Deadly Fear (Deadly #1)(38)

As she turned back to watch her, Monica saw the other woman flinch. “Dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke said smoothly. “It must have been hard for you, losing your sister.”

A jerky nod.

“And how did you lose her?” he asked, as he stepped closer to May. A slow, easy move. No threat. Just compassion there, on his face, in his eyes.

May frowned at him. “A f-fire. She died over fifteen years ago in a fire on Brantley. Hey, don’t go messin’ with my stuff!” A hard bark toward Monica.

Monica eased away from the papers. “May, do you happen to have any letters from Kyle? Maybe, I don’t know… even some of his old school work?” Highly likely, given the state of the house. May seemed to keep everything. And maybe they could get their hands on a sample of Kyle’s handwriting for comparison.

May blinked and rubbed her head. “What? Why’d you be wanting that?”

So I can see if he’s a killer. “It relates to an investigation we’re pursuing,” she told her.

“You investigatin’ Kyle?” Her head shook, back and forth. “No, no, he ain’t done nothin’!”

“Easy, May, it’s all right,” Luke said.

But she backed away, ramming her elbow into a stack of newspapers and sending them crashing to the floor. “M-my head… startin’ to hurt again. Need my medicine…” Her lips twisted and she muttered, “Be mine, Valentine.”

What? Monica cleared her throat.

“Um, where is your medicine, May?” Luke edged closer to her “Tell me and I can get it for you.”

“No! No! I don’t need you. I don’t—”

“All right.” He tossed her a light smile. Still so easy. “Was Kyle with Margaret when the fire started?” Luke asked.

The color bleached from May’s face. Fear flared in her light green eyes. “I want you to leave, you hear me? Leave. I’m a sick old woman. You shouldn’t be here, messin’ with me.”

“Sorry, May,” Luke said immediately, “we didn’t mean—”

“Leave!” She jumped to her feet, and her hands fisted.

Monica met Luke’s stare and inclined her head. “Thanks for your time.” Soft. “And if we could just get those old letters of Kyle’s…” Because she needed them.

May’s thin lips twisted. “No. I know my rights. You can’t take anything from me!”

Not without a warrant. But if that was the way they needed to play, so be it.

They headed for the door. Luke stopped and offered May his card. “Just in case you hear from Kyle, give me a call, would you?”

She snatched the card. “Won’t hear from him. Haven’t heard from him in a year, ungrateful little bastard.”

Right. A “little bastard” that the woman sure seemed to be protecting. “Thanks for your time,” he told her.

But Monica hesitated. Be mine, Valentine. Where had that come from? And why? May’s voice had softened, saddened when she said it. “When was the fire—I mean, what date?”

“Val—Valentine’s Day.”

Monica managed to keep her eyes steady on May. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Leave.” A whisper now, holding the edge of desperation.

Monica knew they wouldn’t be getting any more help from May. She crossed the threshold, with Luke walking out into the night ahead of her.

May slammed the door shut behind her. Almost got her foot.

“Not a lot of Southern hospitality there,” Luke murmured.

No, and Monica sure would have liked to learn just what “medicine” May was taking.

“Think she’s telling us the truth?” He headed toward the car.

Monica glanced back at the closed door. “Probably not.” But her fear—that stark flash when she’d asked about Kyle and the fire—that had been real.


“Don’t go back to the motel, not yet.”

Luke had thought Monica slept beside him as he drove. The SUV had eaten up the interstate, leaving the cypress trees and the heavy moss behind.

She had lain back beside him and closed her eyes, leaving him. For sleep?

No, he should have realized her mind was still working. Always working.

“Did you hear me?” She stirred a bit, straightening. “Don’t go back to the motel yet. Take us to the Moffett crime scene.”

“What?” His gaze slipped toward her, just for a second, then back to the road. But he could still see her from the corner of his eye. She pulled at her seatbelt, then rubbed her forehead, the back of her hand pushing back that silky soft hair.

“It doesn’t make sense. I mean, the tree, I get. Saundra’s kill was personal; he wanted her to die seeing what she’d lost.” A quick sigh. “And the car wreck—it was the exact same place. He was forcing the vic to relive the worst night of her life.”

Monica had been working the case during the drive. He’d thought she was dead on her feet, and she’d been mulling over the case.

Monica’s nails drummed on the armrest. “That’s what he was doing—forcing them all into the past. With Saundra, with Patty, with Sally—he took them to a place from their pasts. And he made them fear.”