Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(15)
The image was too powerful to drive through.
He’d been in his bed, trying to sleep. He’d bolted upright, remembering he’d left something in the car that day. He’d barely been sleeping anyway. He got out of bed, padded to the front door, and unlocked it. His father’s car was in the driveway. He’d been driving the limo that night, taking some teens to the prom, and after returning the limo to work, he drove his own car home.
Michael headed for the car door then nearly tripped.
On his father.
His veins ran cold with fear, then denial, then a soul-ripping agony as he fell to his knees, grabbing, holding, clutching the lifeless body in the driveway. Soaked in blood. Heart no longer beating. Wallet open, ID and photos spilled everywhere along with, he’d learn later, a note his father had likely written to him earlier that day.
The black of night cloaked Michael as he held his father, and he began to know the true meaning of the word horror.
Pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose, he let the memory recede, like a wave rolling out to sea. It would crash into him again, but for now that image sent him back to the investigation. To the role his mother’s lover had played in the murder.
The question remained—did Luke want Thomas Paige dead because he was in love with Thomas’s wife? Or was there some other motive at stake?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Coffee or tea? Tea, right?”
Becky hadn’t answered her. She was hunched over her menu, studying it intently.
“Tea with sugar, right?” Annalise said, speaking louder, trying to get her attention. The waitress had stopped by to ask if they wanted drinks, and Becky hadn’t noticed the woman or Annalise’s gentle prod.
Becky startled then looked up. They’d met at a hip little breakfast café not far from the Strip, since Annalise was due at today’s shoot in an hour for set-up.
Becky’s gray-blue eyes looked weary. “Sorry, dear. Tea is fine,” she said to the waitress, as her fingers fiddled with the edge of her menu. Becky hadn’t seemed like herself this morning. True, Annalise had only spent a quarter of an hour with her so far, and the first few minutes after she’d arrived at the restaurant had consisted of one of the biggest hugs Annalise had ever experienced.
Annalise hadn’t expected the intensity of the older woman’s reaction. Yes, she liked Becky. Well, she loved her in the way you love an aunt or uncle. Becky and her husband had been her family in America the year she’d lived here, and through them she had gotten to know Michael. Sanders hadn’t made it to breakfast today, even though he’d said he would be here. Busy with “some things” Becky had said. “Appointments…you know,” she’d added.
Annalise turned to the waitress. “Some sugar for the tea please. And a coffee for me. Black.”
The waitress nodded and swiveled on her heels.
“Do you know what you want to eat?” Annalise asked, and Becky shook her head.
“Can’t decide.” Becky absently ran her finger across her fork.
“Maybe the special, then? I saw it on the chalkboard. Eggs and chives with homemade sourdough bread.”
“Sure, fine,” Becky said.
After they ordered, Becky continued on like that through breakfast—scattered, distracted, patting her purse, sneaking peeks at her phone as they caught up on the highlights of the last eighteen years. There were highs and lows—awards Annalise had won in journalism, meeting Julien, losing Julien to an early and not unexpected death—all the way through to her work now. Becky shared the latest on her sons and her husband. But every time she mentioned Sanders, something hitched in her voice.
“Is everything okay?” Annalise asked, reaching out a hand and resting it on top of Becky’s.
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“Are you sure?”
The older woman nodded and then clasped Annalise’s hand. She gulped, then fixed on a smile.
“Becky,” Annalise said in a soft voice. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Becky’s eyes floated closed, as if pained. When she opened them, she wiped her finger under her lashes, erasing the threat of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this.”
“Is it Sanders?”
Becky’s face looked pinched, and the color seemed to slip away. She sighed heavily. “I’m trying to keep it all together. I really am.”
“Are you guys okay? Is he sick? Is that the appointment?” But then, if he were ill, surely Becky would be with him.
Her old friend shook her head. “Oh no. He’s fit as can be. Well, he has that bad back. But he’s all good otherwise. It’s just…”
“You’re not separating, are you? Divorcing?” Annalise continued, since she’d never been one to tiptoe around a tough situation. Best to be direct. Ask the questions. Most people wanted to talk. Most people were looking for an opening to share their woes. If Becky was, Annalise wanted to be the person to listen.
Becky scoffed and shook her head. “I wouldn’t let him out of my grasp. Same for him,” she said, her tone chased by a light laugh. “It’s just been a tense few months. I haven’t really said much to anyone.”
“I’m here if you want to talk. Or if you just want me to listen,” Annalise offered. Sometimes people shared more with someone they didn’t see regularly. Knowing the person across from you was leaving soon could make it easier to say the hard things. If you knew you didn’t have to see him or her in the near future, you could open up. Your secrets would be tucked safely away in their luggage on the return trip home.