he demanded. “What havenae you told me?”
“It’s nothing, really. What do I know about dead bodies?” More than she wanted to, unfortunately.
“Tell me.”
Hillary sighed. “She was so broken. And the amount of blood. I wouldn’t have thought that a fall down the stairs could make someone bleed so much.”
“What are you saying?”
“I was surprised when Bristol told me that Agnes’s death had been accidental. You asked me what I thought when I first walked in and found her? I thought she’d been murdered.”
With an angry sigh, Caid threw back the covers, climbed out of bed and started pacing the length of the room. Cold, damp air dotted his bare skin with goose bumps, but he barely registered the chill.
Last night, his overactive brain had kept him up making lists of what needed to be done and the cost of each project until he could literally see years of his life being sucked into the same void as his dwindling bank account. The sound of Hillary’s soft cries had almost been a relief.
Tonight, though, he was tired. He’d worked himself physically in the morning, painting the study, then wrote most of the afternoon. With his brain like mush and a good solid ache in his muscles, he should have been asleep in no time.
Oh, he just had to wonder about his father having a role in Agnes’s death. What the hell did he care for, anyway? He hadn’t seen either of them years. It wasn’t his problem. The police thought the whole thing was an accident and if that was good enough for them, it would just have to be good enough for him, too.
He grabbed the battered paperback he’d been reading from the bureau and crawled back into bed, settling in with a caper about a bunch of bumbling would-be criminals who couldn’t get anything right.
At last his eyes grew heavy and he started to doze.
A loud creak followed by a heavy thud yanked him awake. Caid sat up a little. The book, still open on his chest, fell onto the mattress next to him. He reached for his watch on the bedside table. Good Christ, he hadn’t been out for more than two hours.
Cursing, and with an unfortunate sense of déjà vu, he rolled out of the bed, then dragged on his jeans. What was that noise? A door? Maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing. But if it was another break in…
As he stepped into the hallway, Hillary’s door, slightly ajar, caught his eye. He pushed it open the rest of the way. The lamp next to her bed burned softly, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Where was she? His heart rate picked up, beating hard against his chest. Maybe she’d gone downstairs for something. She’d probably been the one to wake him.
He wrapped his arms around his bare chest and rubbed his upper arms as he started down the hall. With only the pale light spilling out from both bedrooms to guide him, he made his way to the top of the stairs, but hesitated before descending into the pitch black of the lower floor.
If she were down there, wouldn’t she have turned on a light? What if she sleepwalked? As he reached out for the switch to the ugly chandelier dangling over the foyer, he hesitated. A door at the opposite end of the hall was open and a weak light glowed just beyond the threshold.
Inexplicable anger shimmered just below his skin. Annoyance mixed with something a little deeper, a little frightening, an emotion he couldn’t name and definitely didn’t want to examine.
He marched down the hall through the open door, coming to a narrow stone staircase. Dirty wall sconces glowed dimly, and combined with the thick cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, cast strange fluttering shadows up the wall.
Good God, what had she been thinking, coming up here? He rested his hand on the wood banister and something scurried under his palm. He snatched his arm back and rubbed his hand on his jeans.
Despite the shudder running along his spine, he continued up the stairs. At the top, Hillary sat with a book open in her lap in the middle of a long,
“It’s nothing, really. What do I know about dead bodies?” More than she wanted to, unfortunately.
“Tell me.”
Hillary sighed. “She was so broken. And the amount of blood. I wouldn’t have thought that a fall down the stairs could make someone bleed so much.”
“What are you saying?”
“I was surprised when Bristol told me that Agnes’s death had been accidental. You asked me what I thought when I first walked in and found her? I thought she’d been murdered.”
With an angry sigh, Caid threw back the covers, climbed out of bed and started pacing the length of the room. Cold, damp air dotted his bare skin with goose bumps, but he barely registered the chill.
Last night, his overactive brain had kept him up making lists of what needed to be done and the cost of each project until he could literally see years of his life being sucked into the same void as his dwindling bank account. The sound of Hillary’s soft cries had almost been a relief.
Tonight, though, he was tired. He’d worked himself physically in the morning, painting the study, then wrote most of the afternoon. With his brain like mush and a good solid ache in his muscles, he should have been asleep in no time.
Oh, he just had to wonder about his father having a role in Agnes’s death. What the hell did he care for, anyway? He hadn’t seen either of them years. It wasn’t his problem. The police thought the whole thing was an accident and if that was good enough for them, it would just have to be good enough for him, too.
He grabbed the battered paperback he’d been reading from the bureau and crawled back into bed, settling in with a caper about a bunch of bumbling would-be criminals who couldn’t get anything right.
At last his eyes grew heavy and he started to doze.
A loud creak followed by a heavy thud yanked him awake. Caid sat up a little. The book, still open on his chest, fell onto the mattress next to him. He reached for his watch on the bedside table. Good Christ, he hadn’t been out for more than two hours.
Cursing, and with an unfortunate sense of déjà vu, he rolled out of the bed, then dragged on his jeans. What was that noise? A door? Maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing. But if it was another break in…
As he stepped into the hallway, Hillary’s door, slightly ajar, caught his eye. He pushed it open the rest of the way. The lamp next to her bed burned softly, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Where was she? His heart rate picked up, beating hard against his chest. Maybe she’d gone downstairs for something. She’d probably been the one to wake him.
He wrapped his arms around his bare chest and rubbed his upper arms as he started down the hall. With only the pale light spilling out from both bedrooms to guide him, he made his way to the top of the stairs, but hesitated before descending into the pitch black of the lower floor.
If she were down there, wouldn’t she have turned on a light? What if she sleepwalked? As he reached out for the switch to the ugly chandelier dangling over the foyer, he hesitated. A door at the opposite end of the hall was open and a weak light glowed just beyond the threshold.
Inexplicable anger shimmered just below his skin. Annoyance mixed with something a little deeper, a little frightening, an emotion he couldn’t name and definitely didn’t want to examine.
He marched down the hall through the open door, coming to a narrow stone staircase. Dirty wall sconces glowed dimly, and combined with the thick cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, cast strange fluttering shadows up the wall.
Good God, what had she been thinking, coming up here? He rested his hand on the wood banister and something scurried under his palm. He snatched his arm back and rubbed his hand on his jeans.
Despite the shudder running along his spine, he continued up the stairs. At the top, Hillary sat with a book open in her lap in the middle of a long,
Similar Books
