Carla Cassidy - Scene of the Crime - Killer Cove

“I’ve never been much of a blind follower. I prefer to think for myself and come to my own conclusions,” she replied.

Bo pulled another duffel from the opposite saddlebag and dropped it to the concrete driveway. He gazed at her curiously, as if she might be an alien from another planet.

“So, how did you come to the conclusion that I’m innocent?”

A wave of unusual shyness suddenly swept through her. She didn’t want to tell him all the reasons she believed he wasn’t capable of killing Shelly. It would be like sharing a little piece of her soul, a portrait of a romance that would make her look strange.

“Let’s just say it’s a long story. I was sorry to hear about your mother,” she said in an attempt to change the topic of conversation.

The stark grief that swept over his face was there only a moment and then gone, but it was enough for Claire’s heart to respond. She had no memories of her own mother, and she couldn’t imagine the pain over the loss of his while he’d been virtually banished from his home...from his mother.

“Thanks. It came as quite a shock.” He picked up his duffel bags. “I’m sorry about your job and I appreciate your kindness this afternoon.”

“No big deal.” She grabbed her bike and got on it. Darkness came early around the lagoon and on the swamp side of town, and she liked to be inside by nightfall. “I guess I’ll see you around,” she said and with a wave, she pedaled away from his driveway.

She wasn’t sure what had driven her to go to his home and stop other than curiosity. There was no question that he was apparently wary of interacting with anyone, and why wouldn’t he be?

He’d always been handsome, but the past two years had added lines to his lean face that gave it new character that only enhanced his sexiness. Not that it mattered to her. In her mind he would always be Shelly’s man, part of a couple who for Claire had been a shining example of what love should look like.

She pedaled a little faster as she rounded the lagoon where the June twilight appeared darker, gloomier. As always, when her home came into view a sense of pride swelled up inside her.

Two years ago her home had looked a lot like so many of the other broken, faded shanties that lined the street. It had taken most of her first year’s salary as a teacher to almost completely rebuild the one-bedroom hellhole where she’d grown up into a pretty cottage with up-to-date plumbing and newly painted walls and a sense of permanence.

For so many years it had just been a place to survive. Now it was her sanctuary, a place that held no memories of her crummy childhood.

When she reached her porch she lifted her bike up the three stairs and chained it to the railing, at the same time noticing the small vase of flowers that sat just outside her front door.

So, her “secret admirer” had struck again. This was the third time in as many weeks she’d found flowers and a note on her doorstep.

The first time the flowers had appeared with a note that simply read, From your secret admirer. Claire had found it a little bit charming and a little bit silly. She’d assumed that the admirer would make himself known to her as she had no idea who it might be.

The second vase of flowers had appeared with a note that indicated he was thinking about her. She thought the flowers might be from Neil Sampson, a city councilman she’d dated for about two months and had broken up with about six months before. Neil hadn’t taken the breakup well, and she wondered if the little floral treats were an attempt to win her back.

She grabbed the new vase, unlocked her door and then stepped inside. She set the flowers and the folded note on the table and headed directly to the refrigerator for a cold bottle of water.

She unscrewed the lid and leaned against the nearby cabinet as she sipped the cold liquid. Thoughts of Bo instantly filled her mind. She’d heard rumors that he’d moved to Jackson and had opened a bar and grill there. Had he found love with some new woman?

Two years was a long time to mourn, and he was a healthy, vital twenty-eight-year-old male who would certainly not have any trouble gaining women’s interest.

She finished the water, tossed the bottle into the recycle bin in her pantry and then walked back to the table where the vase of flowers and the note awaited her.

The vase was a small clear white glass that could be picked up most places for a dollar or so, and the flowers weren’t from a floral shop but rather handpicked.

It would be difficult to try to track down where it had come from even if she was of the mind to conduct a little investigation, and she wasn’t inclined to do so. Whoever it was would eventually stop with the anonymous gestures and show himself.

She opened the note. You look so pretty in pink, it read. She glanced down at the pink tank top she wore and frowned, a niggle of unexpected anxiety rushing through her.

Flowers on her porch was one thing, but somebody watching her while she went about her daily business was something else. A chill threatened to walk up her spine as she went to her living room window and peered outside.

She flipped the blinds closed and then chided herself for being silly. She’d had on the pink tank top and had been around town all day. There was no reason to believe there was anything ominous about flowers on her porch or the sender’s knowing she’d worn pink.

Still, as she moved away from the window she wondered if there was somebody out there now.

Watching her.

Chapter Two Contents Cover Excerpt She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her gaze so intent Bo felt as if she were somehow peering inside his soul. “So, are you in for a little crime investigation?” The fresh, slightly floral scent of her perfume drifted across the table as her gaze continued to hold him captive. He had arrived at the high school not knowing what his decision was, whether he intended to try to find the real killer or get out of this town as fast as possible. The light of her belief in him shone from her eyes. He bathed in it and realised he wanted this … his innocence restored among the people who had once been friends and neighbours. “I’m in,” he finally said. He hoped in making that decision he hadn’t just made a mistake he would come to regret. Asking questions, talking to people and stirring up everything from the past also might stir up a killer’s rage. Title Page Scene of the Crime: Killer Cove Carla Cassidy www.millsandboon.co.uk About the Author CARLA CASSIDY is a New York Times bestselling author who has written more than one hundred books for Mills & Boon. Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers. Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Extract Copyright

It was an appropriate day for death and funerals. Bo woke just after eight to gloomy dark clouds obscuring any morning sunshine.

Although he’d been in bed and trying to find sleep, he was still awake when Jimmy came in just after three in the morning. Bo remained in bed, his brain whirling and refusing to shut off.

Memories of his mother had plagued him, and he dreaded both the service that day and the final act of packing up her things and giving them away. At least he didn’t have to worry about what to do with the house right away. Jimmy had grown up on the swamp side of town, in one of the shanties that threatened to tumble down beneath a stiff breeze.

He and Bo had become best friends in third grade and Jimmy had spent much of his time at the McBride house, eating meals, staying as long as he could before he had to return to the shanty where his brutal alcoholic father lived with his verbally and mentally abusive wife.