Page 78 of Deeper Than the Dead

Wasn’t that the way of it? Damn it.

The ones who did bad things never understood why friends and family didn’t help them more often. It was difficult—no, impossible—to help a person who hid things from you and/or lied to you.

Her omissions with Bent were different. Yeah right.

She slammed the front door. What the hell was she even doing here? She should have just told Bent the truth from the beginning and accepted whatever charges the man saw fit to try to drum up. There really wasn’t much of anything. Sheree wasn’t murdered. It was an accident.

Wasn’t it?

There were multiple skull fractures suggested in the preliminary examination.

She stalled, struggled to draw in a breath. Maybe Eve hadn’t been completely honest about what happened.

Vera tossed her bag onto the bench by the door. “Damn it!”

But Eve had been a kid. Why would she lie?

The memory of dragging Sheree’s lifeless body down those stairs bloomed in her mind. Her head bumping down one step after the other. Vera’s shoulders sagged. There was that ...

Whatever happened, Sheree had been dead when Vera arrived at the house. She had helped her sister haul the body and then tuck it into that damned cave. Sure, she had tampered with evidence. Probably abused a corpse—sort of. But both of those things were no longer even relevant where the law was concerned. The statute of limitations had long ago run out.

Murder was the only crime from that day that could survive twenty-two years.

But no one had committed murder ... had they?

A clunk on the wood floor over her head jerked Vera’s attention upward.

She froze.

Footsteps.

Someone was up there.

“Eve?” Her sister hadn’t gotten her car back yet. Maybe Suri had dropped her off.

If it was Eve, no problem. If it was a reporter, by God, Vera intended to kick his or her ass. She hit the stairs at a run.

She bounded up the final step, rounded the railing, and immediately rammed into a solid body in the shadows of the upstairs hall. She stumbled back. Tried to see, but there was something in the way.

Mask.

Son of a bitch.

Anger and frustration coalesced inside her. No visible weapon ... dark clothes ... dark mask. She charged toward the intruder.

Strong gloved hands pushed her away. Vera hit the wall on the opposite side of the hall.

The dark figure bolted down the stairs.

Vera regained her balance and rushed after him. No way was she letting this bastard get away.

Halfway down the stairs, she grabbed at the back of his shirt, and an elbow jammed her in the chest, knocked her onto her butt.

He kept going, heading toward the kitchen.

Vera attempted to right herself and capture her balance, but she failed. She tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs, hit the floor. Hard.

She grimaced at the pain, scrambled up, and hobbled toward the kitchen.

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