The Girl Who Survived(97)

“A rich nutcase with a macabre sense of humor, maybe. Someone who likes to shock or is into trophies of a kind so he’s got bragging rights. You know the kind: a freak with more money than brains.”

Connell barked out a laugh. “We both know a few of those. So far, though, no one’s shown any interest. The place has been with four different Realtors in about as many years, but not a single offer.”

“It’ll sell. If the price is right.”

“Anything will. Look, I gotta go. I’m on the road. I’ll check in later.” Connell ended the connection, and Tate took a sip of his now-cold coffee, rolled down the window and poured the dregs onto the street just as a delivery truck belching exhaust rolled past.

As he put up the window again, he checked his watch and wondered for the hundredth time how the interview was going. She had insisted she could handle it, that she had nothing to hide, and that she would do anything she could to see that Merritt Margrove’s murderer was captured and brought to justice.

Once again, even though she’d picked up Jonas at Margrove’s place in the mountains, she’d defended him, insisting he wasn’t the killer. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she’d protested when, just last night, Tate had suggested her prick of a brother, an ex-con, just might lie. “Why would he kill the man who got him out of prison? And why would he expose himself and get in the car with me?”

“He wanted you to drive him away from the crime scene.”

“Do you blame him?” she’d thrown at Tate as they’d stood in the kitchen of his loft. “He’d just gotten out of prison and he hates the cops. And, well, hell, I ran away, too.” She’d turned to face him, and he’d been caught again by her beauty. “Jonas didn’t have any blood on him, Wes. Not a drop. Wouldn’t some of Merritt’s blood have been on him if he’d sliced Merritt’s throat?” She’d physically shuddered. “Besides the police would figure that out pretty damned fast, wouldn’t they? They had his clothes after the accident. So they know he didn’t do it.” She’d frowned and studied the wine in her glass. “I know Jonas has issues. He’s bitter. Who wouldn’t be?”

“That’s assuming he’s innocent.”

“Even so,” she’d argued, then tossed back her wine. “Okay, okay, I get it. Jonas is a fraud. I know that. This whole religion thing of his is bogus. No one who’s really ‘found Jesus,’ ” she said, making air quotes with her fingers, “would be so vindictive, so greedy, so damned angry. But that doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

At that point he’d dropped the subject and she’d poured herself another glass.

And this morning, she’d refused to let him join her in the sheriff’s office.

Tate had slid his RAV4 into this very spot and offered only hours before. “Okay. I could come in with you—”

“We already discussed this,” she’d snapped as she’d pulled on a pair of gloves, then opened the passenger door. “And you don’t have to wait for me. I’ll get my phone back, or the cops will take me home.”

“Your dog is at my place,” he’d reminded her.

“Right. Well, you know what I mean.”

“I do. And I’ll wait.”

She’d sent him a questioning look, as if trying to decipher his motives—was he a good guy or just a reporter bending over backward for a story? “It’s freezing.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“If you say so.” She’d climbed out, slammed the door shut, hesitated to let traffic clear, then jogged across the street. He’d watched her cross, her hair bouncing, her legs moving so easily and he told himself not to notice how sexy she was. Those kinds of thoughts were way out of line and would only get him in trouble. Still, he hadn’t been able to turn away as she’d hustled up the concrete steps to enter the glass vestibule. His view had been cut off by an ancient Volkswagen Vanagon rattling past and when he’d been able to see the steps again, she was gone.

He felt an unbidden pang that stupidly still lingered.

Less than five minutes later, his mother called.

“Don’t tell me,” she said when he answered. “You’re back on the McIntyre thing, aren’t you?”

“Hi to you, too, Mom.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” she said, and launched right in again. “Damn it, Wesley, can’t you let it go?” she said, her fury emanating over the wireless connection.

She knew he couldn’t. They’d had this discussion over and over again.

“I saw on the news that Jonas McIntyre’s out of prison and that lawyer who got him out? Merritt Margrove? He was killed. It’s everywhere. Newspaper, radio, television, even my damned Facebook feed!” She let out a long sigh. “I’ve had a reporter call me this morning. That Sheila Keegan woman. Pushy thing. And she’s just the first. They’ll be lining up, I know they will. There’s already been some kind of rally about Jonas McIntyre. And they’re gonna dig this all up again. And you . . . you’re right in there with the rest of them.”

“It’s my job, Mom.”

“No, Wesley, it’s your obsession!” She paused and then more calmly said, “You need to let it go. What’s done is done. I’m not crazy about the fact that Jonas McIntyre is out of prison, you know I’m not, and I feel bad that another man died—was killed—but it’s in all God’s hands now.”