mean Molly was any more trustworthy than any other woman who’d ever been in his life.
Molly Brewster isn’t in your life.
“My family knows nothing.”
He leaned against the opened door. “Must be pretty bad if you’ve cut your family out of your life, too. Seems that person might have cause to be mad at Harriet for helping you find a new life.”
She stared at him, her expression stony. “Did you take my fingerprints off that glass? Is that why you stole it?”
Obviously, she was recovering from her shock well enough. “Borrowed. I planned to return it.”
“After you’d taken my fingerprints from it, I presume.”
“Yes.”
She looked as if she was struggling with temper. Or tears. Maybe both. “Did you?”
“Get your print? Yes.”
Tears won out. Glistening tears clung to her dark lashes, looking like liquid jewels. “I told you I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“But you’re scared to death I’m going to run the print. What’ll I find when I do?”
Her gaze sought his. She leaned forward, her hands digging into the seat beside her legs. “You haven’t done that yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“If you try, I’ll…I’ll sue you!”
“Will you?”
Her gaze flickered, and he nearly smiled. Except there was little satisfaction in manipulating this particular situation. His only justification was that there was a murderer out there, and Holt wanted him caught. If it took a little manipulation of this woman, then so be it. “I won’t run them if you help me.”
“That’s blackmail. Or extortion or something! I should have known not to expect better.”
“That’s cooperation,” he countered smoothly. “I help you, you help me. In the end we both win, don’t we?”
“I don’t like you.”
“You don’t have to. All you have to do is help me.”
“What if I go to the sheriff and complain about this?”
“Knock yourself out.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Want me to dial for you?”
She practically recoiled from the phone. “I don’t want to talk to the sheriff!”
He pocketed the phone. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“You’re hateful.”
“And you’re my only real link to Harriet Martel.”
“You’re overestimating my knowledge of her.”
“It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “Though a damned slim one in my opinion. You worked at least forty hours a week for more than a year and a half with her. As far as I’m concerned that means you were as close to her as anyone else I’ve been able to find. Now, do we have a deal or not?”
“I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
“Is that a yes?”
She looked away and seemed to be watching the darkened town park across the way. Either that, or the library, which was also across the street.
“I don’t like your tactics, Deputy. Why should I trust you to hold up your end of this? For all I know, you’re already running my fingerprint against every data bank into which the sheriff’s department is linked.”
“I don’t lie.” Not exactly.
“Nor do I.”
“You’re lying about your identity.”
“That’s survival,” she said flatly.
He’d figured as much, given the sum of her reactions since they’d met. “I’ll return your print when I finish my investigation. That’s the best I can do.”
“Maybe I’ll just leave town.” Her voice shook, the bravado thin.
“If you do, then I’ll list you as an official suspect, hunt you down and drag your sweet butt right back here to Rumor. And your days of privacy and assumed identity are over.”
“You wouldn’t. You’re supposed to be looking for Harriet’s killer, not wasting time with innocent citizens like me!”
“Exactly. I don’t care whether you like my tactics or not, Molly. I want her killer found.”
She was shaking, and her face was pale as moonlight. But her eyes, even in the shadowy night, nearly shot sparks at him as she slid off the high seat. “Fine,” she whispered stiffly. Then she turned on her heel and walked back to her little car.
Holt watched her fumble with the door handle, then climb behind the wheel and, after a couple tries before the engine caught, drive out of the small parking lot.
He’d won.
Except there was no feeling of victory inside him at all.
Chapter Three
Molly unlocked the main doors of the library and went inside, flicking on the overhead lights as she went. She refused to look over her shoulder at the building across the street that housed the city offices, including the sheriff’s department and the mayor’s office.
You are in control.
She snorted softly as she pushed aside a book cart that one of the volunteers had left sitting in the aisle between the circulation desk and the administrative offices behind it. “Control? What a joke.”
She slapped the light switch on the wall just inside the main office and stared at Harriet’s office. There was a large, ancient desk that took up most of the space. Edwardian, Harriet had once told Molly. But pretty much ruined for its antique value when some owner along the way had added the “custom” sidepiece to use as a typewriter return. Harriet had purchased it secondhand for a song. It was big and it was ugly. And without Harriet behind it, it looked sad. It was also still piled with work that Harriet had never had a chance to attend to.
Several boxes of old-looking, dusty books were stacked on the floor against the wall. And a small stack of hardcover books sat on the sidepiece of her desk right next to the typewriter that looked to be as old as Molly was. The library did possess a computer system. There was a terminal at the circulation desk, one in the reference section and one in Molly’s office that also tied into an international interlibrary system. But Harriet had flatly refused to have one in her office despite the convenience it offered.
“I loathe the things. Making people smarter on one hand and dumber than dirt on the other.”
Molly
