Cassie Miles - The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

“The quick answer is that they were interested in her history and looked up the details on the computer, but there are many other possibilities.”

“You’re being thorough.”

“That’s right.”

She nodded in approval. “I’ll make a list of the men Layla dated in the past couple of years. And another list of professional contacts—people she’s worked for, schoolmates, professors and mentors.”

“Also doctors, therapists and your attorney,” he said. “It’d help if you put it on a thumb drive so we can build a database.”

“All those guys are suspects?”

“Most will be quickly eliminated, but it helps to cover all bases.”

“You can turn off the GPS,” she said. “We’re here.”

The cabin that she and Layla had purchased for their private hideaway perched among the trees on the side of a steep hill. The main road ascended the incline, and her driveway peeled off, cutting straight across the hill, forty-seven yards to her cabin. Several official-looking vehicles, including an ambulance, had gathered at the start of the asphalt driveway but hadn’t driven up to the house.

She looked toward the house, where she counted two men in sheriff’s uniforms and one in a suit like Sloan. “Why didn’t they drive closer?”

“They didn’t want to disturb possible tire tracks or footprints.”

The driveway was mostly asphalt, but there was dirt on either side. Again, she was impressed by the methodical approach used by law enforcement. She unfastened her seat belt and inhaled what she hoped would be a calming breath. In moments, the image on the computer screen would become real. She would see Layla’s motionless form. The only other dead bodies she’d seen had been neatly tucked away in coffins at funerals or displayed scientifically as cadavers when she took an anatomy course.

“You need to stay in the car,” Sloan said.

She felt a glimmer of relief. She wasn’t squeamish—far from it—but she would rather picture her friend laughing or picking flowers or reading a book. It had taken a long time to partially bury her memories of Layla after her nights as Hardy’s “bride.” The thought of her death was worse.

Still, Brooke couldn’t back down. “If you didn’t want my help in your investigation, why did you bring me along?”

“I didn’t want you to race up here, half-cocked and looking for trouble.”

An unfair characterization if she’d ever heard one. “I’m never half-cocked.”

From her fanny pack, she heard the buzz of her cell phone indicating a text message. While engaged in conversation with another person, she usually ignored texts. But she was worried about Franny.

She checked the message and read it twice: Settle down, Brooke, or you’ll be next.

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