New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

He smiled, drew out the gray button that had fallen off her very ugly suit the first day they’d met.

“See?” She couldn’t say why that stupid button moved her so damn much. “People in love keep things. Sentimental things.”

“What do you have?”

She pulled the chain, and the tear-shaped diamond from under her shirt. “I wouldn’t wear this for anybody but you. It’s embarrassing. And—”

“Ah,

something else.”

“Shit. I’m tired. It makes me gabby. I have one of your shirts.”

His brow creased in absolute bafflement. “My shirts?”

“In my drawer, under a bunch of stuff. You lent it to me the morning after our first night together. It still sort of smells like you.”

For a moment, the worry on his face simply dissolved. “I believe that’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me in all our time together.”

“Well, I owed you. Besides, you have enough shirts to outfit a Broadway troupe. So, help me toss the room?”

“Absolutely.”

Eve took the dresser first. The cheap, flimsy fake wood reaffirmed this had been no more than a stopping point, less personal than a motel flop. Not really a piece of furniture, she thought, but a big suitcase with drawers.

She opened one, saw her mother had spent more on underwear than she had on the container used to store it.

She reached in, immediately pulled her hands back. God, she didn’t want to touch any of it, didn’t want to put her hands on those hard, bright colors.

Stop thinking of who, she told herself. Who doesn’t matter. Think of what, of doing the job.

She pushed through, examined contents, pulled out drawers to check the sides, bottoms, backs.

If she let herself, she could have put together a picture, one of a woman who shopped—or shoplifted—at boutiques, upscale stores and markets. And who still managed to select the trashy.

She found one drawer dedicated to the more subtle wardrobe of the alternate ID, found the simple shirt worn as Sandra on the night Darlie had been taken.

She switched to the tables beside the bed, and as she’d expected she found the toys and tools of a woman who didn’t stint on items for self-pleasuring.

They’d been through this, she thought, the cops, the sweepers. She imagined the careless comments, the lame jokes—then shut them out.

“Got something here,” Roarke called out.

She went to the closet where he worked, studied the disordered display of clothes, shoes, bags. He’d cleared a space and was removing a section of the floor, lifting it with one of the little tools he carried.

He set it aside, pulled a box covered with ornate, fake jewels and small circular mirrors out of the hole. He glanced at Eve, read her face very well. She didn’t want to go in the closet, didn’t want to surround herself with the clothes, the scents clinging to them.

“Why don’t we take this downstairs?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

She opted for the kitchen and the counter space.

“It’s probably expensive, but it’s still cheap and gaudy. It’s not new.”

“No, it’s got some travel on it, so something she likely took with her from place to place.”

“I don’t remember it,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “She wouldn’t keep anything that long. What’s inside’s more important.”