Suspicion by Christiane Heggan Read Free Book Online Page B

itself.
      "It’s just a formality, darling," Megan had whispered in Eric’s ear as Abigail and her attorney looked on. "A small concession to make Mother happy. She doesn’t know it, but on our first wedding anniversary, I plan to tear those damned papers up. That will be my present to you."
      One year. That’s all that had stood between him and great wealth. At the end of that year, he would have been free to do anything he wanted-even divorce Megan-and half her fortune would have been his. Of course, he would never divorce her. He wasn’t stupid. Why should he settle for half of Megan’s trust fund when he stood to inherit the old woman’s fortune?
      "Hey, buddy." Someone nudged his arm. "We’re closing."
      Eric turned his head and peered at the bartender through eyes that were blurry from the alcohol. "What?"
      "We’re closing," the man repeated. "And your tab comes to six bucks. So pay up and get lost."
      As the words slowly sank in, Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills. Then, dragging his chair back, he stood up, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the table. "Here you go. Keep the change."
      The words almost made him laugh. Who the hell was he to be so generous? Six days from now, he would be destitute. Unless he found someone willing to part with a quarter of a million dollars.
      Swaying slightly, he walked out of the tavern. A cold,
      bitter wind blew across the parking lot but failed to sober him up. What he needed was a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, by tomorrow, everything would be clearer.
      But as he started toward the motel, he stopped. A No Vacancy sign with the y missing, blinked at him from the top of a pole.
      He cursed under his breath. Now what? Drive home? In the condition he was in, he’d be stopped for DWI before he even reached the highway. That left him with only one option-to sleep in the car.
      After a few seconds of indecision, he unlocked the Corvette and collapsed on the front seat. His last thought as he pressed the back of his head against the leather seat was that life was a real bitch.
      Stepping out of his Toyota at four-fifteen on this cold, misty morning, Danny Bronson whistled happily as he walked toward The Hamptons, a turn-of-the-century building west of the Dupont Circle that had been converted into twelve luxury condominiums.
      He had good reason to be happy. In less than two hours, the promotion to line supervisor he had been promised a year ago would finally be his.
      The extra money sure would come in handy, especially now with the baby on the way. And he would finally be able to give up his paper route. Not that he minded the extra work. Hell, he was grateful to Mr. Hernandez for giving him the job three years ago, but getting up at three thirty every morning so he could deliver his papers and be at the factory by six was getting to be a drag-especially during these cold winter months.
      Still whistling, he threw folded copies of the Washington Post on each doorstep before proceeding to the next level. When he reached the fourth floor, he walked all the
      way to the end of the hall, where apartment 8B-his last delivery in this complex-was located.
      Holding the paper like a Frisbee, he was about to toss it on the bright yellow welcome mat, then stopped, frowning.
      The door to the apartment was ajar, which was unusual. Even in a nice neighborhood like this, people were cautious about leaving their doors unlocked, much less open.
      Feeling slightly uneasy, he looked around, then back at the door. Maybe he should call the police. If this was a robbery, the guy might still be inside. He might even have a gun. On the other hand, if the woman who lived here was sick or hurt, prompt action on his part could save her life. She was a nice lady. And she was always generous to him at Christmastime.
      After a short hesitation, he approached the apartment and peered through the door