that you didn’t think that he murdered her?”
“True. No. No, I don’t think he killed her. He was rude, but I know many a fine fellow who can actually be rude. But murder, especially such a crime of passion—he doesn’t look the type. He seems to be the type who easily attracts women, and therefore, he might have been heartbroken, but he would have moved on. I mean, that’s the way I see it. The man is—appears to be, at least—a man’s man. He could completely lose his temper and engage in a rowdy bar fight, maybe, but murder…Ah! But then again, what does the type look like? Now, in my day, many a man looked the part of a cutthroat and a thief—because he was one. But these days…ah, well. We did come upon him at the scene of the crime.”
“It wasn’t actually the scene of the crime. She was strangled, but the police believe she was killed elsewhere and brought to the museum. I was a child when it all happened. Well, a teenager, at any rate, and it was a scandal, and I know it disturbed Sean…I vaguely remember that he and David Beckett were…friends. They both loved sports, football, swim team, diving, fishing…all that. But then David left. And never came back. And the talk died down. Mainly, I believe, because everyone loved Craig Beckett. But if David Beckett is innocent, I really don’t understand his position—or yours. And he’s deserted Key West. So?”
“I have to admit, I rather admire the fact that he’s so determined, especially because he doesn’t want to stay here. He doesn’t want to see anything like it happen again, whether it affects him or not. I’ll still do my best to take him down for you, though!” he vowed.
The streets here were quiet, with only the sound of distant, muted laughter coming to them now and again. Even that was infrequent now. The hour was growing late—or early.
They came to Katie’s house. She’d left lights on in the kitchen, parlor area and porch. The two-seater swing on the porch rocked gently in the breeze. She had a small—very small—patch of ground before the steps to the porch, but her hibiscus bushes were in bloom and they made the entry pretty.
Set in stained glass from the Tiffany era on the double doors, a Victorian lady and her gentleman friend sat properly, immortalized in timeless ovals.
Katie unlocked the door and stepped in. Her world was familiar. Her parents were now boating around the world, her brother would always be off filming another documentary and the house was hers. Certainly, her folks had given her a bargain price. But she had purchased it through a bank, she had come up with the down payment and she had never missed a mortgage payment.
She loved the house. She was delighted that she owned it, that she had kept it in the family.
And yet, as she stood there, she wondered about the years David Beckett had spent away. He had gone to exotic places. He had discovered the entire globe.
She’d gone away, too, she reminded herself.
Right…all the way up the eastern seaboard!
“Katie?” Bartholomew said.
She looked at him.
“What’s the matter now?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just realized that I’ve made an island my world.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“But is it a good thing? Anyway, don’t answer. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
“We have to be at the bank bright and early.”
She blew him a kiss. “Don’t go watching more television, Bartholomew.”
“It will stunt my growth? Make me die young?” he asked. She groaned and walked up the stairs.
He had been restless that night, all through the night.
That was the only reason he had been out walking.
And when he had been walking, he had seen the lights on at the museum.
And so, he had looked up at the old mansion, and he had stared.
There could only be one person who would be there tonight, only one person who would have gone in, turned on the lights. Someone with a right to be there.
Someone who knew it well. Beckett.
Silently, he cursed Beckett. The man shouldn’t have come back. The past was the past; settled, over, accepted. Some believed it had been David Beckett, but that he was long gone and despicably above the law. Others believed that a psycho had come and was also long gone. It was over. It was part of the myth and legend of Key West.
He shouldn’t have come back.
But he had.
He had seen Katie O’Hara, seen her go in. He’d heard the squeak of her scream, but he hadn’t been alarmed. He’d held his ground. Watched. Waited.
Then, he’d seen her come out, and he’d stepped quickly back into the shadows. He hadn’t intended to be seen that night.
Katie had left in what appeared to be a fury.
She’d thought she owned the place. But Beckett was back.
A few minutes later, Beckett had come out, and he’d headed in the same direction but then turned down the street to the Beckett estate.
When Beckett was gone, he’d followed Katie. He knew where she lived. He’d walked, and stood in the shadows, and he’d looked at her house.
He stayed, feeling time go by. No need to be here, staring up at the house in the darkness.
But he stayed, watching.
His fingers itched.
He felt a bizarre fury growing inside of him.
And then he understood.
He felt the sudden temptation to let history repeat itself.
Chapter Three
There was no meeting at the bank.
Liam called her before eight.
Katie had set her alarm, but it wasn’t set to go off for another thirty minutes. She was only a few blocks away from the bank, and she was capable of showering and dressing in less than fifteen minutes—a nice survival technique if you worked nights and wanted to maintain any kind of a daytime existence.
She groaned while she fumbled for her phone. She only kept a cell, but it was sitting on the bedside table and, naturally, she knocked it off as she went to answer it. She had to feel around on the floor to find it and answer it.
It was Liam.
“Liam! I saw your cousin last night. He was in the house. And he said that—”
