Colton's Killer Pursuit

Things got a little more complicated when they moved

to the back half of the house. Without any conversation at all, he avoided her bedroom, and she tended to it alone, while he cleaned up a rather sizable mess of spilled cleaning product in the hallway bathroom just down from her opened door. It was the only overt damage caused in the entire place. The only place where frustration seemed to have gotten the better of the burglar. Because it was the last room he or she was in?

Or was there another reason the bathroom had set them off? Pulling his notepad out of the back pocket of his jeans, he jotted down the questions.

They met up in what was obviously her office. The decor in the room was decidedly feminine, with floral wall art, angels on shelves that hadn’t been touched—another note for his pad.

And masses of piles of books, having been pulled from an entire wall, floor to ceiling, of shelves. His height came in handy there, and as she handed him books, he reorganized them, starting with the top shelf.

Noticing titles, particularly, so that he didn’t notice her so close by, bending over, standing up, that body with those lovely curves moving with such grace. And the floral scent... It wasn’t strong. Not like some perfumes, which tended to gag him sometimes, but more subtle. A breeze on a summer day that caught a waft of a rose garden...

The thought stopped him cold. And then he double-timed the shelving. When had he ever been aware of a summer breeze before? Had he ever even seen a rose garden?

He’d been handed a couple of self-help books. As though she knew how badly he needed them. Just in case, he read the taglines. And then those on the next books, too. Apparently, there was going to be an entire shelf filled with ways to better yourself. Financially—some books written by names he recognized. Emotionally—he’d never heard of the authors. One book in particular, about being an effective person in all walks of life, he’d actually read himself once.

Probably more recently than she had, judging by the wear and tear on her copy. His was less than five years old. He stood there, looking at the book...and at her, quietly working her way through cleaning up another mess in her life that she hadn’t made. She hadn’t said much since they’d begun the task of cleaning up. Hadn’t cried, either. Or showed other signs of distress.

She’d just gone about the business of quietly cleaning up.

“What?” Books in hand ready to give him, Everleigh stood there, frowning. He shelved the books she’d already handed him. Took the next...

Had no idea how to answer her. He wouldn’t lie but his thoughts were definitely not case related.

“You have a problem with self-help books in general or just the effectiveness one?” she asked on the next handoff.

“Are these all yours?” he prevaricated. Not a great response, but the best he could do on the fly. This woman had had him off-kilter since the adrenaline burst with which he’d rescued her that morning and he had to get himself in check.

“Yeah. Fritz’s stuff is mostly still here,” she said, bending for more books. “He moved out a month before his murder, but he got a furnished place and didn’t take much more than clothes and toiletries with him. He still came home to work in his den every day while I was at the bar.” It was the longest conversation she’d offered him since they’d arrived. Because they were almost done? Or was she loosening up some with him around? “But he wasn’t much of a reader.”

“I can’t imagine not reading. All the information out there...” Not to mention the entertainment.

“He said he got the same in podcasts and watching the news...”

He didn’t really want to talk about Fritz Emerson—not unless it led him to knowing who wanted him dead.

“And you still didn’t answer my question,” she said, becoming persistent at the most inopportune time. Books in hand, she didn’t give them to him, just stood there looking over at him. “You had a really odd look on your face. You have something against that book? I mean, I’ve seen your house. Clearly, you’re a reader, too. And that book... I pretty much live by it...”

“I like the book.”

“You’ve read it, then?”

“Yeah. It’s on the shelf in my office,” Clarke admitted.

“So, why the look?”

Why wasn’t she giving up?

“Why does it matter?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but it does.”

Everleigh was reasonable. And apparently when she knew something was going on that concerned her, she could also be obstinate.

“The book...it’s practical and full of wisdom for anyone who wants to live their best life...”

He sounded like a...someone who was not him.

“And you have a problem with that?”