with gray spots. His eyes were an icy blue, and he had a matching collar. Despite his regal demeanor, the dog also had a playful side. Loretta had trained him well. All she had to do was cluck her tongue once, twice or three times, and he would immediately obey whatever command corresponded.
In fact, in some ways, the dog had been like a child to Loretta. Buzz had been raised to act as an emotional support canine for her.
“Is Buzz special?” Colton asked, staring at the husky.
Sarah looked at the dog again. “I mean, he’s special in the sense that he’s a great dog. But he’s not of a championship bloodline or anything.”
“That’s strange that the man would say that then.” Colton reached over and rubbed Buzz’s head also. “Whoever killed Loretta must think you have something—something worth killing for.”
Sarah wrapped her arms over her chest. “I agree. But it doesn’t make sense. What am I going to do, Colton?”
Colton stood. “You should take that shower. Maybe it will help you clear your head.”
She rose to her feet. “You’re right. I need to get this blood off me.”
Loretta’s blood.
Nausea churned in her stomach.
Everything still felt surreal, like a nightmare.
Only Sarah knew she wouldn’t wake up and everything wouldn’t be better this time.
Colton waited until he heard the door to the bathroom open and close before he peered around the hallway.
Sarah’s clothes were on the floor, neatly folded, just as he’d asked.
His heart twisted as he quietly stepped from his room, carefully picked the dress up and slipped it into a bag.
The clothing would most likely be needed as evidence. Though Sarah didn’t want to tell the police what had happened, Colton hoped to make her come around. And, when she did, these clothes would need to be examined.
Though Sarah wanted to stay far away from the police, they would only help her. That was their job—to find the truth. Colton had no idea why her boss had told her not to talk to them. Was there more to that story? Or had the woman been delirious during her final moments?
Colton left the bag on the washing machine for the time being and then went into his bedroom. He opened the door to the attic and stepped inside, a musky smell enveloping him. He searched for a moment before finding what he wanted.
An old burgundy trunk. With a touch of trepidation, Colton opened the lid.
Sarah’s old clothes stared back at him.
She’d left them at his old place when they thought they were getting married. She’d needed somewhere to store a few things, and his place had seemed like a logical choice. When he’d moved, he’d thought about getting rid of them. Why hadn’t he?
He wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter now.
He rummaged through several things before pulling out some choices for Sarah.
Colton deposited the clothes for Sarah outside the bathroom door. He could still hear the water running on the other side and steam seeped from beneath the doorway.
He pulled out his phone, remembering that call he’d promised to make to find out more information on Loretta’s death. He glanced at his watch. It was early—too early to make any inquiries without bringing attention to himself, which was the last thing Sarah would want.
But there was one person Colton could call. Fred Higgins. The man was his closest neighbor and one of the most vigilant people he knew. If there was any suspicious activity in this area, Fred would know about it.
The man always woke at the crack of dawn, and it was already past 7:00 a.m. Quickly, Colton dialed his number and waited for an answer. Mr. Higgins didn’t disappoint.
“What I can I do for you, Hawk?”
“Morning, Higgins. Listen, did you hear anyone coming down our road last night?” Colton got right to the heart of the matter, knowing the ex-military man would appreciate his directness.
“Funny you ask that. As a matter of fact, I did. An old beat up sedan came through about four thirty, taking it real slow.”
Sarah. That had to be Sarah’s car. “An old friend is here visiting me.”
“Good to know. Strange thing is that a few minutes later, another car crept by.”
Colton’s spine stiffened. “Is that right?”
Colton walked to the window and peered out, looking for any sign that someone was there. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and everything was still clothed in darkness, making it nearly impossible to see.
“That’s right. But it turned around and left a few minutes later. Figured someone got lost.”
Colton wished he felt as confident about that. But at least he knew more now. “Thanks, Mr. Higgins.”
“Everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I know you like to keep an eye on this mountain. My friend thought she saw someone behind her.”
“Well, she was right. But, like I said, that other car turned around.”
But that also meant that someone knew where Sarah was. Most likely, the killer. The thought made Colton’s stomach churn.
“Will you let me know if you see anyone else?” Colton asked.
“Absolutely.”
Colton ended the call and leaned against the wall as the impact of this early morning’s encounter hit him. Sarah…he never thought he’d see her again, especially not like this.
The two had met when he’d been a detective in Seattle. Sarah had worked in a coffee shop he liked to frequent. They started talking about some of the artwork hanging on the walls, and Sarah had finally admitted the paintings were hers and that she’d been working as a barista just until she got her big break in the art world.
After a month of coming in every day for coffee, Colton had finally asked her out. They were inseparable after that first date. They’d gotten engaged six months later and planned for a spring wedding.
But one night on a case, Colton had been forced to shoot an intoxicated, belligerent man who’d put innocent people in the line of fire. Guilt had haunted Colton ever since—especially when he remembered the rage the man’s wife had toward him afterward. He wasn’t a hero to her. No, he was the villain.
It wasn’t long after that that Colton had decided to move from Seattle to northern Idaho. He wanted a slower pace of life in a more peaceful area. He wanted a lot of land and clean air and fewer demands.
Sarah had seemed onboard at first…and then she’d taken that job at an art
