Still Waters

She pulled open the freezer drawer and selected a frozen dinner—the organic, calorie-conscious kind. While she removed the outer packaging, she flashed him a fake smile and said, “Take your pick. I highly recommend the pecan chicken and rice.”

While she nuked her meal, he rummaged through the selection. He chose the pizza. The photo on the box looked normal enough, though he doubted one would ever be enough. The way his stomach was protesting, he could eat his weight in steak and potatoes about now.

“Water or coffee?” She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge for herself.

“Water would be great.”

Ten minutes later they were seated at the table with their little prepackaged meals—little being the operative word. The first bite of the pizza did two things. Burned the hell out of his mouth and confirmed that although it looked nothing like the one on the box, it tasted exactly like the box.

“Gina says you grew up in Birmingham.” She twirled her fork in the noodles of her meal. She’d picked out the little chicken and broccoli chunks.

He imagined the noodles tasted somewhat similar to his pizza. “I did. When I graduated high school I went for a criminal justice degree. After that I headed out to Cali with my best friend. We both went to work for the LAPD. My friend’s parents had divorced when he was a kid. His father promised him a job with the department if he wanted to move out to California after school.”

“So you both became cops?”

He tore off another chunk of the tasteless pizza and nodded. “Two years later the top personal security team in the LA area offered me a position with a salary I couldn’t refuse.”

“You must have done something to grab their attention?” She smiled, and his pulse executed another of those crazy dips.

“I might have saved a couple of lives in a nightclub shoot-out while off duty and without a firearm.” He shoved the last of the pizza into his mouth to prevent having to say more. The doped-up ex-husband who’d come after his wife in a crowded club with a cocked and loaded nine millimeter had every intention of killing anyone in the room with her. There hadn’t been time to think, only to act. Sean had thrown himself at the guy. Two shots had hissed by his head, close enough to have him wishing he’d gone to church a little more often. Clips from the club’s security cameras had played on all the local networks and even a couple of national ones for days. The notoriety had bothered him. He’d done the right thing. Maybe that might have made him a hero to some.

“Had you always envisioned yourself as a bodyguard to the stars?” Amber set her fork aside and sipped her water.

“Never crossed my mind until they knocked on my door.”

“What was it like? Are the big stars as difficult to work with as the gossip rags suggest?”

He really didn’t want to talk about his past. Things always ventured into the territory he still couldn’t revisit. The only reason he hadn’t changed the subject already was because she looked relaxed for the first time since they’d met.

“Stars are like anyone else. You’ve got the nice ones, and you’ve got the jerks. They put on their pants the same way you and I do.”

“According to Gina, you’re the best.”

He pushed back from the table and stood. “Your friend might have exaggerated just a little.” He carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it before depositing it into the dishwasher. Amber did the same with her bowl and fork.

“We need a notepad or something to list the names of the people who’ve written to you repeatedly.” He moved back to the table. The sooner they focused on the reason he was here, the quicker she would forget about all the questions she appeared to have for him. Not that he had expected anything less from the lady. Amber might not be a big-screen celebrity, but she was damned sure a big star in Birmingham. “Anyone who seems overly interested in your career or you as a person is what we’re looking for.”

She opened a drawer and came up with a notepad and pen.

“We should talk about your neighbors,” he went on. “Friends. Ex-boyfriends. Former girlfriends. Anyone who knows your routine. Anyone who knows you well enough to have a handle on your likes and dislikes. Paradise Peach tea, for instance. Who would know about your taste in tea?”

When she’d settled back at the table, she placed the pen next to the pad and looked him straight in the eye. “My sister and my parents. My colleagues at work. None of them would do this any more than I would. Most of my neighbors are the same ones who lived here when my grandmother was still alive. They’re older, and I’ve known them forever. I have no former girlfriends. I only have current ones.”

“No fallings-out. No estrangements of any kind?”

“There are people with whom I’ve lost touch, but nothing like you’re suggesting.”

“What about ex-boyfriends? Even the one-night stands—especially the one-night stands.”

“I don’t do one-night stands, Mr. Douglas. This is not Hollywood.”

“But it is the twenty-first century. Even people in Alabama do one-night stands, Ms. Roberts.”

“Not this person.” Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. “And before you jump to that conclusion, I’m not a prude, either.”

“Ex-boyfriends?”

“We talked about this already.”

He exhaled a big breath and reached for patience. “I need more details.”

“There have been three.”

Did she just say three? “Three?” he echoed.

She gave him a sharp look that answered the question. “One in high school. We started dating when we were freshmen. We broke up when we went our separate ways to college. He’s married with three children and lives in Wyoming. My second boyfriend was in college. He decided he wanted to travel the world before settling down. To my knowledge he’s still doing so. Last year I broke up with the man to whom I’d been engaged for two years.”

“Please tell me you dated a few guys in between.”

“A few. Yes. I was very busy with my education and then with building my career, Mr. Douglas.”

“Sean,” he countered. “The Mr. Douglas thing makes me feel old.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to make you feel old, Sean,” she acquiesced.

Like every other ridiculous reaction he’d experienced since coming into her home, the sound of his first name on those pink lips disrupted the rhythm of his pulse again. “The ex-fiancé has no reason to want to cause you trouble?”

She sent him a look. “Killing a man and leaving my panties in his bed is a little more than causing me trouble—wouldn’t you say?”

He nodded. She had him there. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“We broke up because he confessed that he’d never stopped loving his college sweetheart. They’re married with a baby on the way. They live in Mobile. I’m certain I’m the last person on his mind these days.”

The guy must have been a total idiot.

Sean cleared his throat and his head. “That leaves us with strangers.” More often than not, crimes of this nature were committed by an intimate, but not always. Occasionally strangers formed fantasy relationships or attachments with high-profile personalities. Once in a while those bonds led to murder.

“Okay.” She stood, took the lid from the box and set it aside. “I have quite a few letters and cards here.” She reached inside and lifted a mound of envelopes. She placed them on the table. She reached into the box once more and stalled. “What in the world?” Her eyes widened with horror. “Oh, my God.”

Sean moved to her side. In the box, amid the stacks of envelopes addressed to Amber Roberts, was a knife. Nothing elaborate or exotic, just a stock kitchen butcher knife, with an eight-or ten-inch blade covered in dried blood.

It was time to call his boss.

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