Dangerous Relations. Carol Post J.

       ONE

      Shelby Adair cruised down I-90, trying to drum up some enthusiasm for the evening ahead. No matter how she pitched it, she couldn’t find many bright spots in the prospect of spending two or three hours with her self-absorbed sister.

      But Mia’s company wasn’t the reason she’d scheduled the dinner date. She was an aunt. And she was going to be a good one.

      She cast a glance over her shoulder and moved into the far-left lane. Soon she’d cross Lake Washington and join the other vehicles that made up Seattle’s rush-hour traffic. But during the late afternoon, coming in wasn’t as bad as going out. Barring the unexpected, she should arrive at Mia’s apartment complex in thirty minutes.

      She was seeing her sister twice in one month. That was a record. But she’d had a valid reason for avoiding contact. Between caring for their dying aunt and keeping the diner afloat, she’d had a full plate. Dealing with Mia’s theatrics would have sent her over the edge.

      Now that her aunt was gone, she had no excuse. Besides, she did want to connect with her fifteen-month-old niece. And with her dysfunctional childhood nine years behind her, she might have a shot at developing a relationship with one of her siblings.

      It wouldn’t happen with her older sister. Lauren had escaped at eighteen, moved to the other side of the country and never looked back. She hadn’t even responded to Shelby’s voice mails and Facebook messages about their aunt. She hadn’t come to the funeral, either.

      Ten minutes later, brake lights lit up the road, and Shelby slowed to a crawl. This was one reason she was glad she’d left Seattle for the sleepy, picturesque town of North Bend. It was only thirty miles away but had always felt like a small chunk of paradise.

      She finally exited the interstate and negotiated her Lincoln Town Car through a series of turns. Mia’s apartment complex was ahead on the right. Red and blue lights strobed through trees still bare from winter.

      As she moved closer, the muscles drew tight across her shoulders. Two Seattle police cruisers and a crime-scene unit sat in front of the building that housed Mia’s apartment.

      Her sister’s words echoed in her thoughts, fragments of a conversation they’d had after the funeral. Mia had said there was something going on at the club where she worked, that if she stumbled across exactly what it was, her life would be in danger. Shelby hadn’t taken her seriously at the time.

      She still didn’t. Mia was the ultimate drama queen, the proverbial “girl who cried wolf.” Anything for attention. She’d been crafting fantastic stories since she was old enough to talk.

      Shelby stopped in a visitor parking space and killed the engine. When she reached for the door handle, the lights strobing in her side mirror sent tension through her again.

      She tried to shake it off. This was a three-story apartment complex. There were more than thirty units in Mia’s building alone. The probability that the police vehicles had anything to do with Mia or little Chloe was low.

      She stepped into the chilly March air as a Toyota Prius approached. When it passed, her gaze locked onto the back and stuck. Large black letters stretched across the white rear bumper—Medical Examiner. Parked three spaces down was a white van with the same designation.

      Her breath hitched and something dark settled over her. The presence of the medical examiner meant one thing.

      Someone was dead.

      While the Prius parked, she sprinted toward the building, heart pounding in her chest. It couldn’t be Mia. What her sister had said at Aunt Bea’s funeral was an attention-getting ploy, just like all the other times. Having grown up with Mia, Shelby had her number. Letting the tales get to her was never a good idea.

      She bypassed the elevator and ran up the steps, taking them two at a time. She’d never been to her sister’s apartment, but Mia had given her the number—312.

      When Shelby burst into the third-floor hallway, a vise clamped down on her chest. Two apartments away, the door was ajar. A woman stood in front of the opening, soothing a crying child in her arms. Tears had left streaks in the woman’s makeup. She wasn’t familiar. The child was.

      Where was Mia? Why was Chloe being held by a crying stranger?

      Shelby rushed forward, then skidded to a stop. The gold numbers affixed to the metal door put to death the irrational hope that the apartment belonged to someone else. The woman shifted Chloe to her other hip, and Shelby peered around her.

      Beyond the entry, a crime-scene tech was kneeling with her back to the door. Next to her, a red smear marked the beige tiles.

      Shelby’s stomach did a free fall, and her knees threatened