you get in?”
“The door was unlocked.”
Cade swiveled and eyed her. He hadn’t taken the time to examine the door. “Unlocked?”
She nodded, looking past him at Misty. “Yes. Definitely. And no sign of forced entry. It doesn’t make sense. She has an obsession about locking her doors.”
He heard a truck pull up outside. Within seconds, heavy footsteps on the wooden porch announced the arrival of the EMTs.
“Here we go, Misty. They’re going to take good care of you.” He rose from his haunches and moved out of the way so the EMTs could check her out.
He met the FBI agent’s gaze and found her watching him with a pensive expression.
She blinked, and then held out her hand. “I’m Laurel Gillespie. You don’t remember me. I was a year behind you in school.”
“Gillespie?” he repeated absently.
Laurel saw the blank look in Cade’s eye and her heart sank. She knew he wouldn’t remember her, but that didn’t make it any easier.
He stepped aside as the EMTs lifted Misty onto a gurney. He was close—too close. She could smell his aftershave. It was fresh and subtle. Sexy.
Dear heavens, she was really standing next to Cade Dupree, her high-school crush. She’d thought that by now, ten years after she’d graduated from high school, she’d have forgotten his confident stance, his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette.
Now that the threat of danger and her worry about Misty were over, she was practically shaking with reaction. Partly from finding Misty collapsed and bleeding, but partly from seeing Cade.
She turned her head. His handsome, familiar face was only a few inches from hers, his thick lashes lowered as he watched Misty. He hadn’t changed except that his face had more character and his body had filled out with lean, hard muscles.
Her pulse fluttered as his gaze met hers and roamed over her face. How could she still remember that voice, those long powerful legs, that lanky frame? And his sky-blue eyes. She’d swooned over those eyes in high school.
He sent her a taste of his killer smile. “So—Laurel Gillespie,” he drawled, “FBI agent.”
Despite the unwelcome return of her adolescent jitters, Laurel bristled at his patronizing tone. She’d thought she was prepared for Cade Dupree. She wasn’t.
He straightened, and rested his hand on the butt of his gun. He was chief of police—the job his dad had held for as long as she could remember. And he was taking charge of the crime scene.
Laurel took a deep breath. She wasn’t about to wait for him to order her out of the house.
“I’ll take charge of the front. Keep people out.” She turned on her heel without waiting for an answer.
Great. She’d put herself exactly where she didn’t want to be. In full view of the entire town of Dusty Springs.
She felt like a threshold guardian as a parade of curious neighbors tried to get inside. She had no trouble flashing her badge to turn away the owner of the hardware store and his wife, or a young mother with a toddler in her arms, or a couple of teenage boys, all of whom gasped in awe when she informed them that the house was a crime scene. But she dreaded running into any of her former classmates.
Her memories of high school were of not fitting in, of the nightmare of braces and glasses, unruly red hair and painful shyness.
Within a few minutes, a familiar man in his early fifties, wearing a badge and a gun, walked up to her. Behind him, a younger man in a misbuttoned police uniform shirt carried a roll of yellow crime-scene tape.
“Evening, Laurel. That is, Special Agent Gillespie. I didn’t know you were an FBI agent.”
“Officer Evans, hi.”
“Cade—Chief Dupree—called us to tape off the scene. He said you might need some help.” He punched a thumb backward through the air. “This is Officer Shelton Phillips.”
She nodded at Phillips and smiled at Officer Evans. “Thanks,” she said gratefully.
Just like Cade’s dad, Fred Evans had been a police officer since she could remember. His daughter Debra had belonged to the snootiest clique in school.
Officer Phillips quickly cordoned off the front of the house and then headed around back.
Laurel turned toward the dwindling crowd just as a tall woman with skinny legs and a haughty air walked up. Kathy Hodges.
Speaking of snooty. Kathy and Debra and a couple of other girls had named themselves the Cool Girls. The rest of the class called them the CeeGees. They’d made it their mission to target certain classmates, usually the shyest ones, to humiliate and embarrass.
Laurel’s confidence drained away as scenes from the most embarrassing night of her life swept through her head with the clarity of a high-definition movie.
Afterward, she’d kicked herself for not seeing through the cruel prank. But on the night of the Homecoming Dance her sophomore year, she’d really believed that senior football captain James Dupree, who was the Homecoming King, wanted her to dance the traditional first dance with him. Although she was smitten with James’s younger brother Cade, there was no way she would pass up the biggest honor in a sophomore girl’s year.
Remembered excitement and apprehension swirled through her as she relived that awful moment. Standing on the dance floor in a brand new gown, clutching the note from James in her hand.
Please do me the honor of dancing the first dance with me.
Her heart fluttering as James’s cocky gaze swept the room, stopping to wink at her.
Then he held out his hand and smiled. And Laurel had started climbing the stairs to the stage.
Still smiling at her, James named another girl. Everyone’s laughter still rang in her ears. By the next morning, it was all over school and Laurel was humiliated.
Now here she was, facing Kathy for the first time since she’d graduated and moved away with her parents. Despite her success, she suddenly felt like the plain, shy girl she’d been ten years ago.
Kathy’s blond hair was sleek and newly colored, her makeup was perfect, but her eyes were bloodshot, and not even expensive makeup could hide all the tiny veins visible around her nose. A lit cigarette smoldered in her perfectly manicured hand. She looked thin and pinched and miserable.
Laurel stood straighter as Kathy walked purposefully up the steps.
“Pardon me,” Kathy said, waving the hand that held the cigarette. Even with the cigarette smoke, Laurel could smell whiskey on her breath.
“Sorry, Kathy. This is a crime scene. No one’s allowed inside.”
Kathy’s perfectly shaped brows drew down as she eyed Laurel. “Nonsense. Misty’s my friend.”
Doubt it, Laurel thought.
