His wife, Deidra, was a tall, slim blonde. She wore a silk nightgown and though she wasn’t wearing make-up her skin looked like porcelain. “David. It’s late.”
“I know. I’ll be there soon.”
“I miss you.” They’d been married two years now and she’d gotten in the habit of pressing. He didn’t like it.
“Soon,” he said sharply.
Deidra pouted but said no more as she eased out of the room and closed the door behind her.
David swirled his drink, watching as the light caught the cut edges. A smile played on his lips. But ol’ Rory had never made it. And he’d ensure none of those fuck-ups from Shady Grove poisoned his future.
Bragg pushed away from Rory Edwards’s murder-scene photos, rose, and stretched. He’d been studying the pictures for hours and had not made any new discoveries. Winchester had visited Tate’s bar and had shown Rory’s picture around. The place had been crowded and loud and the bartender hadn’t seen Rory. If the killer had met him there, no one had noticed.
Wheeler had gotten more calls from the media. Instead of answering them, he’d forwarded them to Bragg. He’d fielded what he could, said as little as he could get away with, but interest over the death of an Edwards was growing.
He moved into the kitchen and poured coffee from the pot. It was cold so he put the mug in the microwave. As the seconds ticked off, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to work the kinks free. When the microwave dinged, he took his cup and sipped. Bitter.
Sipping his coffee, he sat on the couch, considered clicking on the television, but decided against it. He reached for his cell and scrolled to the picture he’d snapped of Greer. Not the old photo but one taken recently by Rory. Of all the ones taken of her he’d liked this one the best. She stood on the porch of her house staring out over her vineyard. The sun was setting and orange-yellow light illuminated her face. He’d chosen the picture because it was the only one that hadn’t caught her frowning. In this image she looked almost at peace. Bragg traced his finger over the line of her jaw. Looking at her made him hard, hungry, and wanting more than he could put into words.
He frowned when he thought of Rory taking the picture. He didn’t like the idea of the guy watching her, stalking her.
No way he could have gotten close and she’d not seen him. So where had he been? He conjured the image of the terrain around her ranch house. There’d been a hill at three o’clock. He’d had to have been there. And the photo had to have been taken with a telephoto lens.
There’d been no camera in Rory’s room. Where was the camera? Where had he gotten it? He shifted his attention from Greer to the background. Thunderclouds formed in the distance. Monday’s rain clouds hadn’t materialized and there’d been no dark clouds in the sky. The last hard rain that area had seen had been three weeks ago. Everyone had reported Rory had been in town only a week. Had they been wrong? Had he been here longer? Or had someone else taken the photos?
“Get the fuck out of there!”
Mitch’s strangled cry shot down the hallway like a bullet.
Bragg jumped off the couch and ran down the hallway to the kid’s room. Mitch lay on his back, shirtless, a sheet twisted around his midsection as he thrashed back and forth. “Get the fuck out of there!”
Bragg crossed the room in three strides and reached for the boy’s shoulder.
“Mitch! Wake up!” he commanded.
As quick as a rattler, Mitch balled up his fist, drew it back, and swung. It hit Bragg square in the jaw.
The Ranger wasn’t prepared for the blow, and the pain cut through him, making him ball his own fists as he staggered back. Anger rose up in him like an animal and his first instinct was to strike back hard. Heart racing in his chest, he took a step back until he could corral the fury.
“Mitch,” he shouted. “Wake up!”
The kid started awake and sat up in bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his breathing was labored and quick. His wild gaze slowly cleared.
“Mitch.” The calmness in Bragg’s voice surprised him.
“Yeah.” He shoved his fingers over his short hair.
“Bad dream?”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed his knuckle over the tender skin on his jaw. “Want to talk about it?”
Mitch shook his head and lay back down. “No.”
“Want a glass of water or a soda?”
He rolled on his side away from Bragg. “No. Thanks.”
A heavy silence hung between them as Bragg searched for the right words. He couldn’t find one so he backed out of the room. He closed the door partway, leaving it cracked so that light from the hallway could seep inside.
Bragg hadn’t planned on attending Greer’s fund-raiser but knew now he would. And though he could tell himself his interests were for Mitch or the case, he’d be lying. He wanted her for himself.
“When is she going to wake up?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson said.
He stared through the small window at Sara lying on the floor of the freezer. He’d turned the temperature down low, but not so low that it would kill her before she woke.
“Can’t you wake her?”
“I want her to wake up on her own.”
“Why?” she challenged.
“Why are you so impatient?”
“We don’t have a lot of time. If you’re going to keep to the schedule, we have only five more days.”
Jackson traced Sara’s image on the glass. “She’ll wake up soon, and we’ll meet our schedule.”
“How can you be sure?”
He smiled. “Because I am.”
“What about the one after her? Have you laid the groundwork?”
He frowned. “Yes. I’ve prepped all the rest. And I will deal with each in their own time.”
Chapter Nine
Wednesday, June 4, 8 A.M.
Greer sat in her office going over the details for the fund-raiser she was hosting for the Crisis Center. She’d started at the center years ago answering phones during the late-night hours. She’d planned to simply answer phone calls. Stay on the fringe. But so
mewhere along the way she’d caught the attention of Dr. Stewart, who became chairman of the nonprofit’s board last year. Dr. Stewart had liked Greer and invited her to join the committee.
Greer had said no at first but Dr. Stewart wasn’t an easy man to refuse so she’d promised to help a little. Give Dr. Stewart an inch, and he’d charm you out of a mile.
Greer had found herself on the marketing committee and somehow had agreed to host a fund-raiser at Bonneville.
No sense worrying how she’d gotten sucked into this event. She was here and all she could do was make the best of it.
Tables. Chairs. Signs. Food. Wine, of course. Her checklist was complete. She was good at logistics. Ask her to arrange the field workers for harvest. Done. Coordinate Bonneville’s booth at the growers’ association meeting. Easy. Handle a truck, broken irrigation lines, or bug infestation. No sweat. But ask her to deal directly with people, and she was damn near a mess.
She’d not always been like this. Before the accident she could walk up to anyone and start a conversation. Her parents had held many business cocktail parties, and they expected Greer and Jeff to make an appearance. Ironically, it was Jeffrey who didn’t like the limelight and Greer who filled the conversation lulls with lively chatter and laughter.
The crunch of gravel under tires had her looking out her office window toward the main entrance. No one came or left the vineyard’s main entrance without her seeing. She didn’t like surprises. Too many lawyers and reporters had surprised her at her parents’ Austin home after the accident. Twelve years had softened the leeriness but not broken it.
A white four-door sedan drove up in a cloud of dust, parking in front of the main tasting room. She didn’t recognize the car and found herself tensing as she rose. She still hated surprises.
The driver’s-side door opened and a tall, slender woman dressed in soft pinks appeared. Dark sunglasses hid her face but Greer would have recognized the stiff-backed posture anywhere. Her mother.