Devil in the Deadline by Lyndee Walker Page B

said. “They had a rope ladder they could pull up behind them to stay safe. Did you find one?”
    He grabbed his pen and scribbled that down before he looked up. “We did not.”
    â€œSo someone took it,” I said, writing notes myself. “Who would she have let up there with her?”
    Violet.
    â€œThere’s a girl,” I said. “The other one in their group. She seems very interested in the victim’s boyfriend.”
    He shook his head, writing more.
    â€œName?”
    â€œGoes by Violet.”
    He nodded a thank-you. “Landers is good. So are the other forty guys we have on this. We’ll figure it out,” Aaron said. “I just hope it’s before anything else happens.”
    â€œYou really think it could be a serial?”
    â€œOff the record?” His baby blues were serious. And scared.
    I nodded.
    â€œThe way she was cut up, Nichelle...I think it almost has to be.”
    My inner Lois Lane bounced. Everything else in me shrank into a ball of terror. Covering a serial killer is like walking blindfolded through a minefield in combat boots. The public has a right to know, but the newspaper has a responsibility to avoid inciting a panic. If they were hunting a psycho, there was precious little I could do to help with the investigation. But I could find out who the victim was, and if anyone she knew had motive. Landers didn’t have time to investigate both possibilities. So I’d focus on what he couldn’t.
    I’d tell him about the journals. After I’d read them.
    I tucked my pen away and stood. “Call me if you find anything? I’m going home, at least for a little while. The dog will run away if I don’t spend some time on fetch today.”
    â€œThanks for your help, Nichelle,” he said. “I owe you one.”
    â€œWe’ll worry about that later.”
    He smiled.
    I paused in the doorway and turned back. Already bent over the case file, Aaron’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the paper like he could decode the secret message if he just stared hard enough.

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    I spotted the sleek black Lincoln as I turned onto my street, and my pulse picked up speed despite my best efforts at control.
    â€œYou are not excited to see him,” I lied through gritted teeth. “He hasn’t even bothered to call in over a month.”
    Inching the car toward my house, I grasped for composure.
    By the time I turned the key on the kitchen door, my face was set to “studiously uninterested,” and I hoped for more casual than hurt if I had to talk.
    The kitchen was quiet. So was the dog. I ambled toward the living room and peeked around the archway to find Joey settled in one corner of my overstuffed navy jacquard sofa, my toy Pomeranian flopped over in his lap. His long fingers ran absently through Darcy’s silky russet fur, his dark eyes staring at nothing.
    His broad shoulders and clean-shaven profile were sexy as ever. Dammit. I pulled in a slow breath and managed to keep from jumping into his lap (or flinging a piece of my beach glass collection at his head—it was a toss-up, really) by virtue of the same willpower that had kept me from gobbling the two pound bucket of white fudge almonds in the break room Friday. Giving myself a mental gold star, I cleared my throat.
    â€œIf it was dark in here and you were wearing that jacket,” I cast a cool gaze at the camel-colored Armani suit coat tossed across my chaise lounge, “I’d have déjà vu, stranger.”
    My thoughts rewound almost a year, to the first time I’d met Mr. Mystery. Coming home from a long day, I’d found a strange man in an expensive suit sitting on my sofa holding the dog.
    He’d offered me a story tip and scared the crap out of me—but we’d become...something I didn’t have a word for...in the months that followed.
    At least, I thought we had.
    Joey’s eyes snapped to me and the