Page 18 of The Verdict

Why were they in the kitchen if they weren’t eating or getting a drink?Questions started to collect like tiny holes in the firmly inflated balloon of the police’s theory as I continued my path around the counter by the stove.

There were no knives missing from the cutting block.

My jaw locked.If Wheaton was stabbed, where had the murder weapon come from?

I reached for one of the drawers, my fingers tugging on the handle when I heard a soft thud from down the hall.

My head cocked, adrenaline priming my system to alert.

I pulled my gun from its holster underneath my leather jacket and moved silently toward the noise. Photos of Wheaton and his son hung on both sides of the hallway. Photos at his school. The beach. The Golden Gate Bridge. Another house with the ocean in the background. I tucked the information away when there was another sound—a scraping noise this time followed by a muffled curse.A female voice.

My hand tightened on my weapon. Maybe the housekeeper? Coming back to take a few valuables now that she’d just lost her employer?

I crept closer to the double doors at the end of the hall, one of them slightly ajar. Flattening my back against the wall, I stretched out a hand and gently pushed on the door that was slightly open. If I could see who I was dealing with and what they were doing?—

Squeak.

Of-fucking-course. Every other door in this damn house was oiled into silence except this one. I stopped as soon as it made the noise—but so did the person inside the room.

Dammit.

So much for stealth.I shoved the door open and breached the room, my gun targeting the first fucking thing that moved.

Her.

Silky black hair. Parted pink lips. And gold-flecked eyes that stared at me from where she was hunched over Wheaton’s desk, rifling through the drawers. Even in baggy clothes and a ball cap, I’d never forget those eyes or that mouth. And my body wouldn’t forget the feeling of her presence. The hum of adrenaline paled in the wake of something more—a surge of lust for the woman I hadn’t stopped fantasizing about.

A woman who was wanted for murder.

“You…” she breathed out, the sound of her voice like kindling to a fire that should’ve died the night she’d disappeared.

“What are you doing here?”

She was a fucking fugitive—the crime scene was the last place she should be. Unless she’d killed him.Unless I’d been wrong this whole time.

“Please,” she said softly and stood slowly, her bottom lip quivering.

My teeth clenched, my weapon still aimed at her. Every indication was that she’d murdered Wheaton. I should be cuffing her—I should be hauling her sweet ass to the police and letting them handle this. But I didn’t because I couldn’t. Not when she looked at me like that.

Like I was the only goddamn person in the world who could help her.

“I swear I didn’t kill him,” she said softly, and then used the one thing I’d given her to her advantage. “Real or fake?”

Fuck.

Real or fake.Innocent or guilty.I’d told her it was a life skill, and now she demanded I use it.

It was like the night of the party all over again. She was in trouble, and something came over me—something feral and possessive and different from the kind of righteous code of duty I’d lived by before. Something that called to meto protect her at all costs—at any cost.Even if I was the one who ultimately paid the price.

“Real.” My voice cracked as I lowered my gun. “What are you doing here?”

Chapter Three

Merritt

Motorcycle Man.

My chest caved with relief when he lowered his arm and weapon to his side.

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