A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(45)

Then her own serving of chocolate bread pudding appeared.

He grinned. “That’s more like it.” His gaze shot over her shoulder, and Mercy knew Truman had arrived.

Truman squeezed her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her before shaking Michael’s hand. Mercy spotted the same caution in Truman’s gaze that she felt around the reporter. He wouldn’t let his guard down either. He took the chair next to her and raised a finger at their waitress across the restaurant, who nodded and winked at him.

Truman always gets the female winks.

Or the lingering stares and the second glances. Especially when he wore his coat and badge. He naturally exuded stability, integrity, and honor. He was crack for women. Single or married.

“Are you getting a salad too?” Michael asked.

“Not today. It’s a BLT for me,” answered Truman. He picked up a fork and took a bite of Mercy’s dessert. “Sweet baby cheeses, that’s as incredible as always.”

Truman had not had a sweet tooth until he met her. Sugar was one of Mercy’s primary vices. One she’d been unable to shake. That and caffeine. She’d laid in a huge store of the luxury items at her cabin.

Her father wouldn’t have approved.

“Mercy didn’t tell me we were meeting you for lunch,” Truman said.

“You weren’t. You got lucky.”

Mercy suddenly wondered if the reporter had been lying in wait for her again. She ate lunch at the restaurant at least twice a week. I shouldn’t be so predictable.

“Why are you here, Michael?” she asked. The subtle twitch of one eye implied her suspicion had been correct.

“I want you to get me an interview with Christian Lake.”

She sighed.

“Why ask Mercy?” asked Truman.

“They know each other.”

“Barely,” added Mercy. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Except for yesterday,” added Michael with the lift of one eyebrow.

“I can’t tell him what to do.” Mercy stabbed her spinach, aware there was no point in asking how the reporter had gotten his information.

“Did he tell you his brother Gabriel is in town?” Michael asked.

Her head jerked up and Truman tensed beside her. “He’s back from California? Why didn’t he go home to Portland?” she asked.

“That was my question too. He flew in this morning and headed straight to Christian’s home.”

“Did you tell Ava this? She needs to interview him.”

“Not yet. I’ve called her twice and asked her to get back to me. It hasn’t happened yet.”

Mercy checked the time. “She and Eddie just left for Portland.”

“I guess Gabriel’s interview will have to wait until they get back.”

She tamped down the urge to leap out of her seat and drive to Christian’s home.

Truman’s phone buzzed. He scowled at the screen and excused himself to take the call outside.

Mercy stared at Michael, her appetite gone. Even the bread pudding held no appeal. The reporter’s minibomb about Gabriel clogged her thoughts. Silent tension floated between her and Michael.

“You know you want to go out there,” Michael said quietly. “I’m a good excuse for you to go to his home. You’ll simply be making an introduction. Your presence will smooth the way for Christian to open up to me.”

He sounded like the devil sitting on her shoulder. “Do you always manipulate your conversations?”

Michael shrugged. “I like to be efficient with my time.”

She grudgingly respected that. No doubt their two encounters had gone exactly as he’d planned. But she wasn’t ready to lead him to Christian. She respected their old friendship too much. Michael would have to find another way. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him exactly that, when alarm crossed his face as he looked past her.

She spun around in her chair. Truman was striding toward their table, his face grim.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Rob Murray has been murdered. I need to go.”

Her mind scrambled to place the name. “The guy who abandoned Christian’s car?”

“Yep. That was Evan Bolton from the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office. Murray’s neighbors reported that my vehicle was at his apartment building a few hours ago, so the detective called me.”

“Were you at his apartment?” asked Michael.

“Yes.” Truman was tight-lipped, his face pale. “But he was breathing when I left.”

“I’m coming with you,” stated Mercy.





SEVENTEEN

When I was sixteen I sold my potions to the girls at school. Business was brisk. Word of mouth kept my sales flowing, although none of the girls would speak to me except when they wanted their fix. It was amazing what a little bit of vodka mixed with fruit juice would allow a girl to do when she stood in front of her crush. Inhibitions went down, and the teenage boy’s interest was snagged.

Easy money.

But I was lonely. I started attending every party I heard about. Masses of teens would cram into someone’s home while the parents were out of town. Beer flowed and pot was passed around. I would heavily line my eyes, wear my tightest, shortest skirt and a sheer top. I wanted them to see me and they did.