Page 8 of Fire on the Moon

She took a swallow of water, then set the glass down on a round glass-topped table.

“Feeling any better?

“Yes.”

“What happened—exactly?”

“What did you see?” she countered.

She was still being cautious, and he couldn’t fault her for that.

“I’ve been running on the beach every day since I got here. Most days I saw an older man out on the patio of the house where you were.”

“My uncle.”

“Then, this afternoon, you were out there with him. I hadn’t seen you before, and I slowed down.”

“Why?”

“He’d always been alone before. Not long after the two of you came outside, I saw two thuggish-looking men come up along the beach and break through the gate.”

“Yes.”

He was glad to focus on business instead of examining his reaction to her. “Who were they?”

“I don’t know. Uncle Angelo saw them coming and dragged me to the front hall closet. There was a hidden space behind the back wall, and he pushed me inside and closed the panel. Then I heard them questioning him in the living room.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure. They were being rough with him. It sounded like they wanted something. I don’t know what because they all seemed to know what they were talking about, so there wasn’t much information exchanged. When he wouldn’t cooperate . . . they beat on him. Then . . .” She stopped and took a shaky breath. “They shot him.”

He hadn’t heard anything. Or perhaps he had on some almost subliminal level. “You’re sure?”

“I heard what sounded like gunshots.” She shuddered. “Then they were talking about getting rid of his body.”

She was watching to see how he reacted to her story of violence and murder. He put on his best professional face. He’d already decided when he didn’t see the old man come out of the house after the fire had started that the guy was dead or injured, and this was just confirmation.

“You said you were a private detective,” she blurted. “Can I hire you?”

As soon as she said it, panic flashed across her face. “Oh my God. I just realized, I don’t have my purse. Either it burned up in the fire, or those men took it when they took away my uncle’s body.”

“How do you know they took away the body?”

“They talked about putting it in the trunk of their car.”

She reached for the glass of water and took a gulp, then slumped down in the chair.

He wanted to cross the room, scoop her up and cradle her in his lap, but he stayed where he was. “I already said I’d help you.”

“What does that mean?”

He focused on the immediate problem. “Keeping you safe while we figure out who killed your uncle and why.”

She dipped her head. “I’m sure a bodyguard is expensive.”

“Don’t worry about that. Frank Decorah, the head of my agency, has a fund for clients in need.”

“You mean charity,” she shot back.

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