Deep Secrets

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She licked her dry lips. “He was a good man,” she said, choosing to ignore the question. She wasn’t up to pretending that she was fine. She was so damn tired of always pretending that she was fine.

“Yes, he was,” Chase said. “And we will find the person who did this. I promise you.”

If anyone could, it was probably Chase. He’d been a cop in St. Louis before coming back to Ravesville, ostensibly to get his deceased parents’ house ready for sale but really to guard a key witness in a murder case. He’d done more than just guard the witness. He’d married her. And now Raney Hollister was one of Trish’s favorite people.

“Was there anyone unusual in the café tonight or maybe even within the last couple of days?”

The question wasn’t unexpected. She’d been trying to think of the same thing for the past hour. “I don’t think so,” she said. “We had a few strangers, of course.” That wasn’t unusual. Travelers. Usually vacationers. People in need of a hot meal and a cup of coffee. “But nobody that I considered unusual or suspicious.”

“Did Milo have any visitors or receive any unusual telephone calls that you’re aware of?”

“No. I don’t think he had any plans for after work because he’d asked me if I wanted to see a movie.”

She saw Chase exchange a quick glance with Bray. “Did you often watch movies together?” Chase asked, probably wondering if he’d missed a romantic connection between her and Milo.

“Never,” she said. “But he knew that today was a tough day for me.”

Another glance between Chase and Bray. Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bray didn’t have to explain this. She was a big girl. “My husband, Rafe Roper, died four years ago today,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Chase said.

She believed him. Chase Hollister was a good man. She’d known him since he was a kid. Which was why she was going to tell him everything, even though her mind hadn’t made sense of it yet.

“Milo said something before he died.”

Bray’s head whipped up. This was news to him.

“What was that?” Chase said gently.

“‘Tell Rafe they know.’”

Chase didn’t look at Bray this time. He was staring intently at her. “You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“Yes.”

Chase stood up, walked over to the window, looked out at the street. Finally, he turned. “Did Milo know your husband?”

“No. Rafe was already dead before he came to work here.”

“Did the two of you frequently talk about Rafe?”

“No. I don’t discuss Rafe with many people. But Milo and I had been talking earlier in the evening and his name came up.”

“Is it possible that Milo was confused? That your conversation earlier in the evening was on his mind, and that’s why he mentioned him before he died?”

“I guess,” she said, her tone flat. It made as much sense as anything. But she’d never seen Milo confused or discombobulated about anything. He was always calm, always controlled. But then again, she’d never seen him bleeding to death on the dirty pavement, either.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just don’t know and it’s driving me crazy.”

Chase reached out for her hand. It probably wasn’t police protocol, but given that his brother was married to her twin sister, she and Chase were family. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I know hearing something like that would be very upsetting. But he was dying. Losing lots of blood quickly. He wouldn’t have been thinking clearly.”

She’d been telling herself the same thing. But for some strange reason, it really irritated her to hear someone else say it. “They were his last words. I think they were important to him,” she snapped.

“Of course,” Chase said.

Bray stood up. “I think I should take Trish back to my house,” he said.

When Summer and Bray had got married, Bray had moved into the small house that Summer had rented with her two children. They were building a new home but the walls had just gone up. “You don’t have extra space,” she said. “I’ll go to my own house.”

“You can stay with Raney and me,” Chase said immediately.

She did not want to stay with anyone. She was strung so tight that she was about to lose it. “Is there any reason to think that I’m in danger, that the attack on Milo had something to do with me or Summer or the café?”

“We have no way of knowing that,” Chase said. “Milo was attacked from behind. As best as I can tell, he was in the process of putting the garbage into the Dumpster when he was stabbed. Based on what Bray has told me, I understand you opened the door to check on him and he was already on the ground. Whoever had done this was gone.”

She nodded. “He’d been in prison. Do you think it could be someone from his past, someone who maybe held a grudge?” She was grasping at straws but she so desperately wanted to make sense of it.

