Colton's Killer Pursuit

Everleigh unbuttoned her coat. She had to sit down.

And was afraid to touch anything, not even to pull out one of the four chairs around the kitchen table. Her home, having undergone crime-scene tape, body removal, forensics and then a thorough cleaning, had, just two months later, become the scene of another crime.

Forester! Was he okay? Glancing toward the archway leading from the kitchen to the rest of the house, she told herself that the cat Fritz had brought home a month before he’d walked out on her would be tucked safely under her bed, where he spent most of his time.

That was apparently where he’d been found after Fritz’s murder and her subsequent arrest.

Standing there, trembling, she surveyed the mess, hearing Clarke Colton moving about the house, listening for signs of struggle and feeling a need to dial 911.

Refusing to allow herself to become overwhelmed.

She couldn’t put away groceries until she cleaned up the mess all over the cupboards and counters, which were now part of a crime scene.

Her milk was going to spoil.

No. The refrigerator hadn’t been touched. Glomming on to having something constructive to do, to help her keep her sanity, she shrugged out of her coat, quickly found the bags with frozen and refrigerated items. She put them all on their proper shelves and in their proper drawers in the side-by-side refrigerator Fritz had bought her for Christmas ten years before.

Back when his business had been doing well. He’d been on top of the world then—and on top of other women, too, as it had turned out, but she hadn’t known that then. She’d thought their marriage healthy enough. Was somewhat disenchanted with what it had turned out to be—all about Fritz, rather than the partnership they’d vowed to give each other—but had been giving it her all. Determined to make it work. Had been focused on starting a family...

Before she’d unloaded one full bag of perishables, Clarke came around the corner, his gun back in the holster at his waist. And his phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Melissa, it’s me again. The Emerson home has been completely ransacked. Break-in was a bedroom window, not the master. No sign of the perp. My guess is whoever did this is the same person who just tried to run her over...”

Silence and then, “Yeah.”

More silence. Watching him, instead of surveying the mess, calmed her. He had blue eyes.

“Yeah.”

He was a Colton. And from what she’d heard, a womanizer like Fritz. She was grateful for his help. But wanted him gone.

“I’m on it.” He hung up. Glanced at her with obvious compassion.

She’d fallen for a charmer once. Clarke could turn that warm, caring glance on someone else. She’d have her own back from there on out, thank you very much.

“Troy’s on his way over,” he said. “My cousin Detective Troy Colton.”

Yeah, she knew who he was.

The man who’d come into her place of employment and slapped handcuffs on her wrists. She’d never, ever forget that feel of cold hard steel clamping down against her wrist bone. Bruising it.

Right now, she had to get her head out of shock city and deal with the current situation.

“Someone evidently wants me dead,” she said. “And they tear up my house...” They were definitely out to get her...still. The same fact she’d been living with the two long months she’d been sitting in prison. “I don’t get it,” she continued. “Unless this has something to do with why Randall Bowe framed me in the first place...”

She’d never even met the department’s forensic scientist. Had no idea why he’d have it in for her.

“Doubtful,” Clarke said. “Yours wasn’t the only case he tampered with.”

She nodded. But... “I’ve heard he’s on the run,” she said, not able to let it go. When a guy you’ve never met lands you in prison and you’re facing the rest of your life locked up in a cell... “Until we know why he did what he did, we don’t know he’s not behind this.” Shuddering, she shut up. No good was going to come out of scaring herself. She needed her wits about her. And the strength Gram had instilled within her from a very early age.

Taking care of her was her job. No one else’s.

“He’s on the run because he knows we’re on to him,” Clarke told her, still standing in the entryway to the kitchen, as though purposefully blocking her from the rest of the house. And seemingly willing to stand there and chat for the rest of the day.

The man had some age on him, but then, at thirty-eight, so did she.

Age gave him a maturity she found...reassuring. And he was way too good-looking, all tall and muscular with thick brown hair and blue eyes that seemed to see inside her. He wore his sexuality as confidently as he did the tight jeans that hugged his...hips...well enough to be on the front cover of a magazine.