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“It might be about money, sweetheart.”
Her chest puffed out, pushing the front of the sleeveless blouse she wore. “I am not your sweetheart. And don’t think I don’t remember you, Detective Krolikowski. I know you and your partner picked up my brother before he was arrested. That case is closed.”
“Maybe, but your fiancé’s murder isn’t. And we think you and your brother know something about it.”
“This is about Richard?” Her eyes widened. But when he thought she’d start that reticent eye contact thing again, she surprised him by actually taking a step closer to the edge of the porch. “Now we’re finally getting to the point, aren’t we? Are you accusing me again of poisoning him? So I’m a suspect, not a victim. And here I thought you’d shown up because—”
“Because what?” He pulled the toy with a noose around its neck from behind his back and watched her sink back into the chair. “You want to tell us what the hell is going on with you?”
Kansas City
Secrets
Julie Miller
JULIE MILLER is an award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of breathtaking romantic suspense—with a National Readers’ Choice Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award, among other prizes. She has also earned an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books, monthly newsletter and more, go to www.juliemiller.org.
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For my mom. It was challenging to write this book amongst unforeseen events that demanded my attention. But I wouldn’t have traded your wonderful visit and recovery time for anything. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I love you.
Contents
“Why did you kill that woman, Stephen?” Rosemary March asked, looking across the scarred-up table at her younger brother. “And don’t tell me it was to rob her for drug money. I know that isn’t who you are.”
Rosemary studied the twenty-eight-year-old man she’d done her best to raise after a small plane crash several years earlier had left them orphans. She tried to pretend there weren’t a dozen pairs of eyes on her, watching through the observation windows around them. It was easier than pretending the Missouri State Penitentiary’s tiny visitation room with its locked steel doors wasn’t making her claustrophobic.
But it was impossible to ignore the clinking of the chains and cuffs that bound Stephen March’s wrists and ankles together. “You ask me that every time you come to see me, Rosemary.”
“Because I’m not satisfied with the answers you’ve given me.” She ran her fingers beneath the collar of her floral-print blouse, telling herself it was the heat of the Missouri summer, and not any discomfiting leer from another prisoner or the unsettling mystery of why her brother would kill a woman he didn’t know, that made beads of perspiration gather against her skin. “I hate seeing you in here.”
“You need to let it go. This is where I deserve to be. Trust me, sis. I was never going to amount to much on the outside.”
“That’s not true. With your artistic talent you could have—”
“But I didn’t.” He drummed his scarred fingers together at the edge of the table. For as long as she’d known him, he’d been hyper like that—always moving, always full