“I don’t know,” Chase said. “I’ve asked for help from the state. They have more sophisticated resources than we have to process the scene. We’re going to be done here in just a little while, but I’d prefer it if you could keep the café closed tomorrow, just in case.”

Saturdays were usually busy days. “I’ll put a sign on the door,” she said, getting up to find paper and a pen. The sign probably wasn’t necessary. It was a sure bet that at least one of the volunteer fire and rescue squad would tell his or her spouse what had happened here tonight and it would spread like wildfire. By morning, everyone in the small town would know why the café wasn’t open.

It was one of the reasons she hadn’t said anything before this about Milo’s last words. She hadn’t wanted it to be overheard.

Because if one well-meaning person asked her what she thought about it, she might explode. She didn’t know what she thought. Tell Rafe implied something that she couldn’t even fathom. They know. Know what, for God’s sake? “I want to go home,” she said. “To my house. I have Duke. He won’t let anyone get near me.” It was true. The German shepherd was fiercely protective, had been since the day he’d wandered up to her doorstep without any tags. She’d searched for an owner for a week, even putting an ad in the paper, but no one had come forward. Duke had become her dog.

“A dog isn’t much protection against a bullet,” Chase said gently.

“This was a knife, not a bullet.”

“You don’t know that’s the only available weapon,” he said.

“The café emptied out at least a half hour before we closed. I was alone in the dining room, clearly visible if someone outside had bothered to look in the window. If they wanted to harm me, they had a chance. But they waited until Milo took the trash out. I think this was about Milo, not about me.”

“Even with that final comment?” Bray asked.

“Like Chase said, Milo was dying. He might have been confused.” She picked up her purse and kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for bringing Summer home early, thank you for being here and for having the wherewithal to respond.”

Then she turned to Chase. “I trust you, Chase. With every bone in my body. I know that you’ll do everything you can to find Milo’s killer. He was a wonderful friend and he didn’t deserve to die like this.” Then she leaned in and gave him a quick hug.

Bray picked up his keys from the counter. “At least let me follow you home and make sure you get inside safely.”

The Hollister men were very protective of the women they loved, and by virtue of being Summer’s sister, she was automatically included in their circle. “Fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

HER FOUR-BEDROOM RANCH house was too big for one person, and tonight, more than ever, she felt as if she was drifting from room to room, looking for ghosts. She was grateful, though, for the silence.

Bray had been true to his word. He’d left, a worried look on his face, after he’d checked every room and the garage. She’d assured him that she’d set the alarm immediately and she had.

Now she stood in her kitchen and Duke crowded in next to her, almost as if he knew that something wasn’t quite right. He was poking his nose at her knees, and when she reached down to pet him, she realized that there was blood on her dark blue pants.

Milo’s blood. She hadn’t seen it before, but when she’d knelt next to the body, the blood had got on her.

“Oh, Milo,” she sobbed, catching hold of the kitchen counter to keep herself upright. Tell Rafe they know. “What did you mean?”

With jerky movements, she peeled off every stitch of her clothes. Then naked, she stuffed them into the kitchen garbage can. She roughly yanked out the plastic bag insert and tied it up tight. With heavy arms, she tossed the bag by the door that led to her garage.

Then, feeling very old and weary, she walked back to her bedroom and straight into the adjoining bath. She turned on the shower, as hot as she could stand it. And when she stepped under the spray, she let the tears that she’d held back all night run down her face.

Her chest heaved with her sobs and she braced herself against the wall.

She wasn’t stupid. Tell Rafe. That implied that Rafe was alive. Was that even possible? His body had never been found. But what would keep him away? What would keep a husband away from his wife?

Four years. Four long years.

Over fourteen hundred days of heartache.

It just wasn’t possible. Rafe would never hurt her like that.

* * *

RAFE HOPED THERE were no snakes in the damn grass. It was damp and scratchy and smelled like a herd of cattle had passed through. He’d arrived before dawn and had been on his stomach for the past several hours. He badly wanted a cup of hot coffee. But he didn’t move.

