Evan Carver was dead, found in his condo overnight, and the investigation was ongoing.
As for Carver Health, they were scrambling to sound calm, but I could see the cracks already showing. Absently, I wondered if they'd hire Thatcher-Hale to manage the fallout.
Was I being cold?
Probably.
And yet, the practical part of me couldn't help but think that the world was a better place for not having a snake like Evan Carver slithering all over it. Still, if I'd had my way, he would've ended up rotting in jail, not six feet under.
And then there were all of those questions – not from the news, but from myself. This included the oddest question of all.How on Earth had Ryder known?
Ihadasked, but all he'd said was that he had a friend with connections. When he'd refused to say more, that was that.
I was still thinking of Ryder when Skip shuffled out of the back room and asked, "Hey, have you been sleeping in my recliner?"
Heat rose to my face. Embarrassingly, Ihadslept in his recliner – and not only on the night of that phone call, when I'd nodded off more than once.
The real overstep was last night.After Ryder had gone to see Griff, I stayed in the suite for way too long, waiting for him to return. When he didn't, I felt too unwelcome to stay at the hotel and too upset to return to Maisie's.
If she was still angry with me, the last thing I'd wanted was to sob on her couch while refusing to answer basic questions.
Good Lord. She might've thought I was sobbing over Griff.And with everything else, I definitely would've lost it.
So I'd spent the night huddled up in that stupid recliner, praying today would bring better news. Instead, I'd been officially dumped and then shaken by the news of Evan Carver.
This meant I could go home.
By home, I meant not to Maisie's, but to my own place in Chicago. This should've been a relief.
It wasn't.
I didn't want to go back at all.
What wasthatabout?
In the coffee shop, Skip's tone grew accusing. "You have, haven't you?"
Oh. Right. The recliner.I reached up to rub the back of my neck as I mumbled, "I might've tried it a time or two."
"I knew it!" Skip said.
"How?"
He wrinkled his nose. "It smelled funny."
I stared. "What are you saying? I stink?"
"No. Butyousmell like flowers." He straightened. "AndIsmell like cedar." And then, at my questioning look, he added, "It's my favorite soap. So, what's yours? Rose or something?"
The question made me pause. "Actually, I'm not sure."
He eyed me with suspicion. "Why not?"
"Because the soap wasn't mine, and I didn't pay attention." It was true. That pink bottle of bodywash had magically appeared the second night I'd stayed at Ryder's.
Had he put it there just for me?
He must've, because there'd been a second brand beside it that was obviously masculine – a sleek charcoal bottle with small gold lettering.
