Till Death(81)

He smiled wryly. “I better get going.”

Pushing myself up, I stood. “Thank you again for everything.”

“Stop thanking me. I’ll get a complex.” He let me hug him even though he was as awkward as ever when he patted my back. “Stay out of trouble, okay? For like the rest of the day.”

“I’ll try,” I promised, then said goodbye. He waved at Mom and then made his way out.

“Angela was sleeping with Donnie Currie?” Mom shook her head as she stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t believe it. She was so in love with Ethan.”

I remembered the first time I talked to Angela, all she talked about was Ethan. “I guess you really don’t know someone.”

Mom sighed. “People only show you what they want to be seen, but something about what that man was telling you is fishy. Anyway, you better call Cole,” Mom said, and I looked over at her. She placed her hand to her sternum. “You don’t want him to get worried.”

“Mom?” Concern blossomed and not for Cole. “Are you feeling all right?”

“What? Oh,” she said, glancing down at herself. She dropped her hand. “Yes. Just indigestion. I forgot to take my heartburn pill this morning.”

I came to her side and knelt down. “Are you sure that’s it? Maybe you should call your doctor. I’m sure—”

“Honey,” she laughed. “It’s just heartburn. I’m okay. You do not need to worry about me right now.”

“But I do,” I said. “There has been a lot of crazy stuff going on in a short period of time. It’s been stressful.”

“I’m okay, honey.”

I stared at her, wondering if the skin had been creased between her brows before, and I just hadn’t noticed it. “I . . . I don’t know what I would do if something . . .” I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the sentence.

Smiling at me, she leaned forward and patted my knee. “I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time. You’re stuck with me.”

I hoped—no, I prayed—that was the case.

“You better call Cole,” she said, gripping the arms of the chair. I stood, giving her room as she rose. “And let’s hope that what happened today is . . . the end. I feel terrible for saying that, but if it was him, then it’s over.”

Mom kissed my cheek as she passed me, and I turned at the waist, watching her head toward the kitchen. Was it over? Had it been Coach Currie, the man Miranda and I drooled all over when we were in high school? The man who apparently had been sleeping with Angela, who we all believed was madly in love with her boyfriend Ethan, hoping for an engagement? Mom was right. Something didn’t add up, I didn’t think we had the whole story, and I didn’t think it was over.



Updating Cole via phone had not gone exactly well. He’d been pissed that he hadn’t been here, as if he was my personal bodyguard and had failed somehow. Then he was relieved to know that Jason had been there, and the call ended with him saying that once he could get out of the office, he was coming straight here.

After that, I took care of a minor housekeeping issue. More towels were needed in one of the suites, and once that was done, I was planning to spend the rest of the afternoon finishing off the bookkeeping. It was possibly the only thing that required my 100 percent focus, and I really needed that right now.

I came back down the main staircase, and when I reached the main landing, I cursed under my breath. Today just . . . it sucked.

Leaning against the desk was the reporter named Striker. His brown hair was messy, but he wore the same neatly pressed clothes I’d seen him in before. He lifted his gaze and smiled faintly when he saw me.

I clenched the railing. “I so do not have the patience for this today. You need to leave.”

Pushing off the desk, he lifted his hands. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to.”

“The very last,” I agreed, coming down the steps. “And I will call the cops to have you removed. And I will also file a restraining—”

“I know that Donnie Currie was over here and he got taken to the hospital due to a little blunt-force trauma.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I resisted the urge to pick up the vase and swing it over his head. “Are you even supposed to know these things?”

He ignored my comment. “Donnie Currie is a cheater with an eye for younger women and then some, but he’s not the type of man to cut off a finger and mail it to the only known survivor of a serial killer.”

My mouth opened, but there were no words.

“Yes, I know all about that too.”

“And you haven’t plastered that all over the front page?” I challenged.

A wry smile formed. “Only because I just heard about that.”

Irritation prickled my skin. “But I guess I know what’s going to be the headline tomorrow, then?”

“Even I have my limits,” he replied. “That’s not particularly something I’m willing to put into print.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed that or not.

“The mayor is convinced that Donnie Currie is the very bad man who killed poor young Angela Reidy, and the people need to realize there is absolutely no evidence supporting that.”