Deadline

“About the Wessons of Ohio? Not yet. This damn holiday.”

“Hmm. Let me know when he gets back to you. Right now I gotta go.”

“If you’re only watching the grass grow, what’s your hurry?”

“I gotta pee.”

Dawson hung up, dropped the cell phone onto the cluttered table, and walked into the bathroom. At least he hadn’t lied to Headly about having to go.

When he was done, he lingered for a moment at the sink, staring at the disheveled guy in the mirror who had haunted-looking eyes surrounded by shadows. Arms braced stiffly on the rim of the sink, he silently asked himself what the hell he was doing here, why he was putting himself through this, why he should give a fuck about Jeremy Wesson.

Arriving at no satisfactory conclusion, he turned on the cold-water tap and splashed his face several times, then dried it, and was doing up his zipper as he walked back into the other room.

Where he uttered a startled sound and drew up short.

Amelia Nolan was standing not ten feet from him, a can of pepper spray aimed directly at his face.

“Tell me now who you are. Because after getting a face full of this, it’ll be a while before you can talk.”

Chapter 5

He raised his hands, palms out. “I swear I’m no threat.”

“Like hell you’re not.”

With her free hand, she gestured to the table behind her where the incriminating evidence was on display.

Shit!

Scattered across the table were dozens of photos of her and her sons playing on the beach. He’d taken the shots with his cell phone, enlarged them on his laptop, and printed them out. Standing on the windowsill were the binoculars through which he’d been watching them.

The pictures he’d taken of her alone made him particularly culpable. In some she looked reflective and a bit sad. In others she was laughing over her sons’ antics, her loose hair like a fiery halo in the sunlight as the three of them capered on the beach.

He’d also captured a private moment of her standing at the waterline in her swimsuit, one hand anchoring her floppy-brimmed straw hat to her head. With the sun behind her, the swimsuit was absorbed into the dark silhouette, and her shape, in profile, was clearly delineated.

She was more modestly clothed now in the familiar caftan, a two-piece swimsuit beneath it. Sand clung to her bare feet, so she must have come directly from the beach. Her hat had obviously been left behind when she decided to storm the house next door to hers, the one that he’d rented two days ago.

He felt like a voyeur and couldn’t fault her for being angry. But that anger was mixed with fear. The hand clutching the canister of pepper spray wasn’t all that steady.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Dawson Scott. Middle name Andrew. See for yourself. My wallet is right there.” He motioned toward the table.

Keeping her eyes on him, she picked up the wallet and flipped it open. Inside it were his Virginia driver’s license. And the damning press-corps ID card.

Her hand dropped to her side as though the wallet was as heavy as an anvil. “You’re a lousy reporter.”

He gave a weak grin. “Actually I’m pretty good.”

She tossed the wallet back onto the table, then wiped her hand on the gauzy material of her caftan as if she’d touched something foul. The pepper spray was still aimed at him.

He tilted his head toward it. “Are you going to squirt me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

* * *

He probably thought she was being facetious. She wasn’t. His being a journalist was only slightly better than his being a pervert who took snapshots of potential victims. They weren’t mutually exclusive, either. “Whom do you work for? Or are you a freelance hacker who sells to the highest bidder?”