Page 18 of Peak Suspicion
“I can make you a sandwich.”
“That sounds great.” The genuine gratitude in his smile touched her more than any flirtatious smirk could have.
“Sit down and rest,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
Instead of sitting down, though, he followed her into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” She opened the refrigerator and surveyed the contents. “I’ve got flavored seltzer and, uh, cranberry juice? Or water.”
“The seltzer is good.”
She handed him the can, took one for herself and pulled out the sandwich makings. He sat at the breakfast bar and watched her work. “I was surprised to see you at headquarters this evening,” he said.
“My friend Shayla texted me that Bryce had been found and a lot of people were going to search and rescue headquarters to find out what happened. I decided to go and see if you were there.” She opened a container of salad and layered lettuce on the turkey and cheese sandwiches.
“Because you wanted to tell me something?”
She gave him points for not bringing up the subject before now. “Let’s eat first,” she said.
She took a bag of potato chips from the cupboard and handed it to him, then set a sandwich down in front of him. She settled onto the other barstool with her sandwich.
His sandwich disappeared with alarming speed. She was too nervous to do more than pick at hers. She ended up cutting it in half and passing half over to him. “Go ahead and eat it,” she said. “I’m not that hungry.”
“Thanks,” he said when that, too, had vanished. “I was hungrier than I thought.” He looked at her expectantly, and she knew she had put this off as long as possible. She pushed the remains of her sandwich away and stood. “I want to show you the notes I received,” she said. “Both of them.”
She went into her bedroom and retrieved the notes from her dresser drawer, then laid them on the bar in front of him. “You saw one of them already,” she said. “But the other one was first.”
He scanned both the notes, then looked up at her. “So, who is David?” he asked.
She settled onto the second barstool and shifted to face him. “David Ketchum was a student at the elementary school in Santa Fe where I taught Spanish two days a week,” she said. “He disappeared three years ago, a couple of weeks before the end of the school year. A few days later, his body was discovered on public land not far from town. Police have never found his murderer.”
A single line formed on his forehead, and he looked older. “And the letter writer is accusing you of having something to do with this—the murder of a little boy?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I hardly knew David.”
“Were you ever a suspect?” he asked.
“No! I wasn’t even questioned. I don’t know why this creep thinks I had any connection at all.”
Carter scowled at the two notes. “Maybe they heard you were from Santa Fe. They remembered the crime—it must have been all over the news back then—and decided that was enough of a connection to accuse you.” He tapped a note with one finger. “None of the things this person has written about to other people are real crimes. They obviously get off on annoying people.”
“Then you believe me?”
He jerked his attention back to her. “Of course I believe you.”
“Thanks.” She slumped on the stool, wrung-out—from her worry over Bryce, her accident, the notes—everything. “I’m sorry I lied at first and told you the letter was about jaywalking.”
“Hey, in your shoes I probably would have done the same thing. Though maybe I’d have come up with something more exciting than jaywalking.” There was that grin again, teasing herout of her bad mood. Or trying, anyway. She would give him props for that.
“What would you have said?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d been accused of telling criminally bad jokes.”
“I’ve never heard you tell any kind of joke.”
“I’m a Jeep tour guide. It’s part of the whole schtick to tell bad jokes. It’s a hit with the kids in the group and that makes their parents happy. How do you get a squirrel to like you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Act like a nut.”
