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  She’d still be trying to prove to herself and all the other marshals that she had handled herself well back in May. She had—she’d done great. But she wasn’t going to take his word for it.

  Ethan plopped down on the floor in front of Julia’s door. He hadn’t been at his best when they’d met, either. He’d been playing a good ol’ boy from west Texas working as a property manager while he tried to make his mark in Nashville as a songwriter. He had written a few songs, all bad.

  Juliet had come to Night’s Landing already beat-to-shit by Janssen’s goons. Then she and Ethan had found them dead at President Poe’s childhood home.

  Ethan was convinced Juliet had saved his life by giving him a chance to jump into the Cumberland River and escape certain death.

  Then he got to save her life when he found her tied up, gagged and left in a cave on a vertical bluff above the Cumberland. Not that she saw it that way.

  He’d done what he could to help and took off a little later the same day.

  He hadn’t seen Deputy Longstreet since.

  He leaned back against the door and wondered if she’d cuff him when she saw him. Arrest him for something. Breaking and entering. Harassing a federal agent. Annoying her.

  The elevator dinged and she got off, blue eyes on him, blond hair sticking out every which way. She looked like August in New York had gotten to her. Her arms were loaded with, as far as Ethan could judge, a bag of perlite, a flyswatter, a jug of organic skim milk and a bag of Hershey’s chocolate nuggets.

  She dropped it all and went for her gun.

  “Jesus Christ, Longstreet,” Ethan said, not moving, “you have great reflexes. Unbelievable. Where were you when I needed you in Afghanistan?”

  She didn’t draw her weapon, just finally stared at him, her stuff all over the floor. “Brooker. Goddamn it. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you. You’re not a moment too soon. Nature calls.”

  “I should arrest you—”

  “You should not arrest me. I’m not wanted for any crimes.” He nodded to her milk jug. “Look, it didn’t break. Is that because it’s organic?”

  “It’s because it’s a good bottle.” She had a red spot on the V of exposed skin above her shirt. Sunburn or emotion. “You skipped out on the scene of a double homicide.”

  “Ancient history. I’ve talked to the FBI and the marshals. We’re square.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “I’m going to see to it nobody wants to talk to you. Understood?”

  “If I can use your bathroom, I’ll tell the FBI and the marshals everything I told them all over again.”

  “When did you talk to them?”

  “Two days after I skipped out on the caves and the snakes and the fried apricot pies in Night’s Landing. Didn’t they tell you?”

  She sighed. “Sort of. I wasn’t sure I believed them.”

  “Figured they were coddling you? You know, about that bathroom…I wasn’t kidding.”

  He thought she might have smiled. “All right, all right. Help me pick up this stuff. And if you’re carrying, you’d better have the right paperwork. New York gun laws are very strict.”

  He knew all about New York gun laws. He wasn’t armed, but that wasn’t something he planned to tell her, federal agent or no federal agent. He picked up her perlite and the milk; she grabbed the chocolate and the flyswatter.

  “You’ve got something like sixty-five locks on that door,” he said. “I’m pleading with you.”

  “You’re not the pleading type.”

  Although she was armed, he expected he could get her keys off her. He had at least four inches on her, not to mention combat experience. But Juliet Longstreet was tough and he didn’t want to fight her.

  She unlocked her door, and he followed her into her apartment. She had on jeans and a tank top under a dark pink shirt that draped over her gun.

  “How’s the road rash?” Ethan asked her.

  “Healed.”

  “Leave scars?”

  “A few.”

  It’d been nasty, he remembered. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

  “That’s because I’m not beaten and bloodied.”

  He glanced around her living room, plants and fish tanks on every available surface. The place was small and probably way overpriced, even for New York.

  She gestured toward a door up a short hall. “That’s the bathroom.”

  “Going to get out your cuffs while I’m in there?”

  “I might.”

  She wasn’t softening.

  He ducked into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror above the pedestal sink wasn’t reassuring. If he were Longstreet, he’d cuff him and haul him to the FBI just on looks alone.

  She was leaning against the wall in the short hall, arms crossed on her chest, when he finished. He liked the direct way she looked at him. Not intimidated. “Where’d you come from?” she asked.

  “West Point, by way of west Texas.”

  “Since then.”

  “Classified.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Since Tennessee in May. Where were you, say, last night?”

  He ignored her question and studied her, wondering why he’d come here and not some flophouse of a hotel. He saw that the paleness and sunken eyes, the pained expression that had been there in May were gone. Her cheeks were pink, her skin lightly tanned. “The marshals wanted to know what you and I did in that cave.”

  “For God’s sake, I was tied up—”

  He grinned. “Like I said.”

  She cleared her throat, dropping her arms to her sides. “They wanted to know why I let you go.”

  “You didn’t. You had to prioritize. It was more important to help Sarah Dunnemore and Nate Winter get your bad guy. I wasn’t a threat.”

  “I’m calling the FBI and Chief Rivera—”

  “Can we eat first? I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Brooker—” She kicked the wall with her heel. “What do you want?”

