Deadly Christmas Secrets. Shirlee McCoy
“You’re assuming whoever did it is still around.”
“Statistically speaking, the likelihood that the perp is hanging around watching all the action is pretty high.”
Not a pleasant thought.
Harper tried to tell herself that Stella was wrong, that the likelihood was slim to none, but Stella had been at this kind of work for a lot longer than Harper had been shaping clay. It was obvious from the way she moved, the way she spoke, her gritty rough edge that had just a bit of softness beneath it.
Stella knew what she was talking about, and maybe the criminal wasn’t the only one who was a fool. Harper had been on her own for a long time. She wasn’t used to taking other people’s advice. She wasn’t really used to being around other people.
She’d been social before, but not eager to have the kind of close and intimate relationships most people longed for. She’d tried it with Daniel, because it had seemed like the thing to do, and because he’d been charming and funny and made her feel like a million bucks.
When that hadn’t worked out, she’d been more upset with herself than heartbroken.
She knew how bad her family was at relationships.
She knew how easily fooled they were, how easily taken advantage of, and so she’d made it her goal to be dependent on no one but herself. She hadn’t wanted to end up like her mother—wandering from one bad relationship to another. She hadn’t wanted to be like Lydia—settling for someone because she was afraid of having no one, of having to do it all alone, provide for everything herself.
She’d wanted something different from that, and she’d gotten it.
Only it hadn’t been quite as wonderful as she’d thought it would be. It hadn’t been nearly as fulfilling as she’d thought it should be. Maybe if Lydia hadn’t died, Harper would have changed her tune, made a few deep connections, spent a little more time building relationships and friendships.
She would have liked to believe that was what would have happened. She’d realized after her sister’s death that those things were a lot more important than she’d thought.
It would have helped to have them when she’d been going through the murder investigation. When she’d been the prime suspect in her sister’s and niece’s murders.
She shuddered, pulling her coat a little tighter.
She had the heat turned up high. It wasn’t cold in the truck cab, but she was cold, all the memories that she’d tucked away, all the things she tried really hard not to think about suddenly right there at the forefront of her mind.
Something tapped on her window, near her head, and she screamed so loudly, she thought the truck shook with it. Then she realized she was the one shaking.
She turned, expecting...
She didn’t know what.
A masked killer, maybe?
A bogeyman come to life?
Instead, she met Logan’s eyes. They were black in the darkness, his hair wet from snow. A few flakes shone white against his hair and coat.
“You going to let me in?” he asked, tapping again.
“Right. Sure,” she said, her voice trembling as she unlocked the door and scooted to the center of the seat.
Frigid air filled the truck as he climbed in beside her. He looked tired, and he looked angry.
He also looked...good.
She glanced away, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts.
She had enough to worry about without adding someone like Logan to the mix.
“How’d everything go?” Stella asked, her voice breaking through the tension.
“About as well as can be expected when the prime suspect is dead,” Logan muttered.
“No need to be waspish,” Stella replied.
“Waspish?” Logan laughed, the sound gruff and a little hard. “Who uses that word?”
“I do,” Stella responded. “Now, how about you tell me what the police found? Evidence? Any clue as to who is responsible?”
“If they’d found that, I wouldn’t be sitting in this truck. I’d be out looking for the guy.”
“So we’re right back where we were a few hours ago,” Stella murmured. “No suspects and no working theory as to who might be responsible.”
“Exactly. Although, if I had to guess, I’d say the place we should be looking is in DC.”
“You think Gabe is involved?” Harper asked, her throat so dry, she barely got the words out.
She didn’t want to believe her brother-in-law had killed her sister, but she’d never been able to discount the idea. There’d always been a tiny seed of suspicion. Gabe wasn’t afraid to shove people out of his way to achieve his goals. He was aggressive, determined and decisive. If he wanted something, he went after it.
He’d wanted freedom from his marriage.
At least, that was what Lydia had told Harper a few weeks before she’d died—Gabe asked for a divorce. He said he can’t do us anymore.
She’d laughed when she’d said it, as if the entire thing were a joke. Typical Lydia. She’d never been able to believe that someone could be done with her. She certainly hadn’t been done with Gabe. She’d liked his money, his community status, his beautiful home, and she’d had no intention of ever giving that up. Had that gotten her killed?
Had Gabe been desperate enough, frustrated enough, done enough to kill her?
Bad to worse.
That was the way things had gone, and Logan wasn’t happy about it.
He also wasn’t happy about the fact that Harper had left the relative safety of her cabin to give him a ride back to her place. A ride he hadn’t needed or wanted. A man was dead. Someone had killed him. The person was still at large. It seemed to Logan that the safe thing to do, the smart thing, would have been for Harper to stay behind closed and locked doors until the murderer was found.
Obviously Harper had other ideas.
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