Deep Secrets. Beverly Long
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to hear someone else say it. “They were his last words. I think they were important to him,” she snapped.
“Of course,” Chase said.
Bray stood up. “I think I should take Trish back to my house,” he said.
When Summer and Bray had got married, Bray had moved into the small house that Summer had rented with her two children. They were building a new home but the walls had just gone up. “You don’t have extra space,” she said. “I’ll go to my own house.”
“You can stay with Raney and me,” Chase said immediately.
She did not want to stay with anyone. She was strung so tight that she was about to lose it. “Is there any reason to think that I’m in danger, that the attack on Milo had something to do with me or Summer or the café?”
“We have no way of knowing that,” Chase said. “Milo was attacked from behind. As best as I can tell, he was in the process of putting the garbage into the Dumpster when he was stabbed. Based on what Bray has told me, I understand you opened the door to check on him and he was already on the ground. Whoever had done this was gone.”
She nodded. “He’d been in prison. Do you think it could be someone from his past, someone who maybe held a grudge?” She was grasping at straws but she so desperately wanted to make sense of it.
“I don’t know,” Chase said. “I’ve asked for help from the state. They have more sophisticated resources than we have to process the scene. We’re going to be done here in just a little while, but I’d prefer it if you could keep the café closed tomorrow, just in case.”
Saturdays were usually busy days. “I’ll put a sign on the door,” she said, getting up to find paper and a pen. The sign probably wasn’t necessary. It was a sure bet that at least one of the volunteer fire and rescue squad would tell his or her spouse what had happened here tonight and it would spread like wildfire. By morning, everyone in the small town would know why the café wasn’t open.
It was one of the reasons she hadn’t said anything before this about Milo’s last words. She hadn’t wanted it to be overheard.
Because if one well-meaning person asked her what she thought about it, she might explode. She didn’t know what she thought. Tell Rafe implied something that she couldn’t even fathom. They know. Know what, for God’s sake? “I want to go home,” she said. “To my house. I have Duke. He won’t let anyone get near me.” It was true. The German shepherd was fiercely protective, had been since the day he’d wandered up to her doorstep without any tags. She’d searched for an owner for a week, even putting an ad in the paper, but no one had come forward. Duke had become her dog.
“A dog isn’t much protection against a bullet,” Chase said gently.
“This was a knife, not a bullet.”
“You don’t know that’s the only available weapon,” he said.
“The café emptied out at least a half hour before we closed. I was alone in the dining room, clearly visible if someone outside had bothered to look in the window. If they wanted to harm me, they had a chance. But they waited until Milo took the trash out. I think this was about Milo, not about me.”
“Even with that final comment?” Bray asked.
“Like Chase said, Milo was dying. He might have been confused.” She picked up her purse and kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for bringing Summer home early, thank you for being here and for having the wherewithal to respond.”
Then she turned to Chase. “I trust you, Chase. With every bone in my body. I know that you’ll do everything you can to find Milo’s killer. He was a wonderful friend and he didn’t deserve to die like this.” Then she leaned in and gave him a quick hug.
Bray picked up his keys from the counter. “At least let me follow you home and make sure you get inside safely.”
The Hollister men were very protective of the women they loved, and by virtue of being Summer’s sister, she was automatically included in their circle. “Fine. Let’s go.”
* * *
HER FOUR-BEDROOM RANCH house was too big for one person, and tonight, more than ever, she felt as if she was drifting from room to room, looking for ghosts. She was grateful, though, for the silence.
Bray had been true to his word. He’d left, a worried look on his face, after he’d checked every room and the garage. She’d assured him that she’d set the alarm immediately and she had.
Now she stood in her kitchen and Duke crowded in next to her, almost as if he knew that something wasn’t quite right. He was poking his nose at her knees, and when she reached down to pet him, she realized that there was blood on her dark blue pants.
Milo’s blood. She hadn’t seen it before, but when she’d knelt next to the body, the blood had got on her.
“Oh, Milo,” she sobbed, catching hold of the kitchen counter to keep herself upright. Tell Rafe they know. “What did you mean?”
With jerky movements, she peeled off every stitch of her clothes. Then naked, she stuffed them into the kitchen garbage can. She roughly yanked out the plastic bag insert and tied it up tight. With heavy arms, she tossed the bag by the door that led to her garage.
Then, feeling very old and weary, she walked back to her bedroom and straight into the adjoining bath. She turned on the shower, as hot as she could stand it. And when she stepped under the spray, she let the tears that she’d held back all night run down her face.
Her chest heaved with her sobs and she braced herself against the wall.
She wasn’t stupid. Tell Rafe. That implied that Rafe was alive. Was that even possible? His body had never been found. But what would keep him away? What would keep a husband away from his wife?
Four years. Four long years.
Over fourteen hundred days of heartache.
It just wasn’t possible. Rafe would never hurt her like that.
* * *
RAFE HOPED THERE were no snakes in the damn grass. It was damp and scratchy and smelled like a herd of cattle had passed through. He’d arrived before dawn and had been on his stomach for the past several hours. He badly wanted a cup of hot coffee. But he didn’t move.
Windows were open in the villa and music drifted up the hill. When the song changed, his gut tightened up. They played that one at his wedding. And in the morning, his beautiful bride had been humming it.
She’d been so happy. And he’d thought it would last until balls started dropping out of the air. Accidents, some said. He knew better.
His trusted coworkers had been murdered. He didn’t care what anybody said.
And he suspected the man inside, who was probably about to sit down to breakfast with his family, was responsible. Luciano Maladucci. Richer than several European countries put together and more evil than most could even imagine, he delighted in playing chess with people’s lives.
Unfortunately, Rafe hadn’t been able to prove Maladucci was behind the deaths. It had been his sole focus his first six months back, but every lead turned into a dead end. He had to stop when his boss told him in no uncertain terms to let it go.
He let it go. At least as far as most people knew. But he’d found another way to tighten the noose around this man’s neck. One way or the other, he was going to see him behind prison bars.
With his binoculars picking up every detail, he watched a Ferrari Spider turn into the circle drive. What was the youngest Maladucci son doing here? The older son and his family lived in the east wing of the villa. It was rare for the two brothers to be together, probably because the younger brother had slept with the older brother’s wife three years ago.
Real friendly, the Maladuccis.
Real