After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

After making love with Trent until dawn, she’d burrowed deep into the covers, felt his arms surround her, then crashed for hours. When she finally awoke it was nearly eleven. He was no longer with her, the bed where he’d lain cold, reality hitting her like a freight train.

Today she had to face Detective Nash and whoever else in the Portland Police Department. Nash was gunning for her, she knew it, and then there was also Detective Hayes in LA. Surely he’d somehow be involved. Their conversations had been too short to satisfy him. He might even have flown up here to interview (translation: interrogate) her, or Skype in, or whatever.

She wasn’t looking forward to any of it, and as she stared at the ceiling, she wondered if there was any way to avoid the inevitable.

Her stomach was in knots at the prospect.

Rolling to the side of the bed she found Hud, his snout resting on the mattress. “Geez, dog. You scared me!” His wet nose was only inches from hers, his brown eyes bright with excitement, his whole body wiggling.

“Yeah, I know. Time to get up and face the bad music.”

She showered and put on the clothes she’d left strewn on the floor, then headed downstairs, the dog leading the way.

In the kitchen, coffee was warming in a carafe on a Mr. Coffee. She poured herself a cup, scrounged around in the near-empty refrigerator. No cream. Black would have to do, she decided as she spied a note tucked under the salt and pepper shakers on the table.

Didn’t want to wake you.

Doing chores and running to town.

Breakfast in the oven.

Back soon.

T

So much for any sign of affection. No “Love you” or “So glad you stayed over” or even a little “xoxo.”

“Come on, what did you expect?” she asked aloud, and walked to the window over Trent’s ancient sink. Cradling her cup, she stared through the glass to survey the acres that made up this side of Trent’s farm. The rain had finally let up though the day remained gray, dark clouds roiling overhead, the ground sodden, wet grass bent over. Near the pump house, rhododendrons and azaleas shivered in a bit of wind.

Her car was where she’d parked it, but Trent’s truck was missing.

She felt a pang of disappointment and told herself she was being ridiculous. Just a few days ago she’d been set on divorcing him. Now, ending her marriage was the furthest thing from her mind.

She took a sip of coffee and considered. Was she signing herself up for another emotional roller-coaster ride?

A plate of bacon and toast was warming in the oven. Gingerly, she carried the hot plate to the table. Her stomach growled before she dug in. God, she was hungry!

She demolished the bacon, s

aving just one bite for the dog that snapped it up on the fly and looked eagerly for more. “Sorry, Bud. That’s it.” She plopped the last bite of toast into her mouth and heard the rumble of an engine and crunch of tires on gravel. “Maybe Daddy’s home.” As she dropped her plate into the sink where a frying pan was soaking, she peered through the window to see Trent jogging to the back door.

Her heart did a quick little flip as she heard his boots hit the first step of the back porch. Hud gave an excited yip, then raced to the back door and stared at it as if willing the thick panels to open. Then Trent rushed in, his face set and hard, his lips compressed.

“Hey, Cowboy,” she started, then caught his mood. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you know a woman by the name of Brandi Potts?”

The name rang distant bells, but she couldn’t place it. Slowly shaking her head, she said, “Maybe I’ve heard the name . . .”

“Maybe as an extra on Dead Heat?”

“Possibly. Why?”

“You haven’t seen the news?”

“No . . . I just got up. What happened?”

“She was murdered last night.”