aware of B.J.’s sexiness. Part of me wanted to bury my face in that chest, wrap my arms around his waist, and hope the events of the day would vanish. Another part of me wanted to be sure I never depended on a man again the way I had depended on Neal.
“When you didn’t show up this morning, I took the head apart myself. It doesn’t seem like just this morning—more like days ago.”
B.J. leaned down and gave me a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “I’ll take care of that tomorrow. And please, don’t hesitate to call me for anything else.”
I turned, ready to climb into the Jeep, but I paused, my hand resting on the door handle. “I wonder if he’s out there somewhere in the dark, hurt and wondering when they’re going to find him.” I didn’t want to cry. It was too soon. We didn’t know anything yet. That would be like giving up. “You’re right about one thing, though, B.J.—he’s a tough one, that’s for sure. He won’t go easy. But I just keep thinking, if only I’d got there sooner . . . maybe none of this would have happened.”
“This is not your fault, Seychelle.”
I turned halfway and tried to smile at him over my shoulder. “Easy for you to say.”
When I pulled Lightnin’ into the drive at the estate, I shut off the engine and just sat there in the Jeep for a few minutes listening to the slow ticking noises of the cooling engine. I felt achingly tired, like some kind of big vacuum had just sucked every ounce of energy out of my body. Collazo’s words—“We know where to look: family, friends, ex-lovers”—kept replaying in my head. The way he told the story did make a certain amount of sense. I was certain that if I had ever seen that gorgeous body alive and draped across Neal, I’d have wanted to kill her.
It took an effort to open the Jeep door, go through the gate, and walk back to my cottage. Abaco met me at the gate and danced up the path ahead of me, turning to look back as though wondering why I wouldn’t stop to pet her. I just wanted to fall into bed. When I tried to push my key into the doorknob, the door swung ajar, and although I thought it a bit odd, no alarms went off in my head. I pushed open the door and switched on the overhead light, and my brain was so fuzzy, it still didn’t register the mess that was all that was left of the inside of my cottage.
I stood and stared, confused, wondering for just a second if I had somehow come home to the wrong place. Then I saw the photo of my mother with all three of us kids, a picture that was taken when I was eleven, the summer she died. It rested on a pile of books that had been pulled off the shelves, and there were several shards of broken glass remaining in the frame.
I stepped into the room, dropping my keys to the floor, and gravelly bits of glass and pottery ground into the soles of my shoes. In the center of the room, I surprised myself when I let out an audible little gasp as I turned around surveying the damage. My cottage was really only two rooms: the front room, a combined living room, kitchen and dining room, and a small bedroom with bath in the back. A bar separated the kitchen from the living area, and now all the contents of the kitchen drawers—utensils, pot holders, towels, and toothpicks—had been spilled across the counter. There wasn’t much food in the place, but what little was there—a few cans of Campbell’s soup, fruit cocktail, catsup and other condiments—had been dragged out of the cupboards and tossed onto the floor, in many cases breaking on the white tile. I had kept an easel in a corner of the living room that generally had a work in progress on it. Painting was something I’d learned from my mother: one of the few happy memories I had of her. I normally had my watercolors and brushes set up on the TV tray next to the easel. Now the easel lay broken like kindling, the paints were probably somewhere in the mess, and the intruder had taken the time to tear my painting of the
“When you didn’t show up this morning, I took the head apart myself. It doesn’t seem like just this morning—more like days ago.”
B.J. leaned down and gave me a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “I’ll take care of that tomorrow. And please, don’t hesitate to call me for anything else.”
I turned, ready to climb into the Jeep, but I paused, my hand resting on the door handle. “I wonder if he’s out there somewhere in the dark, hurt and wondering when they’re going to find him.” I didn’t want to cry. It was too soon. We didn’t know anything yet. That would be like giving up. “You’re right about one thing, though, B.J.—he’s a tough one, that’s for sure. He won’t go easy. But I just keep thinking, if only I’d got there sooner . . . maybe none of this would have happened.”
“This is not your fault, Seychelle.”
I turned halfway and tried to smile at him over my shoulder. “Easy for you to say.”
When I pulled Lightnin’ into the drive at the estate, I shut off the engine and just sat there in the Jeep for a few minutes listening to the slow ticking noises of the cooling engine. I felt achingly tired, like some kind of big vacuum had just sucked every ounce of energy out of my body. Collazo’s words—“We know where to look: family, friends, ex-lovers”—kept replaying in my head. The way he told the story did make a certain amount of sense. I was certain that if I had ever seen that gorgeous body alive and draped across Neal, I’d have wanted to kill her.
It took an effort to open the Jeep door, go through the gate, and walk back to my cottage. Abaco met me at the gate and danced up the path ahead of me, turning to look back as though wondering why I wouldn’t stop to pet her. I just wanted to fall into bed. When I tried to push my key into the doorknob, the door swung ajar, and although I thought it a bit odd, no alarms went off in my head. I pushed open the door and switched on the overhead light, and my brain was so fuzzy, it still didn’t register the mess that was all that was left of the inside of my cottage.
I stood and stared, confused, wondering for just a second if I had somehow come home to the wrong place. Then I saw the photo of my mother with all three of us kids, a picture that was taken when I was eleven, the summer she died. It rested on a pile of books that had been pulled off the shelves, and there were several shards of broken glass remaining in the frame.
I stepped into the room, dropping my keys to the floor, and gravelly bits of glass and pottery ground into the soles of my shoes. In the center of the room, I surprised myself when I let out an audible little gasp as I turned around surveying the damage. My cottage was really only two rooms: the front room, a combined living room, kitchen and dining room, and a small bedroom with bath in the back. A bar separated the kitchen from the living area, and now all the contents of the kitchen drawers—utensils, pot holders, towels, and toothpicks—had been spilled across the counter. There wasn’t much food in the place, but what little was there—a few cans of Campbell’s soup, fruit cocktail, catsup and other condiments—had been dragged out of the cupboards and tossed onto the floor, in many cases breaking on the white tile. I had kept an easel in a corner of the living room that generally had a work in progress on it. Painting was something I’d learned from my mother: one of the few happy memories I had of her. I normally had my watercolors and brushes set up on the TV tray next to the easel. Now the easel lay broken like kindling, the paints were probably somewhere in the mess, and the intruder had taken the time to tear my painting of the
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