about to toss away everything you’ve planned and worked for all these years on a whim.”

Heat seared Ryan’s veins. “Wrong! All the things you’ve planned for me and made me slave for all these years. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty—”

“You are a child, Ryan. An unstable little boy. I won’t have your mother and sister upset by your antics. Don’t you even mention—”

“Mom and Cassie won’t care what major I take, as long as I’m happy. You’re the one who goes ballistic if anyone tries to wiggle out from under your thumb.” Ryan winced. Had he just shouted at his father?

A foul word entered Ryan’s ear. He blinked. His controlled dad never cursed. But more followed—worse than dock lingo—mixed with orders about what an ungrateful son could do with his trees, and his wildlife, and his canoe and his pigeons. Pigeons?

His mom’s voice, high-pitched, entered the background. Dad’s thunder dialed up in volume, and Ryan pulled the phone away from his ear, words still pummeling him.

“Ryan?”

Mom. She must’ve snatched the phone.

“I’m here.” His words rasped through a tight throat.

“Come home, okay? Whatever’s going on, we’ll work it out.”

The noises faded and disappeared. Mom must have left Dad’s office.

“Cassie and I can’t wait to see you. This’ll be a great summer.” Her voice quavered, and she cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about your dad. He’s had a tough time at the office lately. We have to give him a little space to work it out.”

Good old Mom, the enabler. He’d learned that bit of shrink-speak in his general psychology elective. “See you soon. Tell Cass she’d better have her tennis game polished up, because I’m going to wipe the court with her.”

Mom let out a thin chuckle. “Sure, honey. Bye.”



Ryan opened his eyes, back in his pickup, staring at the police technicians’ van, his family dead and gone. “That was the last time I heard my parents’ voices, and I never got to speak a word to Cassie, not then, not ever again.”

A slender hand covered his, resting on the seat. “I’m honored you shared that with me. You’ve kept everything bottled up for too long. Talking it out is one of God’s ways of bringing healing.”

“God? If He exists, He’s the One who let all this happen.” Ryan pulled his hand away. “Mom trusted Him. Cass, too. And I did once upon a time in a fairy tale.”

Sam’s gaze darkened, but she met his glare strong and steady. “Happily ever after doesn’t come without trials in this world. But if I didn’t know it was there for us with a loving God, I would’ve given up and died years ago—mentally and emotionally for sure. Maybe it’s time for Ryan Davidson to join the living again, too.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, you can keep your ‘loving God’ theory. And just where do you get off lecturing me about life, Ms. Sheltered Homebody?”

The color drained from Sam’s face at the same rate as the anger seeped from Ryan’s heart. Would it help if he bit his unruly tongue off? He had no right to expect another ounce of grace from her, any more than he expected any from the God who let his family die.




SIX


Sam groped for the door handle. “I’ll see if Detective Connell is ready to investigate my break-in.” She hopped out. “He’ll probably give me a ride home so you can get busy here.”

“Wait. I’m sor—”

She shut the door and hurried, stiff-legged, toward where the detective was consulting with one of the lab techs. The humid breath of summer wafted across her skin, but a chill fist gripped her heart.

She’d been right when she first saw Ryan Davidson’s photograph. He was a cold and bitter man, and by his own admission, not a believer or, for sure, had seriously backslidden. Obviously, he needed the help and healing only God could give, but she was no counselor. At least she could count herself officially beyond temptation to think of him in any romantic light. Not that she had been, of course, but now she had an unanswerable comeback for her conniving friends.

“Detective Connell,” she called. “Whenever you’re ready to leave, I’d like to ride with you to my place.”

The detective looked up, but his gaze traveled to a point beyond her shoulder. Sam turned and almost bounced off Ryan’s broad chest. The guy was sneaky quiet. She hadn’t even heard him get out of the truck.

“You left your car at my place,” he said.

“I’ll get Hallie or Jenna to bring me over to get it later.”

“No need. This project will have to wait a little longer.” He jerked his head toward the garage. “I have to get back to work now because we have three families coming for boats this afternoon, and Larry can’t handle all that alone. But as soon as we close up shop, we’ll bring the car to you if you’ll trust me with the keys.”

His open gaze and gentle smile sent tingles to Sam’s toes. She rifled through her purse. Honestly, this guy was confusing, a prodded badger one minute and faithful collie the next. She separated the key for her car from the rest of her ring and handed it to him.

His smile broadened. “See you soon.”

She watched him stride away. As he opened his truck door, he met her gaze. “If Bastian hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll help you hunt for him, and we can talk about our date at The Meridian.”




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