Linda O. Johnston - Colton First Responder

She really appeared steamed now, looking down toward the table and shaking her head so her short hair rubbed at her shirt collar.

He couldn’t help it. He needed to know more about this allegation that her ex wasn’t even dead, let alone murdered—and Zane might have plotted the entire thing. He put his elbows on the table and leaned toward her.

“So Zane is really alive? Do you have any proof?”

“No, but there’s no real proof he’s dead, either. He’s missing, yes. He and I argued, privately and in public. And when he went missing, the cops found a knife in the guesthouse on his property, where I was living temporarily till I decided where to move. They found it in my closet, of all places. There was blood on it—Zane’s, according to the official analysis. There were no fingerprints on the knife, though, and his body wasn’t found.”

“But—”

“Sure, that doesn’t look good for me. The district attorney apparently took it seriously, though my lawyer assured me all the evidence was circumstantial, clearly not proof that I did anything.” She was clutching her water bottle as if it was the DA’s throat and she wanted to strangle her. Or maybe Grayson was just imagining that from the anger and frustration on her face. “I admit it looks pretty bad that the bloody knife was in my closet. But someone clearly sneaked in and hid it there—Zane himself, probably.”

“I understand,” Grayson said. “Not sure if I know all the claims or evidence supposedly against you, but I did hear a lot a week or so ago, when they said you’d just been arrested.”

He’d been surprised to learn that this woman he knew remotely and met occasionally, a mere acquaintance who’d seemed nice enough, was a murder suspect. But what had been blared out on TV, newspapers, online and radio news was that Zane Oliver had disappeared and was believed dead, partly thanks to that bloody knife.

Suspicions had immediately landed on his ex-wife. They’d divorced not long ago, and the media more than hinted that the reason for it was that Zane’s wife, Savannah, had been having a torrid affair with a local real estate developer.

“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be the main, maybe only, suspect when Zane disappeared that way,” Savannah went on, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, and you want to hear more of that circumstantial evidence that’s all false?” She didn’t wait for his reply before continuing. “There were—are—some horrible false rumors about me. It seems I was having a hot and heavy romance during the end of my marriage to Zane with Schuyler Wells, of all people.” She glared at Grayson as if daring him to say something.

Which he did, though nothing accusatory. “Right. I read about that.”

“Didn’t you hear his interviews in the media? Zane must have paid him well, since he claimed we had something and planned to run away together as soon as my divorce from Zane was final. Not!” She practically screamed the last word and stood, grabbing the scissors as if she was going to use them on him—or someone. Fortunately, she quickly realized what she was doing and, tears running down her lovely cheeks, collapsed back into the chair, gently pushing the scissors, handle first, toward him. “Here.”

He pulled them closer on the table but didn’t hide them, as if showing he believed her.

“And,” she continued, her voice rasping, “what a surprise. Schuyler has a solid, impeccable alibi, on a business trip during the crucial time of the supposed murder, with people who don’t even work for him vouching for him. But, gee, he does admit to having had a really steamy affair with me.” Her head shook back and forth in utter denial. “No way. I’ve met the guy, even got some real estate advice from him, but I never liked him. And as I said, one of the reasons Zane and I got divorced was because he was having affairs. I wasn’t.”

“I get it.” Grayson reached across the table and grasped Savannah’s hand, where it now rested beside her water bottle. And he did get it. He didn’t believe she’d made her side of it up.

Besides, what he’d recalled before gave him a clue as to Savannah’s underlying personality, someone who helped to save lives rather than taking them. That situation had occurred at a fund-raiser his siblings had thrown for First Hand First Responders when he was just starting up the business. As he recalled, Savannah was not only there, but she was arguing with another socialite type who seemed very malicious. As a few other attendees started hollering at them to be quiet, they’d gone out onto the balcony of the two-story, swanky restaurant in downtown Mustang Valley.

Grayson, somewhat amused at the time, had watched through a window near one of his family’s tables as they continued to argue. He’d been shocked when the other woman took a swing at Savannah and missed her—but the woman had been close enough to the railing that the movement made her nearly fall over it.

And Savannah, acting fast, had leaned over the balcony to grab that woman’s wrists, hanging partly over the side herself for a while till a couple of guys ran out and pulled them both safely and completely onto the balcony.

Though he barely knew her then, Grayson had been impressed that Savannah had immediately endangered her own life to help someone who’d just been mean to her. That was distinctly not the behavior of a cold-blooded killer.

And no matter how difficult her relationship with her ex had turned out, he just couldn’t see her as a murderer.

He didn’t mention that to Savannah. But he did say, “I assume you won’t be going back to town tonight, maybe not for a long time. In case you’re wondering, this place is a fishing cabin, and the owners never come here until late in the spring—and this is only April. You can hang out here for now, if you’d like.”

“Oh yes, I’d like that.” She sounded relieved and her expression as she looked at him across the table seemed—well, grateful.

There was nothing she needed to be grateful to him for. Not yet, at least, if ever. Did he really want to put his own freedom into jeopardy by helping her? Maybe. He would have to think about it.

What about bringing her back to town, then attempting to help her by finding her ex?

He doubted she would go along with that, and he wasn’t about to take any steps to get her back into custody. Not now, at least.

Well, he figured this place was a good potential hideout for her, at least temporarily. Despite being a walkable distance from the destroyed van, it wasn’t that close to where she had escaped from it, although the cops might wind up looking around here.

In any case, he wasn’t about to help her find someplace else. But he figured he would help her a bit by bringing her some supplies, since he doubted this place held much in the way of food and other necessities at this time of the year.

He would have to be careful, though. He was buying into her story, but was it true? Was she innocent?

He would assume so...for now. But he would also stay alert for anything that told him otherwise.

“Let’s take a look at the damaged part of the cabin, though,” he said, waving toward the far side where the wooden walls were somewhat smashed.

They both stood and walked in that direction. Grayson had an urge to take Savannah’s hand and hold it encouragingly, but he decided that would be a bad idea.

They stopped beside each other and looked at the damaged wall from this angle. Some panels had even fallen down and left gaps, and the windows at that part of the room no longer existed.

But fortunately, most of the broken glass and wooden boards, insulation, shelves and other building materials must have landed outside, and somehow the remaining walls had fallen into a sideways slant so there wasn’t even much in the way of an opening.