Windows were open in the villa and music drifted up the hill. When the song changed, his gut tightened up. They played that one at his wedding. And in the morning, his beautiful bride had been humming it.

She’d been so happy. And he’d thought it would last until balls started dropping out of the air. Accidents, some said. He knew better.

His trusted coworkers had been murdered. He didn’t care what anybody said.

And he suspected the man inside, who was probably about to sit down to breakfast with his family, was responsible. Luciano Maladucci. Richer than several European countries put together and more evil than most could even imagine, he delighted in playing chess with people’s lives.

Unfortunately, Rafe hadn’t been able to prove Maladucci was behind the deaths. It had been his sole focus his first six months back, but every lead turned into a dead end. He had to stop when his boss told him in no uncertain terms to let it go.

He let it go. At least as far as most people knew. But he’d found another way to tighten the noose around this man’s neck. One way or the other, he was going to see him behind prison bars.

With his binoculars picking up every detail, he watched a Ferrari Spider turn into the circle drive. What was the youngest Maladucci son doing here? The older son and his family lived in the east wing of the villa. It was rare for the two brothers to be together, probably because the younger brother had slept with the older brother’s wife three years ago.

Real friendly, the Maladuccis.

Real deadly, too.

He felt the buzz from his cell phone. His private cell phone. What the hell? Milo wasn’t supposed to check in until Sunday. It was Saturday.

He shifted, pulled his phone out and realized it wasn’t Milo, but someone else he trusted explicitly. He stared at the text message.

Milo is dead.

There were a hundred possibilities. Like a heart attack or a stroke?

But none of those would have warranted a special message. No. This message meant that there was danger. And it was headed toward Trish.

Chapter Three

She stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. When she got out, she considered not drying her waist-length hair but knew that it would be a tangled mess in the morning if she went to bed with it wet.

She should have cut it years ago. But when she’d been married to Rafe, he’d convinced her to keep it long. I love your hair, he used to say. Your beautiful red hair. The night of the storm, I saw it through the window of the café. It looked like liquid fire. I thought I’d never seen anything quite so wonderful.

After he’d died, she couldn’t bear to do any more than trim the ends. Wore it pulled back most of the time in a low ponytail.

Tell Rafe they know.

She sat down hard on the edge of the bathtub. It was crazy but she was so angry at Milo. The poor man was dead and she was furious that he’d said something like that and then died.

She was a bad person. Horrible. A man was dead and all she could think about was herself.

She jabbed the on button and held the dryer for too long in one spot, burning her scalp. Ten minutes later, she gave up. Her hair was still damp but she was so damn tired. She picked up her toothbrush, spread some toothpaste and halfheartedly brushed. When she tossed her toothbrush back onto the counter, a memory hit her so hard that she almost doubled over.

Rafe putting his toothbrush back just so, in exactly the same spot every time. His shaving cream and razor, too. Everything in its place, he used to say, lightheartedly poking fun at himself. Before she’d married him, she’d considered herself pretty neat and organized. But Rafe had been the king of patterns and order. She’d noticed it slowly, over time. He kept very little paper around, usually just a small pile of unpaid bills. If you asked, he could tell you, in the order it appeared, what was on his desk at any one time.

He never made a big deal out of it. And she had never taken it too seriously until one night they’d come home from a movie in Hamerton, entered the house, and he’d sensed that something was different. He’d grabbed her, pulled her behind him, and the gun that he always carried on him had been in his hand. The hallway light wasn’t on when we left, he had whispered in her ear.

He’d inspected the whole house but had come up empty. But she could tell that he was bothered by the incident. It wasn’t until she finally checked her cell phone, which she’d turned off at the movies, that she heard the message from Summer. She’d stopped over to borrow a dress.

