What She Doesn't See by Debra Webb Page B

guy, Wyatt Murphy. He
grilled me in the church parking lot. You could have told me.”
    “Look.” Another deep breath. “I haven’t the
slightest idea what you’re talking about. We’re all upset that
Hitch is dead. I know the memorial service was tough on everyone,
but for Christ’s sake, Alex, you’ve got to stop making things worse
by coming up with these outlandish scenarios. Hitch is dead. So far
it appears to be nothing more than a tragic accident.”
    “You didn’t sic some fed on me about that
call Hitch made to me the night he died?”
    “Of
course not. Why would the feds
be involved in this case anyway?” Patton sounded tired—tired and
disgusted. “Like I told you before, we’re checking out every aspect
of the accident. The techs found no indication whatsoever his
vehicle had been tampered with. If anything—and I mean anything—was
out of sync we would have found it by now.”
    But they wouldn’t find it. Not only were they
looking in the wrong place, they had no idea what they were looking
for.

Chapter 13
    Still fuming, Alex parked in her driveway and
strode up the walk to her front door. If Murphy’s story was legit
and he was investigating the case, she suspected it was about the
lens and not Hitch’s murder—which would explain why Patton had been
left out of the loop. The trouble with that scenario was that if
Murphy suspected she knew something, who else did? The man who had
killed Hitch. Probably the same one who’d blown up O’Neill’s home.
This, of course, was assuming Murphy wasn’t that man.
    Was she only giving him the benefit of the
doubt—despite what Patton said—because he was drop-dead
gorgeous?
    Her mother’s comment about how alike they
were nagged at Alex but she ignored it. They were total opposites.
Anyone who knew them would say the same. Alex liked being in
control. She liked standing on her own two feet. She liked doing
things her way. Her mother was rarely in control of her destiny.
She was wholly dependent upon Alex for a place to live and a job.
Her relationships always ended badly.
    Guilt for being so hard on her mother pinged
her. Marg tried. Most of the time anyway.
    Alex tossed her bag onto the sofa and kicked
off her stilettos. She would peel off the dress later. First she
wanted a beer and something to munch on. She’d totally forgotten
lunch except for a bag of chips, and grease didn’t technically
count as a food group. Mostly she wanted to put this whole mess out
of her head for a minute.
    She grabbed a Corona from the fridge and
quenched her thirst. After throwing together a ham sandwich and
snagging her shoes, she headed to her room to get comfortable with
the stack of magazines she’d borrowed from Marg’s apartment. She
smiled. Even if she died tonight, Shannon would just assume Marg
had left the gossip rags at Alex’s house or that Alex had
confiscated them for some reason.
    She stopped. Just because both she and Marg
liked the gossip rags didn’t mean they were alike.
    They were nothing alike.
    She wasn’t going to think about that anymore.
She went into her room and put the shoes away in her closet, set
her half-empty beer and sandwich aside, and was just about to
wiggle out of her dress when she noticed the earring glittering on
the carpet.
    It was one of those freak things. The tiny
platinum-and-pearl stud was so small it was a miracle she saw it at
all. Somehow her gaze just happened to land in the right spot and
recognition fired in the only two brain cells she had left that
were paying attention.
    She bent down and picked it up. Since she
hadn’t worn these particular earrings in months, she frowned.
Placing the earring on top of her jewelry box, she opened the first
dresser drawer—the one where she kept her panties. Things appeared
in order. She was pretty sure Marg had gone through her things and
borrowed something recently. She’d meant to mention that to her and
she’d forgotten.
    Determined to be sure nothing else had