Kathleen Long - Silent Warning

“Something?” She frowned. “How do I know you’re not a fast-talking burglar?”

“With a key?” He shook his head, his expression incredulous.

“You never know.” Kelly set the candlestick on the floor and held out her open palm, nodding toward the key. “I’ll take that. I’d rather not have you stopping back unexpectedly. Nothing personal.”

One dark brow arched again as Steele pressed the key into her hand, his touch lingering a moment too long. Heat built at the spot where their skin met, searing her palm. The man’s intense stare never left hers, and Kelly fought the urge to look away. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction.

“Just what is it you’re missing?” she asked as she closed her fingers around his key then pocketed it, still gripping the cell phone tightly in her other hand.

“You know, you look a bit like her around the—”

“I know.” Kelly pinned him with a glare, frustration edging out her fear. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m leaving now.” He brushed past her and pushed the screen door open.

“I have half a mind to check out your story,” she called after him as he headed toward the steps.

He stopped short, turning to face her, his smile not quite reaching his deep blue eyes. “This didn’t go well. I’ll stop back later.”

Kelly focused on drawing deep slow breaths as she watched him cross the drive. The air seemed to still, as if the man owned the space around him and the ground beneath his confident stride. He turned toward the beach without looking back. Much to her dismay, a purely female response tangled with the anger and fear battling within her. The man oozed vitality—raw, male and intriguing.

She shivered with awareness.

He no doubt had known Rachel. Kelly’s friend had been beautiful, and never had trouble turning a male head. Dan Steele apparently had not been immune to her charms.

When he was fully out of sight, Kelly dropped her cell phone into her bag and headed for the kitchen. She plucked the receiver from the wall phone, dialing the keypad—911.

Hers might not be a true emergency, but if Steele planned to follow through on his promise to return, she intended to find out exactly who he was.

DAN STOOD AND STARED at the ocean. The woman had unnerved him. There weren’t many things in his life capable of eliciting that response. Not anymore.

He should have headed out the side door instead of checking the third bedroom. There’d been nothing there. He’d managed only to wedge his arm behind a bookcase reaching for a blank sheet of paper. As if Rachel would be that careless with anything important.

Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he headed up the beach toward his house, the woman’s face filling his mind. At first it had been like looking at a ghost, but once her fiery spirit flashed through her mesmerizing deep brown gaze, he knew she was no Rachel. Rachel had always put on a good show, but behind her reporter’s notebook, she was nothing more than a pretty bundle of nerves.

The friend had hidden her fear and surprise admirably. Beauty and backbone. Imagine. A longing stirred deep within him—evidence he wasn’t completely dead inside after all. No matter. He needed to find Rachel’s notes, not worry about her friend.

His interest in Rachel’s work had been personal. During his tenure in pharmaceutical marketing, his pet project had been one drug in particular. Oxygesic. Its development had been a godsend for those suffering from chronic pain and cancer. Then people began to die from its misuse.

People like Diane. His baby sister.

The familiar ache squeezed his heart, but he shoved it away, digging deep for the determination that had carried him this far.

Now that Rachel’s notes had apparently gone missing, Dan was even more convinced her death was no accident. She’d been the only person to listen to his theories. His gut told him she’d uncovered something someone hadn’t wanted her to find. The frantic message she’d left for him the day she disappeared confirmed as much.

And now she was dead.

He cast a glance toward the ocean, watching the September swells crash against the deserted beach, swirling against each other before they slid back out to sea. Riptide. Opposing currents. The story of his life.

His cell phone chirped to life, yanking him from his thoughts. “Yes.”

“Who the hell do you think you are now? The damned welcoming committee?” Detective Jake Arnold’s voice barked in his ear. Dan winced, the annoyance palpable in his old friend’s tone. “Meet me at your house. Ten minutes.”

The phone clicked dead.

Great. As if he needed any more complications today.

KELLY REPLACED the receiver and headed for the lower level of the house. Her call to the sheriff’s office had gotten her nowhere other than having to listen to Dan Steele’s upstanding citizen résumé. Apparently he’d settled here a few years ago, returning to his roots after a successful career up North.

She hadn’t been able to glean much more in the way of detail, but the tone of the woman she’d spoken to had made it clear he was one of Summer Shores’ favorite sons. What did Kelly expect? Small towns protected their own.

A light glowed from a spare bedroom as she rounded the bottom of the steps. Nothing seemed out of place as she peered inside, but then, she’d never set eyes on the house before today. Kelly opened each drawer and ran her hand over both shelves in the closet. Nothing. She sank onto the edge of the bed.

What had he been looking for?

Exhaustion washed over her, the earlier adrenaline fading from her system. She fingered the corner of a letter she’d tucked into her sweatshirt pocket as the numbing reality of Rachel’s death uncoiled from the pit of her stomach.

How many other letters and phone calls from Rachel had she ignored over the past year? Dozens? Yet, this one had been different. In it, Rachel had begged for forgiveness. Begged. But Kelly had ignored her plea, clinging instead to the grudge she’d carried instead of making amends. Now Rachel was dead. Drowned in the ocean she’d loved.

An inexplicable sense of dread sent a shudder down Kelly’s spine. Hoping she’d find some coffee to help erase the chill, she headed back toward the stairs, looking up just as she rounded the bottom step.

Her heart slammed into her ribs.

A large, gray tomcat loomed at the top of the steps, two yellow eyes lazily winking down at her.

“Who are you?” She was beginning to think that was the question of the day. Did everybody have a key?

The cat rose to his paws and stretched, leaning into the side of her leg as she passed.

“Edgar,” a female voice called from outside.

Kelly squinted at the cat, which still studied her curiously. “Edgar?” He rubbed against her calf, stretched then kicked out his back feet as he headed toward the door.

Opening the door to step onto the porch, Kelly let the cat saunter ahead. An elderly woman toting a large bakery box looked up from the bushes along the driveway.

“Are you looking for your cat?” Kelly asked.

The woman’s gaze narrowed as she spotted Edgar sitting at the screen door. “Oh, that bum. Was he bothering you?”

“Not at all.”

“You the friend from up North?” The woman walked to the bottom of the steps, the bakery box nestled in the crook of her arm, a lit cigarette dangling from the opposite hand. She paused to take a drag.

“Kelly Weir.”

“I’m Helen Carroll.” She waved the glowing butt over her shoulder. “Live across the street. Heard you were coming and thought you could use a welcome.” She waved the cigarette toward the cat. “Guess he thought the same thing.”

“No problem. Would you like to come up?”