Perfect Victim (Nadia Stafford 3.6)

Papers?

He'd heard the house was about to be raided and roared over to clear out the lab and then paused to retrieve . . . papers?

Shit.

I looked again. They seemed to be letters of some sort. I could see a pink envelope and a handwritten page decorated with roses.

I remembered Sheila saying she suspected Victor had hooked up with Cherise before they split. If she had proof, she could use that against Victor as proof of infidelity.

That's what he must have come back for. After Cherise died, he'd want to keep mementos of their relationship, but he wouldn't want incriminating evidence at home. He'd squirreled them away here, in a closet or under a floorboard.

Shit.

As I pulled back, a creak sounded behind me, and I turned just as Howard lifted his leg over the laser tripwire. I tiptoed to him.

"I screwed up," I whispered. "Victor isn't here for the lab."

Howard's brows lifted, and he motioned to ask where Victor was. I pointed, and he walked over and took a look. As he did, his lips formed a "Shit."

He returned to me.

I showed him a message I'd quickly typed on my phone: I think they're love letters. From Cherise. Proof they were having an affair before he left Sheila. I'm so sorry.

He took my phone and typed: We knew there was a chance this wasn't the answer, which is why we don't have a team breaking down the door right now. It was a solid lead. You done good.

He smiled at the last part and gave me a thumbs-up. A pat on the back for the newbie. Except I was less of a newbie than I'd let on, so that pat didn't make me feel better. I should have had Jack meet me here instead and just snapped photos if we did see Victor dismantling the lab. Called Howard and the police then, with the evidence.

Howard texted Detective Lee as I took another look through my mirror. Victor was on his feet now, pushing the folded pages into his pocket. Then he checked his watch . . . and headed back into the rear hall.

I took off after Victor and barely made it to the hall before I heard the creak of the attic stairs.

I turned to see Howard right behind me. He caught the same noise and his brows lifted.

"The attic," I said.

His face lit up, reminding me that he wasn't just a PI on a job. This was personal for him. Catching Mindy's killer. Now he had his answer.

So why was there a niggling voice in my head, whispering that something was still wrong here?

As Howard started to pass me, I remembered the bomb at the top of the stairs.

I grabbed Howard's arm. "Get out."

"What?"

"You need to get out. Now. Run."

His broad face screwed up.

"There's a bomb at the top of the stairs," I whispered as fast as I could get the words out. "If he's not the killer--if he's going up there for another reason--he'll trigger it, and this whole house is going to blow. I'll stay--"

"The hell you will." Howard grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the front door as Victor's footsteps continued up the ladder.

Howard reached for the front door handle . . . and Victor's footsteps continued across the attic floor.

I exhaled. "Okay, he didn't trigger it. Which either means he accidentally stepped over the tripwire or . . ."

"He knows it was there, and he's doing more than hiding old love letters."