The car passed, plunging them back into darkness.
“I have to go,” she said, turning away from him. She’d circle the block and come back from another direction, see if the stranger had moved along or if he was still lurking there. Or maybe she’d go back and find a campus security officer to walk her safely to her doorstep.
“Is this about the murders?”
His soft query halted her steps. She turned to look at him. “The murders?”
“Cissy said something about some murders. She wanted to tell me about them. It was all very cryptic.”
Alicia eyed him warily. Cissy knew about Alicia’s theories, of course. The last time they’d spoken, Cissy had mentioned she was debating telling her father about Alicia’s research. But she hadn’t mentioned anything about an uncle.
“So you came all the way here to Millbridge because your niece cryptically mentioned murders?”
“Cissy calls and asks for my help, I come,” he said simply.
“Nice uncle,” she murmured. She wasn’t even sure her parents would come if she called, much less any of her uncles from either side of the family tree.
“Look, I’ve clearly spooked you. And I guess if there are murders going on here that Cissy thinks I need to know about, you’ve got good reason to be a little freaked.”
“I told you, you didn’t scare me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” he answered in a slow, devastating drawl. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans. As he did so, the side hem of his shirt lifted to reveal a handgun tucked into a slim holster attached to the waistband of his jeans.
Alicia’s heart skipped a beat. She pulled the pepper spray canister from her jacket pocket, ready to press the button and run like hell at the slightest provocation.
But the man who called himself Gabe Cooper merely brought out a thin, dark-colored wallet. He flipped it open with one hand and flashed a small penlight onto the contents. Alicia saw a photo ID inside.
“This is me,” he said, moving closer.
She settled her trembling finger over the button of the pepper spray dispenser, but stood her ground as he came close enough for her to see the ID. It was an Alabama driver’s license, with a Gossamer Ridge address. The photo of the man was impossibly good for a driver’s license photo, making Alicia hate him a little in envy.
The name on the license was definitely Gabe Cooper, and she knew her friend Cissy was from Gossamer Ridge.
“Would a second ID help? I have a lifetime Alabama fishing license—”
Her tension eased again. “What do you do for a living?”
He hesitated a second, as if realizing this was a test. “I’m a fishing guide and sometimes professional angler. I also pull volunteer shifts as an auxiliary deputy at the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Department.”
“What’s Cissy’s father’s name?”
“J.D.,” he answered patiently. “James Dennison, actually, but we’ve always called him J.D.”
“What about her mother?”
He hesitated again, this time answering in a faint, emotion-tinged voice. “Brenda Alice Teague Cooper. She died twelve years ago.”
“How’d she die?”
“She was murdered.”
Pain etched every word into the darkness between them, reminding her of the way Cissy spoke of her mother, in a voice raw with sadness. Only with this man, the pain was rawer still, edged with a bitterness that made Alicia’s stomach ache.
This man couldn’t take a person’s life with the impersonal ease of a serial killer. Alicia put the pepper spray back into the pocket of her jacket. “I’m Alicia Solano.”
“So you’re Professor Solano?” He sounded surprised. Alicia guessed his niece had mentioned her to him at some point.
“Instructor, actually. No Ph.D yet.” She tried not to bristle at his skepticism. It wasn’t an insult to be thought too young to be a college instructor, or so her older colleagues insisted. She was a young-looking twenty-five, especially when she eschewed makeup, as she’d done today.
“Cissy speaks well of you.”
“She’s a good student,” she answered automatically, then softened her voice. “Good person, actually.”
The shadows of his face split to reveal a flash of white teeth that even the gloom couldn’t conceal. “We’re kind of fond of her our own selves.”
“Cissy shares Apartment D with a couple of other Mill Valley underclassmen.” Alicia waved at the apartment on the far left. There were no lights burning inside on either floor of the two-story apartment. They were nearing the end of the spring semester, so any of the girls might still be at the library studying for end of term exams.
“Looks like no one’s home,” Gabe murmured.
“You can wait for her at my place.”
He looked surprised. “You don’t even know me.”
She was a little surprised herself, remembering the holstered gun she’d spotted. But she was convinced he really was Cissy’s uncle and he’d said he was a volunteer deputy sheriff. If Cissy had asked him to visit, he must be a pretty good guy, packing heat or not.
Besides, she had a million questions for him. Cissy had been seven when her mother died, and from what she had told Alicia, she’d been sheltered from a lot of details of the murder. What little she did know, she’d gleaned mostly from snippets of her father’s conversations she’d overheard over the years and from a series of newspaper articles she’d looked up at the local library when she was in high school.
But Gabe Cooper was old enough to know everything that happened. He could answer some of the questions she had about Brenda Cooper’s murder. And maybe, if she asked the right questions, he could help her catch a couple of killers.
THE OUTSIDE OF THE apartment may have been all shabby Southern charm, but inside, a riot of color greeted Gabe Cooper, nearly scorching his retinas. Pale yellow walls were the extent of subtlety inside Alicia Solano’s apartment, providing a neutral backdrop for a variety of bright furnishings, from Caribbean dancers writhing in frenetic joy across a wide canvas hanging over a bright orange sofa to the lime green area rug covering the hardwood floor underfoot. It reminded Gabe of an outdoor market he’d visited in South America the last time he’d gone fishing down there, all vivid colors and kinetic energy.
“I don’t drink coffee,” Alicia said over her shoulder, moving out of the living room into the smaller, open kitchen area, “but I have iced tea. Or I could make some lemonade—”
He could tell by her accent that she wasn’t from anywhere near the sleepy college town of Millbridge, Alabama, but she’d apparently picked up the local customs of hospitality somewhere along the way.
“Or
