How Secrets Die. Marta Perry
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Nothing. At this point, Tom’s instructions would have stressed moving away and calling the police, but she had no desire for another encounter with Mac Whiting.
Kate took a cautious step inside, then another, and listened, holding her breath. After a moment or two, tense muscles began to relax. Whoever had been here must be gone.
Even as she thought it she sensed movement behind her. She whirled, striking out with the hand holding the keys—get out, scream, run—
Iron fingers grabbed her wrist before the blow could land. She froze, face-to-face with Mac, staring breathless into his narrowed eyes. For a long moment they stood very close, and the air seemed to quiver between them.
Then he stepped back, releasing her, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “You always greet visitors that way?”
“Visitors generally knock.” Kate grabbed for the shaken fragments of her composure.
“The door was open.” Whiting took hold of her wrist again, turning it to examine the points of the keys extending through her fingers. “Very effective weapon.”
The touch of his hand made her too aware of the fierce physical presence behind his lazy smile and small-town manner. She drew away, and he didn’t attempt to stop her.
“My stepfather was a cop. He taught us both self-defense.”
“You must have been his star pupil.” He studied her face for a moment. “You want to tell me what this is all about? I was just coming to talk to you. You came into the cottage as if you were expecting an attack.”
Kate turned away, rubbing her fingers against the silver dragon. “I locked the door when I left earlier,” she said shortly. “When I came back just now, it was unlocked.”
“You’re sure?” He shot the question at her.
“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. “I didn’t grow up in Hicksville. I learned to lock doors as soon as I was tall enough to reach the knob.”
Before she’d finished, he was giving her a firm push toward the door. “Go outside while I check the house.” Without looking to see that she obeyed, he moved toward the bedroom, staying to the side as he opened the door.
Nothing happened. He disappeared into the room. Kate followed to find him surveying the clothes she’d tossed on the bed. Mac gave her a sharp look. “I thought I told you to go outside.”
“I don’t follow orders well.” She glanced around and shrugged. “Doesn’t look as if anything’s disturbed in here.”
He’d moved to the dresser, and she spoke again, impatient.
“I didn’t bring the crown jewels with me this trip. The only thing of value here is my computer.” The computer. She spun and fled back to the other room. The computer still sat on the small side table she’d appropriated to use as a desk.
“It’s still here.” Mac spoke behind her. “So apparently you haven’t been burgled.”
“It’s here.” Quickly she checked her files. Jason’s diary was there, all right.
“Everything okay?” Mac had moved close enough that she felt his breath on her neck when he spoke. Close enough, most likely, to read the titles of the files. She shut the laptop.
“Okay. Except that I left it turned off, and now it’s on.”
But he was already moving to the kitchen, most of it visible from where they stood. “Easy to make a mistake about a thing like that, isn’t it?” he said. “And I think I’ve solved the mystery.” He held something up. “Your burglar left you a present. Smells like nut bread.”
“Mrs. Anderson.” Kate’s jaw was tight, and she struggled to relax it. “She means to be kind, but...”
“But you’d rather she didn’t,” he finished for her. His face took on the amused look that annoyed her so. “I’ve never heard of locking doors to keep out kindness.”
Kate took a deep breath, trying to think of a response that didn’t sound petty. She couldn’t. “Was there some reason you came over, Chief Whiting?”
His smile suggested he knew what she was thinking. “Mac, please. It seems you’ve ruffled the feathers of one of our prominent residents.”
She looked at him blankly for a moment. “Who?” She couldn’t imagine Russell Sheldon’s caregiver going to the police about her visit.
“Bart Gordon seems to think you’re planning to stir up bad publicity for his company.” He raised an eyebrow. “And he’s not yet aware that you’re a reporter.”
That comment seemed to come from left field. “My profession has nothing to do with it. My reasons for being here are purely personal.”
“And they are?”
Her fingers clenched, nails biting into her palms. “I’ve already told you. I want to see the place where my brother spent the last months of his life.”
“Yes, you told me. But I don’t think you mentioned why you waited a year to come.”
If she threw the computer at him, he’d probably arrest her for assault. She glared at him instead. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this is the first opportunity I’ve had to get away from work for any length of time.”
Mac seemed to be weighing her words, his eyes noncommittal.
Nettled, she couldn’t keep from responding to what she suspected was disbelief. “I think that’s all I have to say on the subject. So unless you intend to arrest me for making the good residents of Laurel Ridge think about something they’d rather forget, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”
His smile flickered. “I’ll buy that, for the moment. But if you ever decide to confide in me...”
“I won’t.” Her tone was tart.
“In the meantime, take my advice and steer clear of Bart Gordon. We wouldn’t want him charging you with harassment, would we?” He gave her another extended look, then turned and walked out.
Kate let out a long breath. She hadn’t seen the last of him—there was no doubt of that in her mind.
In the meantime, she had a more immediate problem. Obviously the landlady had come in, bearing food. But would she have started the computer? Somehow Kate didn’t think so.
At least whoever had done so hadn’t been able to get past the password, as far as she could see. But who? And why?
KATE STOOD FROWNING at the computer for another moment. Then, realizing she was standing right in front of the window, she looked out, half expecting to see Mac Whiting staring in at her.
No one was there. She moved away from the window, and then went back and pulled the curtains closed. It made the small room dark, but it eliminated the sense that someone was watching her.
Rubbing her arms, she stalked into the kitchen. Mac had been right, of course. He seemed to make a habit of that. The neatly wrapped loaf on the counter bore a label. Nut bread, it proclaimed, in Mrs. Anderson’s already familiar writing.
Drat the man. She’d already been shaken at finding the cottage door unlocked, and the immediate confrontation with him had really knocked her off her balance. That was probably why she’d had that intense awareness of him as a man. That, and the brief glimpse he’d given her of an intense protectiveness lurking under his professionalism.
He’d rocked her, and she didn’t want that. Didn’t have time for it, and really didn’t welcome it. There was no space in her thoughts right now for anything but her mission.
Why, Jason? Why? She had nothing