  “Dinner. A night.” He left her to chew on that while he walked back to her small kitchen, calling back to her over his shoulder. “How much you pay for this place?”

  “Not nearly what I should.”

  “No air-conditioning, no view—”

  She followed him and stood next to a counter. “No garbage disposal, either. But there’s an elevator and a doorman.”

  “Doorman’s useless. He let me in.” Ethan pulled open her refrigerator and frowned at its limited contents. One Amstel Light, eggs, a head of lettuce. “There’s nothing in here.”

  “Another thing about New York, you can get whatever you want delivered.”

  He shut the fridge door. “That works.” He smiled at her. “You look like you want to frisk me, Deputy, and not for all the right reasons.”

  “It’s Juliet,” she said tightly. “I’m not dealing with you in any official capacity. You’re a guest in my home.”

  “Now you’re getting the idea.”

  “Don’t you have a home of your own, somewhere?”

  “No.”

  “The family ranch in west Texas—”

  “My brother runs it. I could pitch a tent there if I wanted to.”

  “I checked out your ranch, Brooker. You could build a mall there.”

  He walked past her, back into the living room, and stood in front of one of her four fish tanks, bending down so that he was at eye level with a goldfish. “I had a goldfish once. Bought it at a fair. The bowl wasn’t big enough, I guess, and it jumped out. The dog got it.”

  Juliet ran a hand through her short blond curls, a gesture Ethan found very sexy. But it’d been a long couple of days—a long year. She blew out a sigh. “It’d be easier if you gave me a reason to cuff you, read you your rights and get you the hell out of my apartment.”

  “Wouldn’t it, though.”

  “You heard about Nick Janssen’s arrest in the Netherlands?”

  “I did.”

  “That
wasn’t you who provided the tip on where to find him?”

  He didn’t want to encourage her to think he planned to tell her a damn thing. The more questions he answered, the more she’d ask. The camel’s nose under the tent. He moved to another fish tank, then fingered one of her spider plants. “Pretty much into fish and plants, aren’t you?”

  “One fish led to another, one plant led to another. You know how it is.”

  “They look like a lot of work.”

  “An American diplomat was murdered Saturday morning in Den Bosch, the Dutch town where Janssen was picked up. Thomas Kopac. He worked at our embassy in The Hague.”

  Ethan didn’t respond, instead walking over to her cluttered table, where he started flipping through a stack of take-out menus. “You weren’t kidding about the options. Any place you can get a burger?”

  “Lots.”

  “Would that suit you? A burger, fries, salad?”

  “You’re avoiding my questions because you don’t want to lie to a federal agent.”

  “I’m hungry and tired, Juliet. That’s it.”

  She gave up. “A burger and salad. No fries. And you get the futon.” She paused a beat, her gaze not as direct now. “I’m still checking with people.”

  But not right away, he realized. Not tonight.

  An act of trust.

  Ethan picked up the phone and handed it to her to call in their order. Her trust had to be a one-way street. At least for now. And tomorrow he had business to attend to that didn’t involve any marshals, even one willing to feed him and put him up for the night.

  Maggie waited until nightfall to call her mother, using her cell phone as she sat cross-legged on her bed. A passing shower had left the air moist and a bit cooler, the wind sucking her curtains against the wet screen.

  If the light was just right, her mother wouldn’t pick up the phone. At night, Maggie thought, her odds of reaching Cora Spencer, painter, were better.

  She answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, there,” Maggie said. “It’s me.”

  “Maggie! I’m so glad you called. I just got in from a walk. It’s hotter than blue blazes here. How are you?”

  “Doing fine. You haven’t heard?”

  A half beat’s pause. “Heard what?”

  Her mother didn’t watch the news. If the world were ending, if a hurricane were bearing down on her, she would rely on a friend or neighbor to let her know. “Nothing. Never mind. You’re doing okay?”

  “Great. I’m working hard, teaching at the community college. Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?”

  “I’m in New York,” Maggie said.

  “Oh. On business, I assume? Well, I know you’ve got an important job to do.”

  And she didn’t want to know any of the details. She never asked questions. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she was tired of caring, worn out from it. She wanted a quiet life with routines. She liked painting pretty pictures of gardens and beaches and flamingos and visiting with friends, talking about nothing more serious than whether there was a riptide or it was safe to swim in the warm water outside her apartment.

  If she was a little self-absorbed these days, she was allowed. Or so Maggie told herself. Her mother had been married to a man with wanderlust and secrets, and her only child was the same. She’d figured out a way to have a life of her own and to let them—now just Maggie—have theirs.

  “I was wondering,” Maggie said, “did Dad ever mention Ravenkill, New York?”

  “Not that I recall, no.”

  “The Old Stone Hollow Inn. Does that sound familiar?”

  “No.” She didn’t ask why Maggie wanted to know.

  Maggie unfolded her legs and stretched out on the bed, leaning back against fluffy pillows with lace-trimmed cases. “Do you ever recall meeting a man named William Raleigh?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t met him, no.”

  “He’s in his midsixties, maybe late sixties. White hair. Red-faced, probably from drinking—”

  “Maggie, I don’t know him. I’m sorry I can’t help you. If he’s a friend of your father’s, I’ve put that part of my life behind me.”

