Murder Girl (Lilah Love 2)

I settle my feet on the floor and look her in the eyes. “Why did Woods call you to issue his first confession?”

“I told you why at dinner.”

“Dinner at my father’s house,” I say. “That’s right. I was distracted by the fact that you were actually at my father’s house and married to Eddie. Tell me again.”

“Am I being interrogated?”

“My boss is a pain in the ass. I have to write a report, Alexandra, and if there is one hole, we all have a problem. I’ll have to claim jurisdiction, and your husband and my brother and father will lose their shit.”

Her lips tighten. “Yes. They would. But Woods coming to me really isn’t all that odd. The district attorney assigned me to East Hampton right after you left. But I also do some random guest spots on one of the mainstream news stations out of New York City.”

It hits me now that she hasn’t given up her corner Manhattan office. She’s planning to go as part of my father’s entourage. Better her than me, as long as that path doesn’t include walking over Woods’s grave and framing him for murders he didn’t commit. “Has anyone but Woods ever randomly confessed to you?”

“No. He’s the first.”

“Do a lot of people come to you over my brother and his staff to confess?”

“No, but the TV segments have gotten more popular.”

My gaze catches on a blue folder she has lying on her desk, my eyes narrowing on the label that reads “Pocher,” before my eyes return to hers. “Why?” I demand. “Are you prosecuting a man funding my father’s campaign?”

“Of course not. I’m helping with your father’s campaign, and he’s a major contributor.”

Of course she is and he is. “Do you still talk to Jensen?”

She blanches. “What? No. I’m married.” But she cuts her eyes to her hand, and that’s her tell sign. That’s what she does when she’s lying. “And you’re all over the board,” she says when she looks at me again. “You’re bouncing between unrelated topics and giving me whiplash.”

“Really? Are they unrelated?”

“Of course they are. One has nothing to do with the other.”

“But they do. Two things actually: me and you.” And with that, I take my bag of doughnuts and her water, and I get up and leave.

Three minutes later, I’m inside my rental car, staring at the courthouse without really seeing it. She was nervous. Maybe she assumed I would disapprove of her role in my father’s campaign, when it’s not her I disapprove of. It’s Pocher. I’m not sure that was it anyway. She didn’t cut her gaze talking to me about Pocher. She cut her gaze talking to me about Jensen Michaels, who was with her the night I was attacked.

CHAPTER NINE

Realizing that your ex–best friend might have aided in an effort to kill you is like standing in the deep blue sea with colorful coral glistening beneath the clear waters: everything is beautiful until a shark shows itself and decides to take a bite. At which point you either fight, gouge its eyes out, and survive, or it’s all blood and death—for you, not it. I might be comfortable with dead bodies, but not enough to join them six feet under.

Thus, by the time I pull into the packed parking lot of the diner, I’ve changed my perspective on where I stand in this investigation, which results in three conclusions. One: Murphy is an asshole, but he wasn’t wrong. I need an investigator who I trust on my side, and Rich is the only shot I have of that happening. In other words, I have to shake some sense into him over Kane. Two: if he remains stupid over Kane, I’m getting him out of town, even if that means I grow some balls and do what I’ve resisted with him. I have to stop simply being resistant to his advances and start being a brutal-rejection bitch. It’s for his own good. To keep him from ending up six feet under.

And three: good thing I didn’t book that trip to Vegas, because my lucky streak has ended. There is no front-door spot for me at the diner. After fifteen minutes of trying, I accept this as fact and pull around to the side parking lot. “Damn it,” I curse, squeezing into a spot between a truck and another car, which offers shelter for Junior to leave me another literary masterpiece of love/hate in the form of a note. And hey, I’m down with the love/hate thing we have going on. The sooner we get to full-blown hate, the sooner we have a confrontation and end this matchup. Bring it, and all that grand shit. Except for now, when Rich will want to walk me to my car.

Though, I think, killing my engine, it will be interesting to see if Junior wants to remain secret, as in for my eyes only, or if he flaunts the notes in front of Rich. I open my door at the same moment my phone rings. Grabbing it from inside my jacket pocket, I glance down to find Rich’s number. “Are you here?” he asks the instant I connect.

“Parking lot. You?”

“I’m here, but there are no seats.”

“How long is the wait?” I ask.

“I’m trying to find out.”

With my strawberry pie in jeopardy and a to-go order in mind, I say, “I’ll be right there,” and end the call. Shutting my door, I lock up before weaving my way through the parked vehicles, but I never round the corner to the front of the building. Rich steps in front of me in a long-sleeve light-blue T-shirt and jeans; with his blond hair lying in waves, he looks every bit the hot surfer dude who

makes women swoon. Just not me. Not that I swoon at all. Ever. For anyone. “An hour wait,” he says. “And I doubt you want to hang out here that long.”

“They do have good pie.”

“You want to wait an hour for pie?”

“No?” I ask.

His brow furrows. “Yes?”

I wonder in that moment if our communication has always been this stilted and I chose to ignore it, before I offer him a firm “No,” though I’m going to have to come back later for that pie.

“Where else can we go and talk?” he asks.

“Right here and now works just fine,” I reply. “Are you here to help me with this case or stalk Kane?”

His eyes glint with anger. “Kane is part of this case. He’s probably behind every damn last one of these murders. And the sick fuck was probably just trying to get you here. How does that feel? To know people died to get you here?”

Considering my earlier conversation with Kane, Rich has hit about ten nerves. “What kind of prick lays that kind of guilt on someone? Oh right. The kind thinking with the head in his pants, not the one on his shoulders.”

“I don’t know how else to make you see him for what he is.”

“This isn’t going to work.” I turn and start walking away.

“I’m here because you can’t see him clearly,” he says from behind me. “That’s why Murphy sent me.”

I whirl around to find him on my heels. “Is that what Murphy told you?”

“It’s pretty obvious.”

“So that’s not what Murphy told you,” I say.

“No, but—”

“What did he say?”

“That you needed backup you can trust.”

“I do, and do you know why?”

“He said you’d update me.”

“And you actually thought my update would include my plea that you save me from Kane Mendez?” I don’t give him time to reply. “You’re here,” I say, lowering my voice, “because Woods didn’t kill those people. A professional assassin did. He’s just the fall guy.”