lights across the canal on another home’s upper balcony. The lights were pretty but a chill rushed across her shoulders, making Rikki shake.
Tessa. Dead.
What a nightmare? Had she been wrong to come back here? No, she had to see her mother before it was too late. Before she had even more regrets to add to the long list already in her head.
And yes, she’d needed some time away from Chad Presley. Because Chad could never replace the one man she’d loved and lost, and once he’d realized that, he’d turned nasty.
But she wouldn’t blame Chad. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t love him. Or that she’d never get over losing Drake.
Drake. Her sweet, young husband, Drake Allen.
We were so naive. So in love.
She missed him every day of her life but missing and wishing wouldn’t bring him back. Rikki went about grabbing clothes and gathering the essentials, her mind so numb with shock she could barely walk.
She’d lost Drake years ago. And now she’d lost Tessa. And both had died violently. She’d never get beyond the shadow of her family’s questionable legacy.
Staring at her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror, Rikki wondered how she’d ever be able to open her heart to anyone again. It was all too much.
Being back in Millbrook was too much.
And once her family heard about this, her nightmare would continue. Unless she left again. She could do that. Just run away and start over in another place all together.
You should tell Detective Kent the truth.
Maybe she should do that, level with him and get it all over with. But she didn’t really know where to start. She didn’t think Chad had it in him to follow her here and kill Tessa. In spite of his veiled threats, he was too busy making more money for himself. He didn’t even know she’d left Tallahassee, anyway. Did he?
And her clients? While they all demanded discretion, none of them struck her as murderers. That left her powerful family. Could someone close to her actually want her dead?
No. Impossible. She’d been careful to stay out of trouble and to stay out of the limelight. None of this made sense. And like the detective, she wanted answers. Maybe they could work together on this if she leveled with him.
But right now, tonight, she didn’t have the energy for a long confession. The handsome detective would find out about her soon enough, anyway. And then, she probably would become a suspect.
* * *
Blain checked his watch again. And again, he walked around the downstairs rooms of the town house.
The kitchen and dining room were open to the den, all white and bright, with more green plants and vivid artwork. A set of open stairs decorated with garland crawled up the wall by the entryway. Swanky, as his mom would say.
An officer came in while Blain moved around the room once again, anything to help him figure out who’d been through here. They’d already dusted for prints and searched for hair and fabric fibers but Blain doubted they’d find either. The place looked as pristine as one of the ads in his mother’s many magazines. A professional job?
His gut burned toward that end but he still needed to pin her down on the ex-boyfriend. “What do you have, Wilson?” he asked the uniformed officer.
“Found some broken branches on the shrubbery near the back gate. The gate has a latch but no lock. Figure they left in a hurry headed that way once Miss Allen ran out screaming.” He pointed toward a thicket of woods that followed the far shore of the river. “Anybody could get lost in there, even this time of year. We don’t have a lot of bare trees in the winter around here.”
“I hear that,” Blain replied. A lot of pines and live oaks grew in that thicket. “Footprints? Shoe prints?”
“Yes, sir. Big ones. But only partials. A distinctive pattern, though.”
“Get pictures and measurements. Maybe a plaster form.”
“Already on it,” Wilson replied. “I think we’ve covered everything for now.”
“Okay. I’m waiting on Miss Allen,” Blain said. “We’re putting her in a hotel room for now. I’ll need a cruiser to give us a ride and a guard on her room tonight.”
The young officer nodded. “Night, Detective Kent.”
Blain nodded and then checked his watch. What was keeping Rikki Allen? He was about to go up and check on her when she came back down with a fancy leather overnight bag on one arm and a smaller shoulder bag on the other shoulder.
“There you are,” he said in what he hoped was a casual voice. Taking her overnight bag, he said, “I thought you might have bolted on me.”
She almost smiled. “I did consider it for about five minutes.” The intense expression on her exotic face showed she’d considered it a lot.
“Why would you want to run away, Miss Allen?”
“Call me Rikki,” she replied, not answering that question. “Now, can we get out of here?”
“Sure. I don’t have my vehicle here so I’ll have a patrol drop us at the hotel and I’ll also assign a patrol outside your hotel.”
“Did they break into Tessa’s car? It should be in the public parking area around the corner.”
“No. But we’ll go over both your vehicles to see if we find any odd prints or maybe some fiber or hair follicles.”
“What about you?” she asked, her head down. “How will you get back to your place?”
“I know my way home,” he said, thinking he’d come right back here and do some more checking on his own.
Blain followed her to the front door where an officer was waiting to place crime-scene tape across the entryway and all around the small porch. Some of the neighbors were standing out on the boardwalk, their expressions full of shock and questions.
An officer walked them to a waiting patrol car.
Blain shot a glance toward the woman and remembered the sporty little convertible parked in her garage. Neither the car nor the woman would ever be his in this lifetime. Out of his league. So he needed to focus on work and not the subject at hand, his gut burning for answers.
She got in and glanced back after Blain put her stuff in the trunk and slid in beside her in the backseat. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why someone would rob me and...kill Tessa.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to call your mother?” Maybe if he kept pushing, she’d keep talking.
“No. It’s late and she’s not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Who is your mother? I might know her.”
“I doubt it.”
Again,
