Molly sat back, an equally chilly smile on her own face. This, at least, was familiar. She’d fought with this man before. The familiarity, unfortunately, was far from comforting.
“Okay,” she said. “Question number one. Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Molly,” he said in a cold, weary voice. “I don’t give a damn about you one way or another.”
“Why not? I’m your wife.”
“What makes you think marriage makes people get along? We used to be better friends before we made the stupid mistake of getting married.”
“Why did we get married?”
“Youthful passion,” he snapped.
“I thought you were going to answer my questions.”
“Those I feel like answering. I’m not in the mood to do a postmortem on our tangled relationship.”
She stared at him, frustrated. Memory might fail her, but instinct told her she wouldn’t get any farther with that line of questioning.
“What is it you think I’ve done? What is it the police think I’ve done? Lieutenant Ryker said he didn’t think I could have killed that man. Do they think I was an accessory? If so, does someone want to kill me? Do they think I stole that money...?”
“You had no need to steal any money,” Patrick said. “You have plenty of your own.”
That startled her more than anything. “You mean I’m rich?” she gasped, wondering why that notion felt so alien to her.
“Very. Why do you think I married you?”
It was a stunning blow, the effect of which she tried to hide. “How noble of you,” she said lightly. “What was I doing with this strange man in the first place? Why had I run away from you?”
“I guess love’s young dream had faded,” he said with something close to a snarl. “You always liked older men—I presume you just decided a ten-year age difference wasn’t enough. You wanted someone more mature.”
“That shouldn’t have been hard to find,” she snapped.
She had managed to startle him. There was a light in his eyes that was almost appreciative. “Be that as it may, our marriage was effectively over. You decided to take off, and it didn’t really concern me why or where you were going. I was too busy dealing with the mess you left behind.”
“What mess was that?”
“I’m getting a little weary of this, Molly. Besides, you may be independently wealthy, but I have work to do.”
“You don’t have money?”
“This is an expensive place to maintain. I’m always in debt.”
“And who inherits my money if I die?” The initials on the handkerchief were his. Why was it one of the few things in her possession? It hardly seemed as if it were a love token, given their acrimonious relationship.
His smile was cool and deceptively sweet. “Why, I do, Molly. Why do you ask?”
He knew perfectly well why she was asking, and the notion seemed to amuse him. Had he tried to kill her? Had he driven her away from this place that, despite the strangeness and the hostility, still felt like home, and then followed her, murdering her lover and trying to kill her as well? He had the clear motive.
“Where were you the night of my accident?”
He laughed then, and the sound wasn’t reassuring. “I have an alibi, Molly. Ironclad. I didn’t try to kill you, and the police believe me. You should as well.”
“Why should I?”
“Because if I tried to kill you, I wouldn’t make a mistake. You’d be dead. And I’d be a very wealthy man.”
“Then why don’t you? It seems the logical thing to do, and you appear to be a very logical man.”
