Beth Andrews - In This Town

Captain Sullivan shook her head. “The truth will come out. Isn’t that what you always say?”

The blonde glanced over her shoulder at York, who tugged her back to her seat.

But not before Walker noticed how Nora blanched, the color leaking out of her face.

Seemed Tori Mott wasn’t the only Sullivan woman with secrets.

“Is that why you dragged me away from work?” Mrs. Mott asked. “So you could tell us you’re getting your hand slapped?”

“It’s more than a hand slap,” the blonde said heatedly. “This is serious, Tori.”

“Ah, but Tori’s never serious,” Captain Sullivan said. “Isn’t that right?”

Mrs. Mott studied her nails. “Why should I be? You’re serious enough for both of us.”

“We asked you here,” Taylor said, obviously having dealt with these three enough times to know when to intervene before things got out of hand, “because the toxicology reports on Dale York came back.”

Mrs. Mott frowned. “It’s been what…two months? The autopsy was done the day after he died.”

Taylor stood and rounded his desk, handing the report Walker had given him earlier to Nora. “Toxicology reports take anywhere from six to eight weeks to complete.”

“His heart gave out,” Mrs. Mott said. “It was fitting, though I’d sort of hoped he would suffer more before kicking it. Either way, it was no big loss to humanity.” She glanced at York, her mouth a thin line. “No offense.”

York flicked his green gaze at her. There was no love lost between them, that was for sure. Something to take into account.

Nora held the report out, her hand trembling. “This can’t be right.”

Taylor sat on the edge of his immaculate desk. “It’s right. The coroner was wrong. A heart attack wasn’t what killed Dale.”

“So what did?” the younger York asked.

“Cyanide.”

“Cyanide?” Mrs. Mott repeated, snatching the report from Nora. “That makes no sense.”

Walker crossed his arms, wished he could take off his suit jacket, loosen his tie. “It makes perfect sense. Mr. York was poisoned. Besides being here to look into the issues regarding the chief and assistant chief, I’m also in charge of Mr. York’s murder case.”

Letting that sink in, Walker let his gaze shift from one person to the next. “And I can’t help but wonder if the person who killed him is in this room.”

CHAPTER THREE

FEAR TURNED TORI’S blood to ice, tightened her throat. Through the roaring in her head she could barely make out Layne’s gruff—and no doubt, pithy—reaction to the detective’s words. Nora’s indignant cry. Bertrand’s rumbling response. Then they were all talking, Layne letting Bertrand know he couldn’t intimidate them, Nora threatening legal action, Griffin trying to calm Nora down. But it was all muted, as if Tori heard it through a filter. Only one thought filled her head, demanded her full attention.

Someone had murdered Dale.

The nightmare that had started at the beginning of summer when Ross’s niece drunkenly stumbled upon their mother’s remains wasn’t over. It was getting worse. With the news of the true cause of Dale’s death, talk about Tori’s family would only grow. Once again, the Sullivans would be the subject of rumors and speculation. Of suspicions and doubts.

She could handle it, she assured herself, as could Layne—hadn’t they endured it their entire lives? But Nora didn’t deserve to have her name dragged through the mud. And Brandon…God…her son was only twelve. Still so much a child despite a recent growth spurt and a bad attitude that rivaled any teenager’s. He shouldn’t have to be subjected to the nasty gossip, the whispered innuendos. She had to protect him. Had to get him out of Mystic Point.

The back of her neck prickled with unease and she raised her eyes to the man towering over her, his gaze discerning, his mouth unsmiling. Dale had been killed and this man—an outsider who knew nothing of them, of what they’d been through—wanted to pin the blame on one of them.

Anger, denial, flowed through her, caused the mask she wore as easily as a second skin to slip. Only for a moment, but she must’ve given her true thoughts away because in his eyes, she saw a flicker of triumph. As if he’d somehow won their silent battle of wills.

She smirked. Had the satisfaction of seeing his expression darken.

No one beat her at her own game.

“So someone killed Dale,” she said, her tone loud enough to get everyone’s attention. She tossed the paper onto Ross’s desk, fluffed her bangs with her fingers. “It’s not like his death is a big loss to society.”

“Tori,” Nora warned, watching Detective Bertrand nervously, her hand gripping Griffin’s.

“What? I’m not going to sit here and pretend to grieve over a bastard like Dale York.”

She resented the implication that she should act as if she was anything less than thrilled that he no longer walked the earth. That she should feel guilty.

Bertrand pulled a small notebook out of his suit pocket. “Mrs. Mott, are you saying you’re happy Dale York is dead?”

“Don’t answer that,” Nora and Layne both ordered quickly.

They had her back. Always. Just as she had theirs.

Instead of feeling trapped by the bond between her and her sisters as she usually did, Tori felt…relieved. Their sisterly ties were tenuous at best, but they held strong when it mattered.

Tori sent Bertrand a look from underneath her lashes, one she’d perfected at the age of twelve when she’d realized her looks would take her a hell of a lot further than her brains ever could. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m afraid my legal counsel has advised me against answering that question.”

His lips thinned. Obviously he hadn’t liked her remark. Not her problem. Despite what most guys seemed to hope, she hadn’t been put on this earth for the sole reason of making men happy. Oh, she knew what they wanted from her. For her to lie on her back and make their little hearts flutter.

They could just keep wanting.

Because while she had no qualms about using their desire for her, their attraction to her against them if it suited her purpose, she didn’t sleep around. Never had.

But that hadn’t stopped the rumors in high school from circulating. Hadn’t stopped men from hitting on her, from trying to charm her into their beds even when she’d worn another man’s ring.

He didn’t seem the least bit affected by her charms. But she’d felt the heat arc between them when their eyes had first met. He wasn’t as immune to her as he’d like her to believe.

As for her, well, sure she’d felt a slight…zing…upon first seeing him. She was only human after all and he was tall, broad-shouldered and blond, his handsome face sharply planed, his bottom lip thicker than the top.

Then again, she felt the same zing when she saw a picture of a shirtless David Beckham so she wasn’t about to take any reaction to the detective’s good looks seriously.

“I’d like to ask you all some questions regarding your whereabouts the night Dale York died,” Bertrand said.

“None of us are answering any questions without legal counsel present,” Nora said, standing and staring down the enigmatic detective as if she could put a chink in his armor with just the force of her will.

God bless her little sister’s confidence but Tori could’ve told her not to bother. Someone like Bertrand couldn’t be intimidated. No, if a woman wanted to get underneath the detective’s steely exterior, shake that air of superiority he wore as easily as his dark, expensive-looking suit, she had to be clever. Manipulative.

She had to be willing to use her body, her looks, to get what she wanted. Like their mother. Like Tori.