“And now I’m an expert. Yeah, yeah.” Maddie squeezed Britt’shand. “I’m not an expert on dating. But we’ve been friends for a long time. I am an expert on you.”
He and Britt hadn’t patched things up.
Usually Britt insisted that they resolve their disagreements. But, so far, she was letting the disagreement they’d had yesterday drift past like an inner tube down a river.
He glanced at her as they made their way up the walk to the development where Emerson lived. He was having a hard time reading her. Ever since he’d picked her up ten minutes ago, she’d seemed almost carefully neutral. Was she no longer mad at him? Was she still mad but choosing to avoid the topic? Why?
Britt wore a loose white top with a wide opening at the neck that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. Gray jeans. Black sandals that fastened around her ankles. She’d painted her toenails dark purple. Her long hair was down today and a few of the lighter, more amber-colored strands glinted in the morning sunlight.
What would happen if he took hold of her shoulders, settled her against the wall next to Emerson’s front door, and kissed her? Hard.
The rebel in him wanted to try. She disrupted him with her presence, her scent, her eyes, her words. He wanted to disrupt her even half as much.
Zander pushed Emerson’s doorbell, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and held himself immobile.
Carolyn had informed them that Sunny had moved to town two and a half months ago and that she’d met Sunny shortly after, when she’d come to The Giftery to shop. The two women had struck up a friendship. They’d taken to sharing lunch a few times a week and talking on the phone in between.
Carolyn had supplied Zander with Emerson’s address, which had led them to this unremarkable zero-lot-line complex.
Emerson answered the door, her face registering mild surprise at finding her friend’s nephew on her doorstep. “Good morning. Zander, isn’t it?”
“It is.” If Emerson had inserted herself into Carolyn’s life on purpose, then he’d bet that she knew his name far better than she was letting on. He introduced Britt and the two shook hands.
Emerson had clothed her slim frame in exercise pants and a long-sleeved turquoise work-out top. Her blond hair gave her a youthful look, though he guessed her to be at or near Frank’s age—in her mid-sixties.
She balanced her weight on one bare foot and casually draped her other foot across it. “What can I do for you?”
“Carolyn said that she told you about the research we’ve been doing into Frank’s death,” Zander said, getting straight to the point.
“She did.”
For weeks now, he and Britt had been trying to find the combination of clues that would unlock the secrets of Frank’s past. He’d used up most of his patience and, at this point, needed the truth from Emerson. If there was an unseen threat at play, the truth would give him a shot at protecting the people he loved.
“Back when Frank was known as James Ross, he and a friend named Ricardo Serra robbed a gas station,” Zander said. “Yesterday, Britt and I traveled to Whidbey Island because Ricardo was arrested there in 1988. We looked at mug shots of both Ricardo and his accomplice, which is how we discovered that Ricardo’s accomplice ... was you.” Zander pulled out his phone and showed her the picture of her mug shot that he’d taken yesterday at Grant’s house.
Emerson did not flinch. She raised the inmost points of her eyebrows so slightly it almost wasn’t perceptible. The response communicated interest far more than shock or fear. “I’d love to know how you gained access to those mug shots,” she said calmly.
“We met with the victim,” Britt answered. “He kept a file of all the information he received about the case.”
Emerson took a step back from the door. “Care to come inside?”
Zander followed Britt into a condo that smelled of baking pumpkin pie and reminded him of a Rooms to Go showroom. The living room furniture seemed staged to appeal to the widestpossible percentage of people, which made him suspect that Emerson was renting the place furnished.
Emerson gestured for him and Britt to take the armchairs. She lowered herself onto the patterned sofa next to the fireplace and crossed her legs with catlike grace. A novel, pen, day planner, and fuzzy throw blanket rested on the cushion beside her.
“We don’t believe that you and Ricardo were in search of a public park on Whidbey Island the night that Grant and Callista Mayberry’s paintings were stolen,” Zander said.
Emerson matched his steady gaze with her own.
“We also don’t believe,” he continued, “that it’s a coincidence that you showed up in Merryweather a month before Frank died. And we don’t believe it’s a coincidence that you and Carolyn became friends.”
Emerson remained quiet for a long period of time.
“I’m not sure if any part of your friendship with Carolyn is genuine.” Zander’s palms tightened on the chair’s armrests. “But if you care about her at all, then telling us what you know might enable us to keep her safe.”
“Or telling you what I know might end up endangering you all,” Emerson offered mildly.
Foreboding pricked the skin at the back of his neck. “Be that as it may, we’d still like to hear what you know.”
