Alana Candler, Marked for Murder by Joanie Bruce Page A

prayers,” she said. Each word was infused with determination as she closed her Bible and scooped it up from the table. She’d get the name of the man who saved her life and go thank him properly.
    After she stood up and tucked the Bible under her arm, she reached to pick up the phone. A pamphlet fell to the floor.
    She stared at the thin piece of paper—trying to remember its significance—until the importance of what she was looking at hit her with a force.
    Ah ha! This proved she was in the hotel!
    Shakily, she picked up the phone and dialed Brad’s number.
    A few minutes later, Brad’s voice traveled across the phone line on a wave of disappointment. “I’m sorry, Alana. The hotel’s not the only business displaying those brochures. Every store in town has a rack full of fliers advertising the waterfalls at Drop-Off Point. They’ll just say you picked it up somewhere else.”
    Alana’s sigh blew into the phone. She would love to make it hard enough so Brad would feel the puff of air through the receiver.
    “But I didn’t pick this one up anywhere else, Brad. I picked it up at the hotel.”
    “I believe you, Alana. I know you’re telling the truth, but we have to have concrete evidence before we go accusing the manager of lying. Please . . . be patient. If he’s involved, we’ll find out. Trust me. Okay?”
    “All right, Brad. I’ll try.”
    She started to hang up the phone, but suddenly she thought of something else and called back into the phone, “Wait, Brad. Is it okay if I go see Mr. Holbrook? Chet said he’d give me his work address. I’d really like to thank him in person, but . . . is it safe?”
    The phone was silent a moment until Brad answered warily. “I’d feel better if I could go with you, but I’ve already sent a memo to all the men for a brainstorming session this morning.”
    She waited while he considered the risks.
    “As long as you stay with other people and don’t go off by yourself, I think you’ll be okay. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, and don’t stay out in the open very long. And . . . call me if you see anything suspicious, okay?”
    “Okay.” Alana hung up the phone and sat back down at the dining room table. Still a little nervous about the trip to Mr. Holbrook’s office, she gathered her courage around her and went to get dressed. No one was going to keep her from living her life. Thanking Mr. Holbrook was the least she could do.
    After checking on little Timmy to make sure he was still asleep, Alana changed into a pair of dress pants and a white silk top Lisa loaned her. She was running a brush through her hair when someone knocked on the back door.
    Thinking Lisa had forgotten her key, Alana opened the door and stepped back in surprise. Her brows came together in a frown.
    “Martin!”

THIRTEEN
     
    ALANA STOOD STARING AT MARTIN Strands—a ghost from her past.
    “Hey, Alana baby. How’s things goin’?”
    She stood staring at his almost too-perfect hair, arrogant stance, and haughty eyes, and anger built up inside of her.
    “Martin, what are you doing here?”
    The autocratic tilt of his head answered for him. The look on his face said he thought his being there was going to make her day.
    “I heard about what happened to you, Alana, and I’m here to take care of you.”
    “Yeah, right! Like you took care of me when I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore?”
    “Aw, come on, Alana. You know that was just my pain talking. Breaking the windows out of your house was my way of proving to you I cared.”
    If it was cold outside, steam would have puffed from her nostrils—she was so angry.
    “If you cared , you would have accepted responsibility for replacing my windows. Instead, your father handled the interview with the police, and the charges were dropped. I spent all my savings replacing windows. That’s some way to show you cared .”
    Martin pulled on the storm door to make his way into the house. “Let’s talk about this