Echoes of Murder (Till Death do us Part Book 2) by Cheryl Bradshaw

name?”
    “Reagan.”
    “Reagan what ?”
    She hesitated, unsure of whether she wanted to tell the truth, or lie. “Davenport.”  
    He shrugged. “Don’t know you.”
    “I never said you did.”
    “Why are you here then? What do you want?”
    “Do you know a girl named Dakota Jaynes?”
    His face was blank, offering nothing to indicate whether he did or didn’t. “Should I?”
    “Do you or don’t you?”
    “I don’t.”
    Reagan breathed in, remaining calm considering the man standing in front of her bore a startling resemblance to the guy her brother had described from his hospital bed. “Let’s try an easier one. Do you know Isla Everley?”
    He stood for a time, not slamming the door in her face, but not speaking either. Reagan waited, tried not to focus on the infinite number of exposed tattoos, or the fact that each one of his biceps looked bigger than her head. He could easily snap her in half if he wanted to, and she assumed he probably did.
    “Isla’s my past, and I don’t talk about my past.”
    “So you haven’t seen her lately?” she asked.
    “Why would I?”
    “She’s dead.”
    Reagan blurted the truth intentionally. She wanted to see what kind of response it would elicit, whether or not his expression would change.
    It didn’t.  
    He simply said, “So?”
    “You don’t want to know what happened?” she asked. “How she died?”
    “Like I said, she’s my past.”
    “What’s your past, baby?” A girl wearing caked-on layers of cheap foundation and a dress that looked like it doubled as a shirt stood next to Alex. A baby was slung over one of her hips. She looked at Reagan then Alex. “Who’s this?”
    “Reagan … something.”
    “How do you know her?”
    “I don’t.”
    “Then what’s she doing here, babe?”
    Alex clenched his hands, but they remained by his side. “Stop asking questions and mind your business.”
    “You pretend you don’t want to know what happened to Isla,” Reagan said. “And yet you sent her a letter while you were incarcerated asking to see her when you got out. Care to explain?”
    The girl standing next to Alex cursed at him in Spanish, and in Reagan’s mind, everything clicked. Alex had been charged with assault, and not just any assault. For a Class B misdemeanor, he would have most likely served a sentence of six months or less. He served ten and was slapped with a Class A, a harsher crime. There were two instances in which this usually happened. Either the assault included substantial bodily injury or the victim, the person he abused, had been pregnant.
    Reagan stared at the baby. A little girl. She looked about six months old. She addressed the woman. “ You . It was you he assaulted when you were pregnant. You were the one who pressed charges.”
    She didn’t deny it. “It was a mistake. Alex has changed. I’ve changed. My baby needs a father.”
    And the baby’s mother needed a brain. 
    “How do you know about the letter?” Alex pressed. “You her friend or somethin’?”
    Reagan ignored the questions, pushed harder. “Where were you two nights ago between the hours of seven and eleven p.m.?
    “He was at work,” the girl said. “A-1 Auto.”
    “The car rental place?”
    The girl nodded.
    Alex’s temper flared. “Shut up and get inside the house.”
    The baby flinched. A fit of tears began. The girl disappeared down the hallway, did what she was told.  
    “Is that how you talked to Isla too?” Reagan asked.
    “You best get out of here. Now.”
    “A man matching your description was seen entering a room where a young woman was later found dead. She’d been strangled. If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll be back, and next time, I won’t come alone.”
    Reagan turned on her heel, walked away, her hand tucked inside the pocket of her sweater. Footsteps advanced toward her, just as she thought they would. Fast. Heavy. Determined. She yanked her hand out of her pocket, turned, and aimed. “Unless you want to