Page 1 of Noble Neighbor
Prologue
Four-and-a-half years ago …
Christie’s gone.It was the first thought in Oliver’s mind as he woke. And the visceral pain, that deep, deep squeeze, surged through his body.It was familiar, a constant, nagging companion. Had been for months. He welcomed it.
Losing your soul mate was supposed to hurt.
And Oliver hurt.
Far better than the blinding anger following Christie’s death.
On autopilot, he went about his morning routine but stuttered to a halt, towel hitched low on his hips, as he exited the steaming bathroom.
His father stood beside the window, shoulder to wall, staring out.
“Dad?”
The man shifted, lifting his silver-streaked head. Without a word, he handed Oliver a folded newspaper.
DEAD, the headline screamed. Oliver did a double take, for a moment seeing Christie before him. It wasn’t his wife, of course, but it still hurt — a knife to his heart, worse than the heavy ache he bore daily — looking at the image.He recognized the woman. With her effervescent smile above a dimpled chin, bright blue, carefree stare, and sleek, blonde hair falling about her shoulders, the classic beauty bore a strong resemblance to his late wife.
Beneath the bold-printed, four-letter word, Oliver read the second line, “Savannah Randolph and daughters killed in single vehicle accident.” He sank to the bed, lowered the paper to his thighs, and ran a trembling hand through his still-damp hair as he read the article.
And remembered another headline featuring the same woman — same newspaper, New Year’s Day edition —FUTURE FIRST FAMILY?the bold words had teased above the photo taken outside a private DC maternity clinic. It featured a family. Mother cradling a newborn babe. Father holding a young girl on his hip. Both adults smiled; the child waved.
A rich and famous couple, the former beauty queen turned fashion icon and the up-and-coming politician.
Christie had cooed over the image. “They look so happy. Such a perfect family.”
But behind the perfect, unspeakable evil lurked.
Barely three weeks later, the lauded man — perfect son, perfect father, perfect husband — had murdered Christie. She’d been his eighth — and last — victim in his depraved and deadly game.
Oliver looked back to the paper, took a moment to dredge up sorrow for the woman, but couldn’t find it in him. For her children, yes. Innocent victims caught in the middle of a wicked game. But not for Savannah Randolph.
According to the FBI, the woman had no idea of her husband’s killing spree, but for a long while Oliver held her equally responsible. Surely, somewhere deep inside, shehadto have known that the man she’d married was a monster. If she’d come forward sooner, Christie would be alive.
After the numbness had worn off, the anger set in, and he tried to talk to her. He wanted to look her in the eye and ask, “How could you not have known?” But she’d gone to ground, hiding out on her family’s ranch, thwarting his attempts.
He used the media, made public his anger. Until his father — the man who’d dropped everything and moved in with his newly widowed son — had confronted him. “It’s been weeks, Oliver,” he’d said. “I cannot sit by any longer and watch you destroy yourself. Yes, losing Christie was a dreadful tragedy. If anyone can understand the loss of a wonderful woman, I can. My world crashed and burned the day Miriam took her last breath. But son, enough now. You need to pull yourself together. For your sake. For your son’s sake. Clement needs you.”
Those words, Oliver had acknowledged after some soul searching, were harsh but true.
And had been the turning point in his life, and he’d let go of the crushing hatred he felt toward Savannah Randolph.
Now she was dead — murder-suicide the paper speculated — and he’d never have answers. And the reporters would swarm again.
“Clement,” Oliver bit out, giving his father a distraught look.Barely seven, his son bore the lifelong burden of having witnessed his mother’s murder. “This is going to be a setback for him.”
They’d kept Clement’s role from the press, and Oliverwas determined it would never surface. After months of therapy, his son was starting to sleep through the night, his nightmares less frequent.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” his dad said, “about that piece of land of mine.”
Oliver frowned at his old man’s shift of focus. “Land?”
“Ten acres. In Nebraska. It belonged to your ma’s uncle. Benson was his name.”
Wracking his brain, Oliver came up empty. “Can’t say I knew of it.” He cocked his head. “You’ve been thinking …?”
