Overkill(46)

“All right, Ms. Lennon. Have a good night.”

“Thank you.”

She was hesitant to disconnect, but there was nowhere for someone to be hiding that she hadn’t checked. Just as she clicked off to end the call, her doorbell pealed.





The first words out of Zach’s mouth were, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar. Your face is as white as your hair. What’s the matter?”

“How did you know where I live? Did you follow me here?”

“No, I left hours after you did, but made record time and came straight here.”

“What’s so urgent?”

“Something’s come to light.”

“You couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

“Not this.”

“Why?”

He could tell by looking at her that, despite her protests, she wasn’t all that opposed to his being here. Something of consequence had happened to both of them during the intervening hours since he’d kissed her on the cheek and told her goodbye. “Let’s swap stories.”

Looking wan and uncharacteristically skittish, she stood aside. He heard locks being clicked behind him as he left her at the front door and went into a living area where every light source was on full. As she entered behind him, she cut the overhead light.

He turned to her. “What’s up?”

“You first.”

“Nope. You’re shook. Now, for the third time, what’s the matter?”

She hitched up her chin in defiance, but he stared her down, and she wilted into an easy chair. He shrugged out of his jacket and sat down on the sofa facing her, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. With frequent starts and stops, she told him about the disturbing telephone call from the monitoring service. He listened with a growing sense of dread and apprehension.

She finished with, “I’d just hung up when you rang the doorbell. I nearly came out of my skin.”

He stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To take a look around.”

“I told you. I searched.”

He pointed his finger at her. “Stay put.”

Her house wasn’t that large, and he easily found his way through it. He looked into every room and every closet including a large storage area in the garage. After satisfying himself that they were the only two people there, he returned to the living area. Her boots were lying on the floor in front of the chair where she was curled up, a throw covering her legs and feet. She was hugging a decorative pillow against her chest like a teddy bear.

He passed her the glass of wine he’d found on a table in the bedroom.

“Thank you,” she said. “Can I offer you anything?”

He declined and resumed his spot on the sofa. “Do you think it was a break-in?”

“I haven’t had time to conduct an inventory, but the only thing that seems to have been disturbed is the moss in the planter on the kitchen island, and that could have happened when the furnace kicked on.”

“Do you think a faulty battery set off the alarm?”

“It happens.”

He just looked at her.

She took a sip of wine. “When I came in, I had this creepy sensation.”

“Like someone had been in your house while you were gone.”

She took another sip of wine. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do, Kate. I trust your instincts even if you don’t.”

He leaned against the back cushion of the sofa and stacked his hands on the top of his head. “My turn?” After she nodded for him to go ahead, he told her about his run-in with Dave Morris. The more descriptive he got, the wider her eyes grew.

“You didn’t file the complaint on him,” she exclaimed. “The GreenRidge man did.”

“But whipping his ass wouldn’t have given Morris bragging rights. Whipping mine would have.”

“He could have killed you.”

“He was no pushover. I was lucky to come away intact. But he’s a bully, not a killer.”

“As for his moonlighting,” she said, “do you really believe Eban Clarke hired him to spy on you?”

“I tossed out his name as a bluff. Morris said he wouldn’t fall for it.” He lowered his hands from his head and leaned into the space separating them. “But he did,” he said with satisfaction. “Like a ton of bricks. When I mentioned Eban Clarke, he looked at me like I was too stupid to live.

“He said, ‘The rich guy? Your ex’s party boy? He’s in prison.’ And then to prove to me that I was the dumbest dumbass ever, Morris gave up the name. It was Doug Pratt.”





With the statement reverberating between them, he sat back and said, “My barbecue supper has worn off.”

She admitted that she’d had nothing since a quick salad lunch on her drive back to Atlanta. For the time being they tabled their discussion and relocated to the kitchen. They built ham-and-cheese sandwiches to their individual preferences. She suggested they eat at the dining nook built into a corner.

“Dibs on the side with the couch,” Zach said as he carried his plate over to the rectangular table.

“Banquette.”