Dirty Little Lies by Julie Leto Read Free Book Online Page A

good. Seconds later, Denise pressed the note into his hand.
    He didn’t open it right away. “Where did you get this?”
    Denise’s stare remained glued to the note. “Someone handed it to Craig as we were arriving at the party. People do that all the time. Requests for interviews or meetings with lobbyists in a back corner. Sometimes he shoves them in his pockets. Sometimes he hands them to an aide. Tonight, I was closest, so I simply took it from him and put it in my purse.”
    Ian waited a few sympathetic seconds, then slowly opened the folded paper.
    “You didn’t see who gave it to him?”
    She shook her head, her lips quivering.
    Ian’s mouth drew into a tight line. He refolded the note, then handed it to Marisela.
    She opened it quickly.
    Remember Rebecca Manning .
    She flipped the paper over. That was it? But no, that wasn’t it. Drawn in the corner in pale colored pencils was a shape. A flower? An odd flower. Tubular, scarlet, with sharp star points around the edges and green leaves.
    She gasped.
    Ian glared at her and she recovered with a shake of her head and a surrender of the note back to Ian. “Who’s Rebecca Manning?”
    Denise whimpered. Ian instantly produced a handkerchief, which the woman used with as much delicacy as a woman with a runny nose and eyes could.
    “She’s the girl who’s nearly ruined my husband’s life.”
    The spite was sharp and raw. Marisela sat up straighter. “A girl?”
    “He was a boy, then. It was a long time ago. Long before I ever came to Boston. You don’t know about it? I thought everyone in Massachusetts knew the whole sordid tale.”
    With his eyes, Ian encouraged Marisela to speak. She got the impression he already knew what Denise was talking about, but with Marisela in the dark, she could push the questions a little further, perhaps learn something new.
    Marisela leaned forward, her hands gripping the pew directly behind Denise. “I’m not from Massachusetts. I’ve only been here since this morning.”
    “What a welcome to our fair state.” Denise chuckled with no humor. “Rebecca Manning died. Fifteen years ago.”
    “Then why would someone send a message like this now? Was she related to him or something?”
    Denise’s eyes instantly blazed with defiance. When she spoke, her chin jutted sharply, as if she’d been asked this question many times before and her reaction was instinctual and instantaneous. “Or something,” Denise responded. “You see, he killed her. Or so everyone in this state seems to believe.”

Four
    FRANKIE WATCHED EVAN Cole pace outside the operating room, his hands pressed hard into the pockets of his jacket. His lips twitched as if he needed a hit of something, whether caffeine or coke or nicotine, Frankie couldn’t tell. So cool when they were in the chapel, Craig Bennett’s friend now stalked around like an innocent man on death row. Or a guilty man pretending to be innocent.
    “Want to go outside for a smoke?” Frankie offered. “I’ll stick around, bring you news.”
    Evan’s eyes transmitted pure disgust, with a heavy dose of mistrust thrown in. Not that Frankie wasn’t used to the look, especially from rich maricóns who thought their shit didn’t stink, but he’d never get used to having to control his reaction to them. Took a lot of effort to remind himself that one punch in the wrong man’s face, and he’d end up back in the joint. And that wasn’t going to happen.
    “No. Thank you.”
    Manners over emotion. Must be a lesson taught in the prep schools in this part of the country, judging by how both Evan Cole and Ian Blake seemed to have mastered the skill.
    Frankie wandered nearer the doors to surgery, where Max stood, arms crossed, expression stoic.
    “Any word?” Frankie asked.
    Max shook his head. Frankie wandered back to Cole.
    “You know Craig Bennett long?” Frankie asked. Might as well do his job for a little while. He was, after all, still enjoying that ripe Titan paycheck in his bank