Page 72 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Molly managed to give him a small smile. He was trying, in his awkward way. Peacemaking. That was a good place to start.
Making a quick decision, Molly turned her laptop so Trent could see.
He leaned over, his bare shoulder brushing hers. She’d put a tank top on for bedtime. She felt his skin on hers, and suddenly the butterflies returned. Trent had showered. Hesmelled like soap. That fresh scent of soap filled with toxic chemicals that were all synthetic and so delicious smelling ... like the ocean mixed with rain and citrus and—
“You’re researching serial killers?” Trent’s confusion was clear.
“Not serial killers so much as their patterns,” she answered.
“Well, your interests have changed.” There was humor in his voice. Teasing.
She glanced at him.
Flirtation in his eyes.
Where that came from, she had no idea! But he was male. All male. So, there was that.
Debating, she lost the battle against her desire to keep her distance from Trent. There had been a time before loss when they’d talked about everything.Sharedeverything. And she meanteverything!
Quickly, before the warmth in her turned into a hot blush, Molly continued, “Gemma said that January had been looking into the Cornfield Ripper.” Molly watched Trent’s face to gauge his reaction.
He nodded, completely unsurprised. “Yeah. That’s what we’d talked about.”
“You did?” Molly straightened in anticipation. “What did she say? Why was she researching it?”
Trent eyed her for a moment and then answered carefully. “She ran across it when she was reading family history. My great-grandfather—”
“George,” Molly supplied.
“Yeah. George. He was involved in the investigation because he was a doctor. He helped the police at the time determine the cause of death.”
“And my great-grandfather, Jasper Bridgers?” Molly asked.
“What about him?” Trent appeared genuinely at a loss.
“Gemma told me that January was looking into him, and a family called the Van Hiltons.”
“I don’t know—I just—January called me up and said she was in town. That she was spending the summer doing family research and wanted to know if I knew any old stories to help fill in the blanks. I guess she was writing some sort of family memoir. She said she was going to get ahold of her grandfather—Uncle Roger—but that things were strained, and she wanted to talk to me first.”
It made sense. If she was compiling a memoir, throwing in George Wasziak’s inclusion in a murder investigation would add intrigue.
“Did you know that most serial killers have an M.O.?” Molly offered.
Trent smiled a little, and to sabotage Molly’s nerves, his fingers brushed her bare leg. “Most criminals do, Molls.”
“Oh?” she heard herself tease back. Really? She was flirting with her husband. Over serial killers. That had to stop.
Trent’s smile broadened. “Yeah,” he said and wagged his eyebrows. “And they keep souvenirs, and they’re psychopaths with no conscience, and they often start their fascination with killing by targeting animals.”
“But did you know that there’s a difference between planned and compulsive killers?”
“Sure.” Trent stretched his arms out, then bent them behind his head, his elbows sticking out. She felt the absence of his fingers against her thigh. He continued, “And they rarely switch modes. They’re one or the other.”
“Right.” She was distracted.
“Your point?”His eyes were warm.
Gosh! This reminded her of before. Before it all happened. Before they lost the babies. When they were friends. Lovers. How could they go from being so emotionally distant to suddenly, tonight, the heat in the room being far more than the summer’s temperature gauge?
