Killer Deal by Sheryl J. Anderson Read Free Book Online

There were other statements from friends, neighbors, and associates with further examples of the utterly heartless and completely ugly things people who used to love each other are capable of saying when the love is gone.
    Additionally, there were statements referring to how Gwen stood to profit from Garth’s death (though no mention of how she didn’t really need the money), how she’d believed she deserved a piece of the company because of all her “inspiration and support,” and how unhappy she’d been at the pending merger with Ronnie Willis’ agency, though the reasons why weren’t clear.
    It was also fascinating to see how high-strung statements took on a life of their own when they were part of an official government document. I wondered how damning some of my grander statements to ex-lovers, ex-friends, and current colleagues might seem in that context. My mother used to warn me not to do anything I’d mind seeing on the front page of the paper the next morning, which made me reconsider reckless behavior more than once, but I’d never imagined something I’d done turning up in official police documents prepared for a judge. Intimidating to consider.
    It had to be intimidating for Gwen, too. She hadn’t been arrested yet mainly because the murder weapon hadn’t been recovered and she had no guns registered in her name, and her fingerprints weren’t found in the hotel room. There was nothing concrete to tie her to the murder scene—yet—but nothing concrete to tie her somewhere else either. And then there was the fact that she had seemingly gone out of her way to threaten her ex on a number of emotional and hyperbolic occasions and had gotten particularly virulent just before his death. Forensically, she looked okay. Emotionally,
she looked awful. In my limited experience, it was the emotion that counted in the long run.
    Somewhere around the quotes from the neighbor who commented on Gwen’s temper and the employee who said Garth was actually afraid of Gwen in the days before his death, I drifted off to a light, fitful sleep filled with dreams about a frenzied Gwen Lincoln throwing dishes at Eileen in the kitchen of the house my aunt and uncle rent in the Outer Banks every August. When I woke up at 7 A.M., I had a stiff neck and a smiling homicide detective on my couch.
    “Should’ve made a bet with you before I left,” he said, scooping the last bit of oatmeal out of his bowl. Kyle was showered, freshly dressed, and ready to leave again. I felt hugely cramped and rumpled by comparison. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
    “So this was an exercise in temptation?” I stretched my way out of the chair and rubbed at the knot in my neck.
    He smiled apologetically. “I thought about moving you back into the bed, but didn’t want to wake you. We both needed our sleep.”
    “Thanks, I guess.”
    “And the papers weren’t about temptation. It was an attempt to meet you halfway,” he said, rinsing his bowl in the sink. He’s much neater than I’d expected a guy who’s always lived by himself or with other guys to be. He says his mother and sisters deserve the credit.
    “What can I do to reciprocate?”
    “Just remember you promised to stay out of trouble.” He grabbed his jacket, scooped me up for a kiss, and was out the door before my head cleared. The boy certainly knows how to make an exit. Unfortunately.

Three
    GOING AFTER A STORY IS sort of like going after a guy. When you’re used to doing all the pursuing and all of a sudden you’re the one being pursued, it can be a little disorienting. It can also make you question what you were after in the first place and how badly you want it.
    I thought about staying home a few hours to finish going through all my research, but decided it was smarter to be in the office, close to Eileen and whatever mischief she might be brewing, and another coffee run for Owen if I needed more background. I’d barely dropped the hundred-pound stack