When she’d told Rafe, he’d waved it off. She could tell he didn’t want to discuss it. But she hadn’t forgotten it. She had seen a side of her husband that night that was fascinating. It was not as if he’d morphed into someone new. No, it was more subtle than that.

He was still Rafe, the handsome construction worker who had stolen her heart and made her laugh every day. But he was someone else, too. Someone very capable. Someone fearless.

Someone, she suspected, who would do whatever it took to protect her and their home. He’d handled the gun expertly. She’d been in awe, really.

And she’d started paying more attention to the things around her. Noticing when things changed. It was like playing a game where there was no score and she was competing only against herself. She got better at it every day. Nobody got new glasses, highlighted their hair or had their teeth fixed that she didn’t pick up on it. It was just crazy small stuff but she had fun with it.

It was only one of the many ways that loving Rafe had changed her.

She left the bathroom. She didn’t bother to dress. Simply crawled into bed naked. She could hear Duke pacing in front of her door, his nails scratching against the wood floor. “Good night, Duke,” she said, knowing that he wouldn’t settle down if that nighttime ritual wasn’t observed.

The pacing quieted and she knew the big dog had taken his spot outside her door. He’d knock his hind end on the door at five the next morning, ready to go out. Until then, she could sleep.

Except that every time she closed her eyes, she could see poor Milo. After a half hour, she gave up and turned on her light. Duke immediately whined, letting her know that he knew that something wasn’t right. She opened the bedroom door. “We’re leaving early,” she said.

She had to. She absolutely had to leave this house that she had bought with Rafe, where she had made plans, dreamed big. The memories of Rafe were still too strong here. She could see him at the stove, wearing his jeans low on his hips and no shirt, waving a spatula in her direction. Could see him snoozing on the couch, a book open on his chest. Could see him walk across the kitchen naked for that first cup of coffee in the morning.

Could practically smell his earthy masculine scent.

Was it because it was the anniversary of his death? Was it because she and Milo had been talking about him? Was it because of what Milo said?

Probably some of all three. It didn’t matter. It felt as if she was losing her mind.

No better place to do it than a little cottage in the middle of nowhere. If she started to scream and crawl the walls, nobody would be there to witness the meltdown of the century.

Summer would understand and would proceed to plan the funeral. They could have it at the end of the week, when she was back.

With her head on straight.

Maybe with a fish story—in Milo’s honor.

Duke cocked his head and watched her closely as she dragged her suitcase out of the closet and started throwing clothes in it. Swimsuit. Shorts. Water shoes. A couple of summer dresses. Sandals. Some things to sleep in. Then she added toiletries and a lightweight jacket in case the evenings got cool. By this time, Duke was pacing, well aware that his routine was upset.

She dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt and slipped her feet into her favorite cowboy boots. Then she went to the kitchen, where she pulled out a half-full bag of dog food. Plenty for five days. She’d originally planned to leave on Sunday since the café was closed. But now she was free to leave a day early.

She pulled a sack out of the cupboard and haphazardly picked items from her counters and cupboards. The half loaf of bread. A jar of peanut butter. Cereal. There had to be a small town nearby where she could buy milk. Two bottles of wine. She thought about adding another one but figured that was overkill. Boxes of macaroni and cheese. A jar of honey-roasted peanuts. And for the heck of it, she threw in the three bananas that she’d been ignoring for days.

She looked at her watch and debated whether she should call Summer now. Quickly discarded the idea. Summer had been so sick after seeing poor Milo’s body. She needed her rest. Trish would call her in the morning to let her know her plans.

She made one more pass through her house, pausing outside her bedroom door to gaze at her pale gray bed skirt. Shaking her head, she walked into the room, got down on her knees, reached underneath the bed and pulled out her gun case.

Rafe had bought a gun for her several months after the last time she’d gone to the range with him. It had been a surprise. Initially she’d been inclined to tell him to take it back. But he’d been insistent. You should have your own, he’d said.

