fireplace. There was no furniture, no curtains, no heat. No sign of life save for the flicker of light, the Styrofoam cooler outside on the porch, and the open door.
“Sheriff?” Her voice echoed and she realized the floors had been stripped. A row of bare carpet tacks poked upacross a threshold, like a strip of tire spikes. She stepped over it and followed the light through an archway down a wide hall, the scent of burning firewood luring her deeper into the house. “Sheriff?”
She rounded a corner and nearly jumped from her skin. A man sat in the center of an empty room—a large black silhouette in a wooden chair with his hands in his lap, the fire glowing behind him. The shape of a giant pistol showed in the dimness, idly pointed in her direction.
“Rumor has it you almost got shot once tonight,” he said. “You looking to try again?”
CHAPTER
7
N ICK HEARD THE breath draft from her lungs and wished the light were better. He wanted to see what she looked like—this woman who would barge into Hilltop House with accusations on her lips, lie to a deputy, and steal away in the night to hunt down a sheriff. He wanted to demand that she take back the slander she’d already set rumbling through his town, then put her on a plane back to Miami.
Instead, he sucked on a cigarette until the embers flared red. Blew a stream of sweet nicotine into the air.
“I need to talk to you, Sheriff,” she demanded. “You have a man in your town I believe is a murderer. His name is—”
“Jack Calloway.”
She stopped, and Nick could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind. “Yes, that’s right.”
A vein throbbed in Nick’s temple. He had a day-and-a-half more numbness coming to him, but had quit drinking an hour ago, after Jensen called and reported that a Miami hurricane named Erin Sims was on her way. It hadn’t been enough time to become fully sober or getcaught up on what she was whining about. But it had been enough to feel one small section of his brain begin to function. And get good and pissed about it.
He stood, flicking his cigarette onto the stone hearth behind him, keeping his back to the light of the fireplace. He was six-three, broad-shouldered, wholly unkempt, and palming a large, Hechler & Koch machine pistol. It pleased him to think he made an imposing silhouette.
“Could you put down the gun?” she snapped. “You’re drunk.”
So much for imposing. “Not nearly enough, as far as I can tell.”
She glanced around. Tequila and beer bottles scattered on the floor. “Well, you can certainly be proud of your effort.”
Nick almost smiled. A little chutzpah there. Except for Valeria and Hannah, he wasn’t accustomed to being challenged. He was the small-town kid turned big deal, then come home to roost. He wasn’t cocky, but like an Old West sheriff, he wasn’t often defied.
He exchanged the gun for the lantern and sauntered forward, letting his gaze fall to her feet and back. She was slim, about five-eight, with a mass of dark hair collected with limited success at the back of her head. She wore a denim jacket and jeans, and her arms were crossed over what Nick imagined was a reasonable pair of breasts. A ragged scab scraped down one side of her face.
“What happened?”
“I fell,” she said. “Are you sober enough to listen to me now?”
“No. I’m planning to be sober on Monday.”
She grabbed his arm, a death grip. “Please. This can’t wait.” Nick lifted the lantern and looked into her eyes. Mistake. They were green, like the antique bottles hisgrandfather used to keep on a shelf. Clear and glassy and filled with something Nick had seen before—in the eyes of a woman watching her parents’ house burn, the eyes of a man looking at the wreckage of his wife’s car, the eyes of a mother watching police drag a river for her son.
In Allison’s eyes, on the night she died.
I’m scared, Nick.
Everything’s fine, Allison. I’ve got it covered.
“Sheriff!”
A new
“Sheriff?” Her voice echoed and she realized the floors had been stripped. A row of bare carpet tacks poked upacross a threshold, like a strip of tire spikes. She stepped over it and followed the light through an archway down a wide hall, the scent of burning firewood luring her deeper into the house. “Sheriff?”
She rounded a corner and nearly jumped from her skin. A man sat in the center of an empty room—a large black silhouette in a wooden chair with his hands in his lap, the fire glowing behind him. The shape of a giant pistol showed in the dimness, idly pointed in her direction.
“Rumor has it you almost got shot once tonight,” he said. “You looking to try again?”
CHAPTER
7
N ICK HEARD THE breath draft from her lungs and wished the light were better. He wanted to see what she looked like—this woman who would barge into Hilltop House with accusations on her lips, lie to a deputy, and steal away in the night to hunt down a sheriff. He wanted to demand that she take back the slander she’d already set rumbling through his town, then put her on a plane back to Miami.
Instead, he sucked on a cigarette until the embers flared red. Blew a stream of sweet nicotine into the air.
“I need to talk to you, Sheriff,” she demanded. “You have a man in your town I believe is a murderer. His name is—”
“Jack Calloway.”
She stopped, and Nick could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind. “Yes, that’s right.”
A vein throbbed in Nick’s temple. He had a day-and-a-half more numbness coming to him, but had quit drinking an hour ago, after Jensen called and reported that a Miami hurricane named Erin Sims was on her way. It hadn’t been enough time to become fully sober or getcaught up on what she was whining about. But it had been enough to feel one small section of his brain begin to function. And get good and pissed about it.
He stood, flicking his cigarette onto the stone hearth behind him, keeping his back to the light of the fireplace. He was six-three, broad-shouldered, wholly unkempt, and palming a large, Hechler & Koch machine pistol. It pleased him to think he made an imposing silhouette.
“Could you put down the gun?” she snapped. “You’re drunk.”
So much for imposing. “Not nearly enough, as far as I can tell.”
She glanced around. Tequila and beer bottles scattered on the floor. “Well, you can certainly be proud of your effort.”
Nick almost smiled. A little chutzpah there. Except for Valeria and Hannah, he wasn’t accustomed to being challenged. He was the small-town kid turned big deal, then come home to roost. He wasn’t cocky, but like an Old West sheriff, he wasn’t often defied.
He exchanged the gun for the lantern and sauntered forward, letting his gaze fall to her feet and back. She was slim, about five-eight, with a mass of dark hair collected with limited success at the back of her head. She wore a denim jacket and jeans, and her arms were crossed over what Nick imagined was a reasonable pair of breasts. A ragged scab scraped down one side of her face.
“What happened?”
“I fell,” she said. “Are you sober enough to listen to me now?”
“No. I’m planning to be sober on Monday.”
She grabbed his arm, a death grip. “Please. This can’t wait.” Nick lifted the lantern and looked into her eyes. Mistake. They were green, like the antique bottles hisgrandfather used to keep on a shelf. Clear and glassy and filled with something Nick had seen before—in the eyes of a woman watching her parents’ house burn, the eyes of a man looking at the wreckage of his wife’s car, the eyes of a mother watching police drag a river for her son.
In Allison’s eyes, on the night she died.
I’m scared, Nick.
Everything’s fine, Allison. I’ve got it covered.
“Sheriff!”
A new
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