Page 87 of The Murder Club

“How dare you?” Ford bristled with outrage. “Do you go around making wild accusations to everyone or just those people who weren’t born and raised in this town?”

Dom studied him with a cold contempt. Ford’s reaction was painfully over the top. Just like everything else about him.

“Either you think we’re idiots or you’re deliberately trying to piss us off.” Dom pointed over Ford’s shoulder. “We can see from here that you’re spying on Bailey’s house. Along with Kaden and Lia’s property.”

The man shrugged. “So I have a few cameras on public property? It’s not illegal.”

Dom muttered a curse. “I’m done with your lies,” he warned, taking another step forward. “You’re going to tell us the truth.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll find out for myself.”

The pretend Ford smiled, tilting his chin to a mocking angle. Dom knew what the other man was doing. He was trying to bait him into taking a swing at his smug face. No doubt he intended to have Dom arrested the second he punched him. Or maybe he was just hoping to sue him. It wasn’t a secret that Dom had made a fortune after opening Money Makers with Kaden. Thankfully, Dom wasn’t that impulsive. Unless the man tried to harm Bailey, he was going to use his brain, not his brawn, to get the information he wanted.

Shoving Ford aside, he grabbed the handle of the glass door and with one sharp jerk managed to break the flimsy lock. A wry smile twisted his lips. Okay, maybe a little brawn was going to be necessary. Along with a few broken laws.

“Dammit! You’re going to pay to replace that lock,” Ford blustered, following behind Dom as he strolled into the room and turned in a slow circle.

“Send me a bill,” he told his companion, glancing toward the monitors that not only showed Bailey’s and Kaden’s houses but the outside of the lodge. Dom narrowed his eyes at the sight of the truck in the parking lot. Obviously Ford had just returned. The question was whether he had accidentally stumbled across them or had he had some sort of alarm set up to warn him that someone was near his property?

Dom shrugged, moving toward the desk even as he caught sight of Bailey heading toward the monitors, her face flush with anger.

“Tell me why you’re stalking me,” she demanded.

Ford held up his hands, trying to look innocent. A wasted effort. “Look, I’m not stalking anyone.”

Bailey pointed at the monitors. “Then what’s this about?”

Dom grabbed one of the books from the desk, grimacing at the sight of a famous actress on the front cover, her cheeks streaked with mascara and her hair a mess. It was one of those tell-all books written by a paparazzi. About to toss it aside, his gaze caught sight of the stacks of photos, his heart stopping as he recognized Kaden and Lia in their wedding attire, gazing at each other in blatant rapture.

“Bailey,” he rasped, keeping the book in one hand as he used the other to knock over the stack of photos.

Bailey hurried over, her brows lifting as she studied the dozens of pictures that were now spread across the desk. Most of them were of Kaden and Lia’s wedding, along with the reception that included both him and Bailey, but there were also pictures of Pike and the surrounding area. Predictably, a few of them had been taken next to the railway tracks, where a skeleton had been recently discovered.

“Dammit,” the pretend Ford growled. “You can’t just paw through my shit.”

“Agree to disagree.” Dom waved the book toward the advancing man, reading the author’s name from the back cover. “Thorpe Curry. That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

Bailey leaned forward, grabbing one of the glossy magazines that had been stacked next to the books. The front cover had the picture of a famous politician heading out of a courthouse with his lawyer, trying to hide his face.

“You’re a paparazzo?” she hissed.

The man glared at them. “I’m a journalist.”

“A journalist who sneaks around, making money by spying on people.” Dom tossed the book back on the desk. He’d lived in LA long enough to have heard the name. Thorpe Curry was notorious for using outrageous stunts to get pictures of the rich and famous. “That’s worse than a stalker.”

The man pulled off his sunglasses and shoved them into the pocket of his coat. “When you become a public figure you accept that the fans who made you rich deserve to know what’s happening in your life.”

Dom made a sound of disgust. “You came to Pike to harass Kaden.”

“It’s not harassment.” Thorpe revealed zero embarrassment at having his secret revealed. As if he’d spent so much of his life lying and pretending to be someone else, it was just another day for him. “When a famous stuntman solves a fifteen-year-old murder in a town that has been plagued with serial killers . . . it’s going to be the story of the year. Of course I came here. Like every other journalist.”

Dom was shaking his head before the man stopped speaking. “Not like every other journalist. You used a fake name.”

“Because not every other journalist is famous,” Thorpe argued, his expression faintly smug. “I was afraid Kaden would recognize me.”

“Why Ford Smithson?” Bailey asked, handing Dom a pile of eight-by-ten photos that had been hidden in a file folder.

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