Page 89 of The Murder Club

“Did you sell the pictures you bought?”

“The wedding ones. They were worth a fortune.”

No shit, Dom silently conceded. If the numbers on the sticky notes were correct, Thorpe could spend the next few months relaxing on a private beach.

“And the pictures inside the house?” he asked. “Did you sell them?”

Thorpe shook his head. “No.”

Dom studied the man’s narrow face. He was a master liar, but he seemed sincere when he claimed he hadn’t shared the pictures.

“Could Kevin have sold them to someone else?”

Genuine anger flared through the green eyes. “He better not have. I paid a fortune to make sure they were exclusive.”

“Then the only people we know for certain who had access to the photos of the guest room were Kevin Hartford, Kevin’s wife, who took the photos, and you,” Dom said, his tone hard. “So who sent them to Bailey?”

Thorpe shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you saying the photos weren’t exclusive? Did Kevin sell them to someone else? If he did, I’ll kill the bastard.”

There was no point in arguing with Thorpe. He was determined to pretend he knew nothing about the texts. Or Kevin Hartford’s death.

“Did you give Eric the phone to take pictures of Bailey?” he instead demanded.

Thorpe scowled, as if considering whether or not to lie; then he gave a grudging nod. “Yes.”

Bailey sucked in a sharp breath. “Why?”

“When I came to Pike I intended to stay through the wedding and then head back to Chicago.”

“That’s where you live?” Dom asked.

“I have an apartment on Michigan Avenue,” Thorpe admitted. “Although I’m rarely there.”

Bailey stepped closer to Dom, her arms wrapped around her waist. “Why did you want pictures of me?”

Thorpe heaved a sigh, as if he was growing weary of the conversation. “Like I said, I intended to leave after I got the wedding pictures, but then my agent called me with an offer.”

“You have an agent?” Bailey asked in confusion.

“I’m a professional. Of course I have an agent.”

Dom resisted the urge to point out he was a professional dirtbag. Name calling wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed.

“What was the offer?” he demanded.

“A book deal.”

Dom was confused. “A book about Pike?”

“On Kaden Vaughn’s thrilling life,” Thorpe corrected. “According to my agent, the world is desperate to know more about the man who fled home at the tender age of eighteen to escape the brutality of his alcoholic father and landed in Hollywood, where he went from living on the streets to creating a career as a famous stuntman. And if that wasn’t enough, he risked his life, nearly dying in his attempt to solve the mysterious case of his brother’s missing fiancée.” A cynical grin twisted his lips. “And now he has made the romantic decision to settle down with his own personal Cinderella in this remote town famous for producing serial killers.”

“That’s why you wanted the pictures of his house,” Bailey breathed in disgust.

“It’s quite a story. I have no doubt it will be a bestseller.”

Dom clenched his hands, struggling against the urge to wrap his fingers around the bastard’s neck and squeeze.

“You understand that if you’re stupid enough to write a book about Kaden’s private life he will devote every waking second to destroying you?”

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