Friction by Sandra Brown Page A

me, so what did you have against me? That I was younger and stronger than you? Mr. Top Gun suddenly had competition for Beth’s affection?”
    “I saw right off that you weren’t a man I would want to command.”
    “No,” Crawford said. “What you saw right off was that I was a man you couldn’t command. That’s why you formed an instant dislike.”
    “Beth saw dashing and daring. I saw reckless. And I was right. Your recklessness got her killed.”
    Crawford had said as much to himself during booze-fueled self-analyses. More recently, he’d confessed his corrosive guilt to the therapist. But it was devastating to hear the words from his father-in-law’s mouth and to know with certainty that, although he and Grace hadn’t openly condemned him, they held him responsible for the loss of their only child.
    Joe aimed his index finger at him. “Your derring-do robbed me of my daughter, but it’s going to win me custody of my granddaughter. Permanent custody this time. I’m going to fight you tooth and nail. And, after your antics today, I’m assured a win.”
      
    By the time the detectives finished interviewing Crawford Hunt, Holly was already exhausted just from sitting and awaiting her turn. Then she was in the interrogation room for an hour, giving her official statement and providing detailed answers to their questions, many of which related to Mr. Hunt’s actions. It was nearing two a.m. when she finally arrived home.
    As she’d promised Mrs. Briggs, she requested a police escort home, and, actually, she was grateful for the pair of officers who followed her in their patrol car, then walked her to her back door and saw her inside.
    She lived in the guesthouse of a secluded two-acre estate belonging to a friend of the late Judge Waters. The cottage was quaint, charming, and surrounded by lush landscaping. Tall azalea bushes and dense evergreen hedges separated it from the main house, partially screened it from the street, and kept her backyard completely obscured.
    Ordinarily she relished the privacy the place afforded, but as she bade the officers good-bye, she would have preferred, for tonight only, having neighbors close by. Feeling on edge and vulnerable, she shot the bolt on the back door, then went through the rooms checking closets and behind interior doors to ensure that no masked man in white coveralls was lying in wait. Her search yielded nothing, of course, and she ridiculed herself for being such a ’fraidy cat.
    He’s dead .
    Nevertheless, no matter how many times she repeated that to herself, the image of distorted features behind a clear mask stayed with her, and she knew it would for a long time.
    Still nervous, she reconsidered calling Mrs. Briggs, but talked herself out of it. She would insist on coming over, and that would make Holly feel like a ninny.
    Calling Marilyn was another option. Even at this hour, she would probably be up. But Holly lacked the energy to engage with Marilyn tonight, who was overbearing even at the best of times.
    In the end, she didn’t phone anyone. Her fear was unrealistic. Nevertheless, she showered with the stall door open, even though it was made of clear glass. Dressed for bed, she went into the kitchen and found a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard, one Dennis had left behind. Ordinarily she didn’t drink anything as strong as bourbon, but she couldn’t think of an occasion that better called for hard liquor.
    After making certain that all the windows and doors were locked, she took the tumbler of whiskey to bed with her, where she propped herself against the pillows and gratefully sipped it.
    Jorge Rodriguez . She searched her memory for even a spark of recollection. It would be a relief to attribute the man’s shooting spree to a grudge over a ruling that either she or Judge Waters had made. Finding even a tangential connection between her and Rodriguez, any fragmented reason for retribution, would have provided some closure.
    As of now, however,