Cassie Miles - Snow Blind

“You’re not a cop, Sasha.” His dark eyes glared at her with such intensity that she thought his anger might melt the computer screen. “I expect more from you.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” she said. “I’m prepared for the meeting today.”

“If anyone asks about last night, I want you to tell them that it’s being handled by local law enforcement. You’re not to be involved in any way. Is that clear?”

“I understand.” But she couldn’t promise not to be part of the investigation. Witnessing a crime meant she had an obligation to help in identifying the killer or, in this case, the victim.

Hoping to avoid more instructions, she changed the topic. “How is Mr. Westfield’s family?”

Damien leaned away from the computer screen and adjusted the Windsor knot on his necktie, a move that she’d come to recognize as a stalling technique. When he played with his tie, it meant he wasn’t telling the whole story. “The family is, of course, devastated by his unfortunate death. Virgil P. Westfield was in his nineties but relatively healthy. He had several good years left.”

Sasha tried to guess what Damien wasn’t saying. “Are the police investigating his fall down the staircase?”

“They are,” he admitted, “and you’re not to share that information with anyone, especially not the Arcadia investors.”

She hadn’t been aware of a connection between Westfield and the people who founded the ski resort, but there were frequent crossovers among the wealthy clients of Samuels, Sorenson and Smith. Damien also represented Virgil’s primary heir, a nephew. “Are there any suspects?”

“Let’s just say that we’re looking at the potential for many, many billable hours.”

That was a juicy tidbit. Was the heir a suspect? For a minute, she wished she was back in Denver working on this case with Damien. If the nephew was charged with murder, the trial would turn into a three-ring circus, given that Westfield was a well-known eccentric and philanthropist who had left a substantial bequest to a feral-cat shelter. Criminal cases were much more interesting than property disputes and corporate law.

“I’ll stay in touch today,” she said.

“No more drama,” he said before he closed his window and disappeared from the screen.

No more drama. The last thing she wanted was more trouble.

* * *

TUCKED INTO THE passenger seat of Brady’s SUV, she fastened her seat belt and watched as he took off his cowboy hat and placed it on the center console. He combed his fingers through his unruly dark brown hair. He looked good in the morning. Not all sleek and polished like Damien but healthy, with an outdoorsy tan and interesting crinkles at the corners of his greenish-brown eyes. She wondered how old he was. Maybe thirty? Maybe the perfect age for her.

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