Page 95 of The Luminosity of Loriana Harper

As he walked past Fifties, he considered going in. The diner was twenty-four/seven and open three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Maybe Sarabeth was working. Maybe he could give the poor woman a big tip.

Maybe his computer consulting business would dry up if the good folks of Mission City heard he was a murder suspect.

Or so Corporal Colton had intimated. The truth was, they had no proof. They had no evidence.

Because he hadn’t done it.

Still, on advice of legal counsel, he hadn’t provided fingerprints. Although he was sure Marjorie’s cleaning staff was thorough—and he couldn’t imagine anywhere else he’d been that would still have his prints—he agreed with his lawyer the risk was too great. And what if they tried to use the prints against him later? He didn’t want to think the cops capable. But then he wouldn’t have predicted being dragged down on Christmas Eve for a long interrogation.

And when he tried to discuss money, Mr. Sankar said the first time was free.

Mitch didn’t believe that for a second. Time cost money and no way could the lawyer be able to give it away for free. Although, maybe he assumed Mitch’d need further counsel and that would make it worth his while. Hell, Mitch didn’t even know how much the man made.

He’d have to ask.

Now, as he stood on the balcony and gazed out over the mighty Fraser River, the feeling of disquiet settled. He needed sleep, but he also needed answers. If flying to California and investigating was even a remote possibility, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Not just because he wanted to clear his name—that was a given. No, he wanted someone competent looking into the murder of the woman he once fancied himself in love with. Anyone who believed he had anything to do with it was delusional and clearly lacked the mental capacity to tie their own shoes, let alone lead a homicide investigation.

Homicide.

Who’d hated Marjorie so much they wanted her dead? Or might it’ve been work-related? That idea kept percolating in his mind. She’d screwed him over in business to get ahead. What if she’d done the same thing to someone who hadn’t been willing to sit back and meekly accept it? What if she’d crossed the wrong person?

He knew many of the players. He’d been at the company long enough that he had a grasp of senior management, as well as many of the line managers and team leaders. Most of his fellow employees’d been happy to do their jobs. A few, though, coveted upper management. Where the real bucks were made. He’d never had those aspirations.

Sighing, he moved away from the glorious view and headed to the kitchen. He’d completely missed dinner last night and had been offered coffee of questionable origin at the station. He planned a nice bowl of cereal and then a long nap.

Loriana’s party.

Damn. He promised he’d go. He didn’t want to. Not just because he didn’t feel like socializing with a large group of people he didn’t know, but because he didn’t want to taint Loriana with the clouds of suspicion hanging over his head.

After pouring a bowl of cereal, he sat at the table to eat. Again, he looked around his condo and winced. He still hadn’t hung anything. Not that he had much to hang. But he’d found a nice gallery-type store on First Avenue that had some lovely pieces in the window. Maybe he could find something in there he could afford. And it’d be a way to support a local artist.

If you’re staying.

Word hadn’t gotten out yet about his potential connection to Marjorie’s death, but after last night, the possibility existed. All the guys from the party seemed like decent folks, but it only took one blabbermouth to spread the word. If Nosy Norma got hold of that nugget of gossip, his goose was cooked. The possibility of remaining anonymous was impossible.

Having finished his cereal, he rose and moved into the kitchen. He put the bowl and spoon into the dishwasher and headed to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, after a scalding shower, he climbed into bed. He didn’t set the alarm. He just closed his eyes and prayed for oblivion.

Oblivion came in the way of strange dreams and nightmares. When his ringing phone woke him, he had to push away the horrific images and focus on answering the phone. “Hello?”

“Are you all right?”

He struggled through the brain fog. “Loriana?”

“Of course, Loriana. Unless you have some other woman who’d be calling to check up on you.”

“There isn’t—and you know it. I’m just fuzzy from lack of sleep.”

A long pause. “So they kept you late?”

“All night.”

“And you didn’t think to call?”

Ah. Despite the fuzziness, he couldn’t miss the hurt. “I didn’t get out until after six, and I didn’t have access to my phone during the night.”

She made an indeterminate sound that he pegged as a harrumph.

“I could’ve called early this morning.” A minor concession. “But I assumed you’d be asleep, and you have a big day today.”

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