Page 45 of Holiday Wedding
“What you’re saying is that you’ve been a bodyguard for a long time?” I tease, slowly relaxing.
“I guess when you put it that way—yeah. No one’s good enough for my baby sisters. Of course, they’re all married now. I’ve got two nephews and three nieces.” He says it so proudly that I almost expect him to whip out a bunch of family photos to show me.
His joy is infectious. I can’t help but smile with him. “Do you spoil them? Your nieces and nephews?”
“Endlessly.” He laughs, and that dimple deepens. I resist the urge to reach out and touch it, run my fingers over that divot. I don’t notice my leg is bouncing until he stills it with a single finger pressed on my knee. The contact is electric, sending a tingle up my leg. I freeze, wishing we could stay like that, with him touching me.
“Is it Mrs. Wilkins? Is she the stalker?” I blurt out, desperate to regain some control over the situation. My computer algorithm hasn’t ruled her out yet.
“No.” Dean removes his hand and folds it in his lap, leaving a void behind. “I checked. She got a job with the Andersons on the fifth floor. They’re retired university professors. I’m assuming no one wants to buy their underwear.”
“You never know.” My pulse has slowed now that he’s not touching me. “The world’s a strange place.”
“That it is.” He turns to stare out the window, giving me a view of the back of his head. His hair looks thick and touchable. I have an unbidden thought of running my hands through it.
He continues, “I reviewed the building’s security footage. Mrs. Wilkins comes in every day at 8:00 p.m. and leaves by 1:00 a.m. Mr. Anderson has health issues. I guess she helps Mrs. Anderson get him to bed and then cleans up afterward.”
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t taking the pictures.” I almost bounce my leg again just to make him touch me but muster enough dignity to stay still. “She could take them before or after work.”
It’s snowing harder tonight. Mountains of snow and ice pile up along the edges of the roads now, in some places two feet high. We keep our jackets on in the car even with the heater set to full blast.
Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the recent photos tab on the Secret Santa website. “Lots of these were taken when I know Mrs. Wilkins was at work. See this tree right here?” He points to a stately sycamore close to Caleb’s front door in the image.
I can see the real version of it from where I sit.
“When the sky is clear and the moon is full, that tree casts a shadow on theground.” His finger traces the image. “From its position, I can estimate what time the picture was taken. Like a sundial, but in this case it’s a moon dial.” His eyes, luminous in the darkened car, meet mine. “Make sense?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “If it’s not Mrs. Wilkins, then who?”
Dean scrapes a hand across his stubbled cheek. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sure. How about your reporter friends in L.A.? Any leads from them?”
“Not yet.” I crunch what’s left of my candy between my teeth, the sound loud. Dean winces.
He sips his coffee, and I try not to notice how he licks his lips after he swallows. The car feels smaller than it did last time. We both stare out the window, squinting to see through the billowing snow.
“I’ve got it!” I cry out, a thought hitting me like a lightning bolt. “It’s Lola in the library with the candlestick.”
“Did you play a lot of that game when you were a kid or something?” Dean gives me an odd look, quirking one eyebrow.
I laugh. He’s more correct than he knows. Gwen and I used to play Clue all the time.
“Lola’s got motive,” I argue. “She’s still in love with Caleb.”
Dean scoffs. “I doubt she was in love with him when they were together. She wasn’t exactly faithful.”
I think back to that encounter at Tavern on the Green. The possessive glint in Lola’s eye. Certainty snaps into place. I’m right about this. I know it.
“I’m sure. She still wants him. I bet it’s eating her alive—”
“Jennifer.”
“Just thinking about how she’s going to lose him to Gwen. I—”
“Jennifer.”
“saw the way she looked at him. It’s—”
“Jennifer.”