  “I understand. Thanks.”

  Maggie knew there was nothing more to talk about. Her mother wouldn’t ask questions. She didn’t know about Tom Kopac and Nick Janssen. She’d listen if Maggie wanted to tell her, but the most basic information would suit her. Her daughter was fine. She was in New York or The Hague or wherever.

  Her problems were her own, for her to solve.

  Even before her father had wandered off from his marriage, Maggie had known that her mother wouldn’t be there for her. She didn’t mean not to be. She just wasn’t.

  But Cora Spencer didn’t expect Maggie to be there for her in return, either. At her father’s funeral, Maggie remembered, she and her mother had been more like two old friends who’d cared for him rather than mother and daughter.

  After they hung up, Maggie wondered what her mother would have done if she’d asked to spend a few days with her after pulling a new friend out of a Dutch river minutes after he’d been murdered.

  It would have been fine. They’d have gone for walks and talked about her latest paintings.

  Libby winced at the creaking sound the door made when she opened it.

  It’s past midnight. No one can hear you.

  She ducked into the tiny, dark room and shut the door behind her before fumbling for the light string. She felt something on her neck and suppressed a shudder.

  Cobwebs. The cellar was full of spiders.

  Bats had got down here before, dropping between the walls. She’d screamed and screamed while one had flapped over her head when she was ten, but no one had heard her. Finally, exhausted, she’d pulled her shirt up over her head, believing that would keep the bat from getting tangled in her hair, and had crawled outside.

  She caught the string, pulled on it and welcomed the dull light.

  Her workroom.

  It was barely eight square feet, its outer wall part of the original stone foundation, but it contained everything she needed. Worktables. Her laptop. Boxes of ammunition. Her first pistol, a Smith & Wesson her father had given her for her fourteenth birthday. He’d instructed her in gun safety. At least in that respect, she thought, what she’d become wasn’t his fault.

  She had supplies. Her experiments. She was increasingly confident with what everyone knew now as IEDs. Improvised explosive devices. In other words, homemade bombs.

  But she preferred her .22 Beretta, perfect for her tried-and-true tactic of surprising her prey and putting a bullet in the back of his skull before he knew she was someone to fear. It was simple, direct and effective.

  Bombs were trickier. And messier.

  She felt reassured checking her workroom, touching things, and her thoughts, in a frenzy all day, settled down.

  Whatever their reasons for being in Ravenkill, Maggie Spencer and Rob Dunnemore knew nothing about her activities. If they did, Libby thought as she brushed more cobwebs off her arm, she’d be under arrest or at least have been taken in for questioning by now.

  If William Raleigh had sent Philip Spencer’s daughter here, why? What did Raleigh know? Where was he? What was he up to?

  Libby opened the file she had on hom on her laptop she had on him and recoiled at his face, those awful, knowing eyes. Her stomach muscles clamped down on her.

  “You won’t be the ruin of me.”

  Not another man, she thought. Not another drunk.

  She’d kill him first, even if there was no money in it.

  She closed the file and brought up the one on Philip Spencer. She touched his beautiful mouth and remembered the feel of his lips on hers, before he’d known what she was—before, she thought, she’d really even been what she was. He’d thought of her as an antiques dealer from upstate New York. He’d thought of her as a much younger woman he’d meant to resist.

  He had resisted her. They’d had dinner a few time
s in Prague, but never slept together.

  Their relationship felt like unfinished business, a bitter regret that Libby wished now she could go back and correct.

  He was dead because of William Raleigh.

  As she closed the file, she noticed how like her father Maggie Spencer looked.

  Feeling better, Libby switched off the light and felt her way along the wall, creaking open the door, then tiptoed through the dark wine cellar and back upstairs to her room.

  Thirteen

  Maggie had apple-cinnamon muffins and fresh blueberries with water-buffalo yogurt on the back porch and found out from Star Franconia that there was only one other guest at the inn, who’d be leaving later in the day.

  “You have the place to yourself,” she said, heading down to the flower gardens with a pair of clippers in hand. “We have a full house starting on Thursday—it’s a two-night minimum on weekends, which helps.”

  “But the inn’s holding its own?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh, I think so. We have to watch cash flow, of course, but who doesn’t? And we put a lot into renovations. Too much, according to Andrew, but it was better just to go ahead and do everything at once. You can’t do renovations in stages when you’re trying to run an inn. No one wants to wake up to the sound of power saws and hammers.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “What do you think you’ll do today?”

  Two more nights, Maggie thought. George Bremmerton would expect her to make progress or get back to The Hague, and she had the same expectation. But what was progress? Deciding Raleigh had pulled Ravenkill and the Old Stone Hollow Inn out of thin air?

  “I thought I’d take a walk,” she said.

  “Have you been down to the creek? It’s my favorite place to stroll. They say the sound of water somehow produces the same chemical changes in our brains as Prozac. It’s a natural antidepressant.” She caught herself, her very pale skin blushing easily. “Not that you’re depressed, I mean.”