Page 60 of The Bodyguard

“Are you going to try the front door?” She grabbed his hand and pulled for him to move faster. “Break a window?”

“Option C. Scope the deck and see what our opportunities are.” He needed fewer chances for neighbors or nearby security cameras to catch them.

They walked onto a deck that could have used a handyman’s attention. Rickety and in need of bracing, the deck mirrored the beach house, which had good bones but was desperate for upkeep.

Two lockboxes hung on the deck railing. Rental guests and cleaning staff, he guessed. Both were well used. The beach house wasn’t abandoned. The duo’s timing had been lucky.

Sawyer tried the back door. Its lock was simple and standard. He pulled a lockpicking kit from his wallet.

“Option D,” Angela said. “You had a plan to get inside all along.”

He winked and got them through the doorway. The place smelled of musty beach house and lemon air freshener. Sunlight crept around blinds and the sides of drapes. He didn’t know what they were looking for. “What do you want to see?”

Angela twirled as though inspiration would magically hit her but then pulled the crime scene photos from her beach bag. She lined them on the kitchen counter. Law enforcement had done a good job at documenting the entire house. Windows. Doors. Dirty dishes.

“The interior’s the same.” He opened a cabinet. “Same dishes.”

“I don’t know why that would change unless someone sold the place.”

True. The house had the same couches. Probably the same bed where the husband and sister had spent the night before they were shot. Sawyer and Angela walked into the living room. The only difference from the crime scene photos was a new area rug under the coffee table. The original rug had probably been taken into evidence, given the proximity of the bodies.

Angela held up a photograph in which luminol lit up a blood-splattered wall. “That’s there.” She shuffled another picture. “And that’s right here.”

Sawyer wondered if the walls had been repainted or scrubbed with bleach. A little luminol and a black light would likely light them up like the Fourth of July. “Want to go upstairs?”

Her frown deepened. “Yes.”

The layout was not dissimilar from their beach house’s. The same builder likely constructed every house in the neighborhood. Angela stared at one bedroom and then the next.

He didn’t see anything interesting. Did she? “What do you think?”

Angela shrugged.

That look had more to it—or maybe not. Studying crime scene photos and walking around a house that hid a dark secret could weigh heavy. “You okay?”

“Yes, it’s just…” They stood between the two bedrooms. “Why did you give me the room with the balcony?”

“It was the nice thing to do?” He raised a shoulder. “Nicer room for the fairer sex.”

“Imagine if you were married, having an affair, and renting a beach house with your secret girlfriend.”

He frowned. “That’d make me a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, I know.” Angela gave him the side-eye. “But just imagine. Okay?”

“Fine. For investigative purposes, I’m a cheating asshole.”

“And you’re staying at a beach house for an affair. Which bedroom would you choose?”

“The one with the balcony.”

“Right,” she agreed, directing them into the bathroom. “What about your toiletries? Where would you put your stuff?”

“Is this a trick question?” he joked. “I have no clue.”

“Have you ever lived with someone before?”

“Uh—”

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