Page 12 of Lethal Danger

Her eyes were still the same. Those big blue orbs that could persuade anyone to give her anything she wanted. She’d been the baby of the family in every way. Everyone’s favorite. She’d been their energy and hope. The joyous distraction from the tension and rifts that eventually drove them apart.

Her other features, though still framed with baby fat, had developed to create a face he wouldn’t have recognized if not for its similarity to their mother’s. The small, rounded chin. The oval-shaped face with high forehead. And her glossy blond hair. Rebekah was a very pretty girl. Like a reflection of the photos of their mother when she was young.

“I’ve switched it up a few times.” She gave him a careless grin. “Can’t really decide what I want to do, you know? I love art, but that might not pay the bills. And I don’t want to work at a grocery store all my life.”

“Art, as in painting?”

“Yeah, but digital art mostly.”

Of course. “That sounds cool.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged one slim shoulder under the strap of her fitted tank top. Her smile faded as she dropped her gaze.

Probably remembering why she’d stopped by. The reason he’d come to the Twin Cities.

“Want an espresso?” They could both probably stand to be fortified a little before discussing that. “I can always use a pick-me-up by this time of day.” The hazards of being an early riser.

“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I can’t get past the taste. So bitter.” She stuck out her tongue.

He chuckled. “It’s not for everyone.” And she apparently didn’t need the caffeine anyway. He poured himself an espresso and nodded toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

“Sure.” She hurried over to the sofa, and he followed at a slower pace, sitting in the armchair kitty-corner to her. She bounced her knees up and down in front of her.

Was she unsure how to ask what she wanted to? He took a sip of his espresso. Maybe she wasn’t comfortable with him. They were practically strangers, especially from her point of view. Did she even remember him?

A lump formed in his throat, and he took another drink to wash it down. Lowering his espresso, he looked at her. “Did you have something you wanted to talk about?” He’d assumed her text last night, saying she wanted to drop by in the morning, hadn’t intended a casual visit.

“Yeah, what have you found out?”

He stifled a smile at her sudden directness and set his cup on the glass coffee table in front of him. “Well.” He rested his hands on the arms of the chair. “It has only been one day. I’m afraid I’m going to need a little more time to make progress.”

“Oh.” Her mouth puckered, so reminiscent of her little-girl pout that he had to squash another smile.

“Sorry. But these things do take time.”

“Yeah, I know. But…” She looked away. She pushed off the sofa and stalked to an abstract painting on the wall.

He waited as she stared at it for a minute. Hard to believe, looking at her skimpy outfit, that she’d grown up at Best Life. But a lot of kids who decided to flee when they turned eighteen were desperate to leave much more than the cult’s white robes behind them. He’d been eager to explore a lot of what the world had to offer, too.

She turned to face him. Something glimmered on her cheek.

Was she crying?

His chest pinched.

“It’s just…” She bit her lower lip, then let it go. “I’ve already waited so long.” Her voice faded on the last word.

He stood and crossed the room to her but stopped a couple of feet away. He was like a stranger to her. What could he do to comfort her? Not that comforting anyone was his strength to begin with. He hadn’t given anyone a hug in…well, ten years or so? And that was a farewell with his last girlfriend.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. It must be very hard.”

She sucked in a trembling breath as she swiped away the tears with her hands. “It’s been two years since Sam—” She cut off abruptly, as if she didn’t want to say the word died. “That’s too long, you know?” She lifted her gaze to him, her blue eyes shimmering in the pool of her grief.

He nodded.

“It’s especially too long to let someone get away with killing him.” Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides as she strode back to the sofa but didn’t sit. She spun to face him. “Do you still think you can do it? Can you find who killed him?”

He paused, choosing his words carefully, as he’d done when she’d called him to ask if he would come to Minnesota to solve the death—the murder, she believed—of her boyfriend. “I’ll do my best to find the truth. I can promise you that. And if that leads me to murder and a killer, then that’s where I’ll go.”

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