Page 19 of Deeper Than the Dead

Her heart thumping, she straightened. Leveled the weapon on the target. A face turned toward her.

She froze.

Bent.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said, as if his presence should be no surprise.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Vera lowered the barrel of the shotgun.

Memories of dozens of other times they’d met like this flooded her senses. She would sneak out of the house, rush out here, and climb into his truck. The man always drove a truck. Always an old junker.

She pushed the memories aside, then mentally kicked herself for allowing them to intrude.

“Like I said”—he opened the door, forcing her to take a step back—“I couldn’t sleep.” He climbed out and closed the door, then leaned against it. His trademark hat low, the brim rendering his face completely unreadable.

How was it that watching him move made her respiration quicken? Idiot.

“So you come here like this”—she gestured to his truck—“in the middle of the night? Is that your typical surveillance protocol?”

“Seemed like a reasonable thing to do since I needed to do some thinking. These questions”—he made a circling motion near his head—“keep spinning around in my mind.”

“You couldn’t call?” This was what normal people did. They called when they had a question. Or knocked on the door. They didn’t sit outside in the dark unless they were casing the place or conducting surveillance.

“I didn’t figure you’d appreciate a call at eleven o’clock at night.”

“You’ve been sitting out here for better than twenty minutes?”

“Thereabouts.”

The shotgun suddenly felt too heavy, and the idea that she wore a nightshirt that had seen better days abruptly occurred to her. The fabric was thin and far too clingy. Worse, she looked a mess from tossing and turning. She would have blushed with embarrassment had she not been so damned annoyed.

“What questions?” she demanded. Might as well get this over with. She knew the routine. Watch a suspect. Make them nervous. Ask odd questions. It was all about getting under the skin. Prodding answers. Forcing reactions.

Yada yada.

After a long pause—also a routine intimidation tactic—he stared directly at her and said, “I’m wondering if you remember anything unusual at all that happened just before Sheree disappeared.”

“You mean other than the fact that she made Eve and me utterly miserable?” Then again, she supposed that hadn’t really been unusual. Sheree had done that to lots of people. The woman had been a coldhearted bitch of the highest order. “Or that she ignored her baby?”

“Besides that.”

Vera’s turn to do the intimidation thing. “I really don’t want to be rude, but have you been drinking?” She scrutinized him head to toe and back. “I mean, this is not typically the sort of move a member of law enforcement makes. Showing up in the middle of the night and just sitting outside a house and watching like some psycho stalker. Unless you’re conducting surveillance. Is that what you’re doing?”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling from his chest. “Yeah. I almost forgot that part. You’re a criminal analyst. Should I be calling you Chief Boyett?”

Now he was a comedian. Great.

“Not necessary.” She cocked her head and glared at him in the near darkness. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine,” he countered.

“Yes I did.”

“What you did,” he argued, “is throw out a distraction.”

Touché. “What I remember,” she decided to say, “is that Sheree was complaining about the baby all the time. She was always leaving Luna with me or with Eve and disappearing for several hours. The rumor was that she was cheating on Daddy. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Eve and I both hated her and hoped she would find someone new and disappear.”

“And just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“you got your wish.”

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