* * *

SHE HADN’T SHOT it for more than four years. Had kept it locked up, under her bed. Was it crazy to pull it out now? M.A., who was single, had been traveling with her ten-year-old niece and she’d said that she’d felt perfectly safe.

But Trish wasn’t a fool. She was a woman, traveling alone. A little extra protection made sense. Especially after what she’d seen earlier tonight.

She took it out of its case and slipped it into her shoulder bag. “Let’s go,” she said to Duke.

He followed her to the kitchen, and when she opened the door to her attached garage, he hurried ahead of her, like he always did. When she opened the passenger side door of her two-door Jeep, Duke jumped in and promptly scrambled over the middle console into the backseat. She went around back and shoved her suitcase and sack into the rear space. In the corner of her garage was her fishing gear. She grabbed it and put it in the Jeep. Then she got in.

Took a breath. Then another. Wiped her damp palms on her blue jeans.

She didn’t normally steal away in the middle of the night.

But then, there had been nothing normal about this night. The heavy weight of her gun in her shoulder bag was even more proof of that.

It was just after one when she pulled out of the garage and shut the door behind her. Determined to think about something else, she turned on the radio and hunted for a station that had music. She finally found one that was playing oldies from the ’50s and ’60s.

Great. She felt about a hundred. It would be perfect.

She would be in the right area in just over an hour. It might take her a while to wind around the country roads and find the cottage. Hopefully her GPS would behave nicely.

“Are you excited?” she asked Duke.

He barked just once.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, settling back. She wasn’t worried about falling asleep while driving. Her body was practically humming with energy. She would not have been able to sleep.

She’d lost a good friend tonight.

Had Milo simply been a convenient target? Was it possible that a vagrant had been hiding in the alley, and when Milo had opened the door, the attack had been a spur-of-the-moment decision? Or was it something much more sinister? Had someone been waiting for Milo, someone from his past?

She prayed that Chase Hollister would find the answer. She wanted Milo’s attacker to pay for what he’d done. It wouldn’t bring Milo back but it would help to know that a killer had not gone free.

She pressed down on the accelerator, fully aware that she couldn’t outrun the image of Milo’s dead body on the dirty cement. She could not forget about what had happened. No. That was asking too much.

But she could drive, and then tomorrow, when she woke up in her little cottage, she would make coffee and take it down to the lake and dangle her feet in the cool water.

And she would come to terms with another senseless death.

She would have to.

Sometimes the only thing one could do was keep going.

* * *

RAFE GOT OFF the damn hill as fast as he could and ran the mile to where he’d hidden his car. Once inside, he sent a quick text to others on his team, letting them know about the arrival of the youngest Maladucci.

He looked at his watch, mindful of the seven-hour time difference between Italy and home. It was almost nine, which meant it was almost two in the morning at home. Time for most people to be sacked out.

But Daniel, who had sent this message, would be awake. He would anticipate that a return message was on its way. He picked up his private cell phone. Trish? he typed and pushed Send.

Within minutes he had his response. Left café around midnight, arrived home safely.

He took a deep breath. Then another. That was good news. But he was edgy. Had been for the past twenty-four hours. Nothing unusual about that. Always the same, year after year.

Maybe someone was walking over his grave.

Hell, he’d walked over his own grave. Less than a month after Trish had the service, he’d been back in Ravesville, with Duke in tow. Just weeks before he’d died, he’d purchased the dog and arranged for it to be specially trained. From the beginning had called it Duke because Trish had always said that if she ever got a dog, Duke would be his name. His plan had been to surprise Trish on their one-year anniversary. When he’d had to leave, he’d expedited the training and delivered the dog to Trish’s backyard two months earlier than expected.

But Duke had been a champ and Rafe had rested better knowing that the dog would protect Trish. Not that Trish should have been in danger still. That should have ended when Rafe left. But he couldn’t stop being extra careful. Trish was too special.

So she’d been home for more than an hour. She would be sleeping. There was no need to request an updated report. No need at all.

Screw it. He typed. Reverify. And waited.