Кей Хупер - Whisper of Evil

Not Max.

Instead, knowing that she was an FBI agent undercover here and involved in a murder investigation would have made him even more disinclined than usual to trust anyone else, especially with her vulnerable self. As long as he believed she wasn't in any immediate danger medically from the blackout, Max's inclination would be to take her someplace safe and comfortable and wait for her to come out of it.

Nell knew what the blackouts looked like. Like she was asleep, basically. Normal pulse and respiration, no fever, pupil response normal.

Like she was just sleeping, and in no danger at all. And it was something he had seen before, more than once, even if it had been years ago. He would have known she was okay.

So Max had brought her here to his home, on horseback for God's sake, and she had a pretty strong hunch he'd managed to get her into the house without any of his ranch hands even knowing about it.

Shaking her head half-consciously, Nell wandered over to the tall bookcases flanking the fireplace in the room and began absently scanning the titles. But idle interest rapidly became something else as she slowly ran her finger along the spines of the books.

Psychology and parapsychology. Ghosts and hauntings. Telepathy. Precognition. Reincarnation. Telekinesis. Spiritualism. Healing. Astral projection. Remote viewing. Clairvoyance.

His library was wonderfully complete, with books covering everything from the prophecies of Nostradamus and the inexplicable long-ago psychic diagnoses and predictions of Edgar Cayce to the government's own experiments in remote viewing during the Cold War. And the books were obviously well read, most of them with numerous bookmarks or dog-eared pages to mark interesting passages.

Nell felt a pang, wondering how soon after she ran away he had first turned to these books in search of answers. Had it been soon after, when he had tried to open a door only to discover he wasn't able to? Had he learned to hate her then?

"I was out of my mind to come back here," Nell muttered.

"Let's hope not," Max said from the doorway. His voice changed when he added, "Are you all right?"

Nell turned to look at him, nodding slowly. "I'm fine. It was just a blackout, you know that."

"Was it? Just a blackout? You said yourself there was something different about it. Or don't you remember telling me that?"

"I remember." She wondered if he remained standing in the doorway to block her retreat; did he expect her to bolt from his house? Probably. Probably. "It was a little sudden, that's all. I usually get more warning."

"I remember. So what does it mean that this time you had no warning at all?"

She forced a smile. "Hell if I know. Like I told you, all this is pretty much theoretical at present. I guess… the stress is taking more of a toll than I'd realized."

"The blackout was a warning to stop."

"Maybe. Or slow down. Or maybe it was just a random event that held no meaning at all. I won't run away, Max, if that's why you're still blocking the doorway."

"You ran away once before," he reminded her, his voice suddenly rough again.

"That was different."

"Was it? I know you don't want to talk about this yet, but there's one thing I have to know, Nell. Was it something I did? Was it my fault?"

"Well?" Shelby demanded.

"He doesn't know anything about it," Justin replied, joining her in the car.

"Or says he doesn't."

Justin leaned back and eyed her thoughtfully. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you known Ethan Cole for most of your life?"

"You're not wrong."

"But you suspect him of…what? Knowing more about this series of murders than he's willing to say?"

"At the very least," she replied promptly.

"Why?"

"I told you why."

"You told me why you came to me with the information about George Caldwell and those records he was looking into. Because I'm the most recent hire in the sheriff's department, a virtual stranger to this town and so pretty much off the suspect list, at least in your mind."

He drew a breath. "You haven't told me why any of this concerns you, why you believe anyone in the sheriff's department would be on the suspect list in the first place, and you haven't told me why Sheriff Cole seems to be at the top of that list."

"I guess I should answer the first question first."

"I wish you would."

Shelby half shrugged. "It concerns me because this is my town and because I can't not be concerned. It concerns me because I have an inquisitive nature — as anyone will tell you. And it concerns me because I really, really don't like murder."

"Okay," he said slowly. "And the rest?"

Shelby hesitated for just long enough to make her seeming reluctance look real. "I think someone in the sheriff's department might be involved because of a few things I've seen and heard. Nothing I could explain to somebody else, more of a feeling than a fact."

"That's pretty thin, Shelby."

"Yeah. But am I wrong?"

Instead of replying to that, he said, "What you still haven't explained is why you believe Sheriff Cole is at the top of your suspect list."

"Because I know him. And I know he's not… behaving the way he usually does when he wants to get to the bottom of something."

"And from that you think he's hiding something?"

"That's what got me interested, Justin. It's what made me watch him. And when I did, I went back and checked through all the pictures I'd taken around town in the past year."

"And?"

Shelby reached into her big canvas tote bag and pulled out a manila envelope. "And this is what I found."

Justin opened the envelope and slowly examined each of the photos. "It's hardly conclusive," he said finally.

"No. But it is… interesting, isn't it, Justin? It's very, very interesting."

While Nell was still trying to make up her mind how to answer Max, he said abruptly, "Look, it's after six, and I know damned well you haven't eaten since lunchtime — if then. My housekeeper always leaves supper in the oven for me. Why don't we talk while we eat?" In a dry tone, he added, "It'll give you more time to decide how much to tell me."

Nell didn't protest, partly because she knew food would provide her with badly needed fuel; she was inexplicably tired, a disturbing feeling since the blackouts usually left her feeling rested. So all she said was, "I guess a busy rancher needs a housekeeper."

"He does if he hates housework and can't cook," Max responded frankly. "Come on."

Half an hour later, they were sharing a delicious and definitely man-sized chicken pie and salad, sitting opposite each other at a small oak table in a breakfast nook surrounded by windows that probably, in daytime, looked out over his rolling ranch land. The windows were dark now, of course, and since they were curtained only by valances across the tops, the expanse of reflective black glass gave Nell the creepy feeling she was being watched.

At least, she told herself that was the cause of the feeling.

Max kept the conversation low-key and casual while they ate, an abeyance of at least one kind of tension that Nell appreciated, even if she was still conscious of his unanswered question hanging over her like a sword.

What did Max really want to know?

The truth? Which truth? How much of the truth?

And if she was able to offer him the truth he needed, what then? What would change? How would he feel after what he learned, about the past… about her?

He poured coffee for them and cleared the table, allowing her even more time to brood, and when he finally returned to the table, he asked her again the question he obviously most wanted the answer to.

"Was it my fault that you left?"

"How could it have been? I didn't even see you that day."