Pick Your Poison by Leann Sweeney Read Free Book Online Page B

my ex-husband, stood on the front porch, his finger ready to press the bell.
    “Hi there,” he said.
    New contact lenses, I noted. This time he’d chosen an intriguing sea green. I had to admit a little ocean in his eyes looked pretty darn good.
    “I’ll be running along,” Willis said uneasily, glancing back and forth between us as he slipped past to the walkway.
    Steven stepped inside. “I see my favorite girl has gotten her name into the newspaper—nice picture, by the way. So tell me, what’s been going on here, babe?”
    “I am neither your babe nor your girl , a difference of opinion that probably explains why we’re divorced.”
    He grinned wider. “I knew that. Sorry. How’s about you tell me the straight story? Because I’m not sure I can believe what I read in the Chronicle .”
    “If you promise not to address me with any word synonymous with child ,” I said.
    He held up a hand. “Promise.”
    We walked into the game room, his favorite spot when we lived here together—maybe because he’d purchased the big-screen TV, the DVD, stereo, and home-theater equipment himself. Steven sat down on the butter-colored leather sectional and stretched out his legs.
    I sat next to him and started at the beginning, when I first discovered Ben in the greenhouse. By the time I finished, Steven was shaking his head in disbelief.
    “And you’re doing a funeral for this Ruth person? Then what, Mother Teresa?”
    “Save the sarcasm, Steven.”
    “If I know you, Abby—and I do believe I’m familiar with every square inch of skin and strand of hair—you’re more than a little interested in why Ben got himself killed. Does your curiosity have anything to do with this charity project?”
    “I would have helped Ruth Grayson no matter what. After finding Ben like that, I feel so . . . so . . . responsible.”
    “Responsible? Some nutcase kills a guy and you feel responsible? I don’t get it.”
    “I never took the time to get to know Ben, to really talk to him—and I should have.”
    Steven reached over and took my hand. “You’ve had a rough few months since losing Charlie. Cut yourself some slack.”
    “But why do I feel so guilty?”
    “You got me.” He slid over and fingered a wisp of hair near my temple. “I like your hair short, by the way. Like the color, too. Red suits you.”
    I could smell his soap, the hint of an unfamiliar cologne, and I was tempted. But I refused to give in, even though lust was powerful enough to transcend insight and obliterate a long list of unpleasant memories, at least temporarily.
    I pushed his shoulder. “Stop it. And move back over there where you came from.”
    He laughed. “Sure. Whatever you say.” He migrated about six inches away and intertwined his fingers behind his head. “Now tell me how you plan to solve Ben’s murder, ’cause I know you’ve been thinking about exactly that.”
    “I’m not planning to solve anything. I might check a few facts concerning the old murder case, though.”
    “And how will you do that?”
    “Talk to people, maybe dig up old newspaper articles, search Ben’s room.”
    “All the things police do, right?”
    “Well, yes, but maybe they’ve overlooked something.”
    “And where will all this snooping around lead you?”
    “I have no idea, but Ben came here for a reason. I want to know why.”
    “Even a horse with blinders on can see what’s up ahead, Abby. This could get you in big trouble.”
    I drew up my legs and hugged them to my chest. “That idiot cop already thinks Kate or I had something to do with Ben’s death, so what have I got to lose?”
    He grinned and nodded. “I like that.”
    “What do you like?”
    “The fact that someone else besides me has gotten under your skin.”
    “Not funny, Steven. Let me remind you that no one, and I mean no one, ever pissed me off more than you did with all your drunken craziness.”
    “Hey. We’re supposed to put the past behind us—at least that’s what you