Page 18 of Call Back

I sat back on the sofa, grappling with this new information and what it could mean. Were Max Goodwin and Neil Fulton’s murders connected to this conspiracy my father had been mixed up in? Amy Danvers, former assistant to country superstar Luke Powell, had been blamed for their deaths. She’d killed herself, or so the police had decided, and left behind a note admitting to everything. Could that have been a setup?

I grabbed my phone and texted Colt.

I think there’s a connection to the Goodwin and Fulton murders and my father. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.

I needed to see the guest list to Luke Powell’s release party. Max Goodwin had been murdered at the party, and since I had quickly become the police department’s number one person of interest, Belinda had gotten the list from Amy to help us look for other suspects. Neil Fulton had been murdered at Luke’s home days later.

The Amy solution had never seemed like much of a solution at all to me, but I’d bought it, mostly, because everyone else had accepted it.

I opened a new browser tab and searched for Brian Steele + Max Goodwin. A long list of results popped up.

Why the hell had my father been involved with that sleazeball?

I started digging through the results. Most were random results, generated because my father and Max had attended many of the same events, but there was a post on the second page about Brian Steele and Max Goodwin and a singer named Tripp Tucker. According to Tripp, his team had wronged him, and he’d filed a lawsuit against a slew of people two years before my father’s disappearance. His gripe with Max wasn’t surprising—the agent had left behind a long string of disgruntled clients and wannabe clients—but he’d also filed suit against my father, alleging he’d lost what little money Tripp had made in an investment gone wrong. Neil Fulton had represented Max and Daddy, along with Christopher Merritt, the accountant, and Walter Frey, the real estate attorney.

Bingo.

The article mentioned the Jackson Project, so I bookmarked the post and performed a new search. Another slew of posts popped up, and the top result’s title was “Ambitious Real Estate Venture Goes Belly Up.” A company by the name of Winterhaven had started the project and then brought in investors. My father’s name wasn’t mentioned, but Walter Frey’s name caught my eye.

I knew Daddy had a working relationship with Walter Frey and Christopher Merritt, but how far back did it go, and how involved had it been?

I leaned over my laptop and opened the next result, titled, “Winterhaven to Profit off the Collapse of Real Estate Project.” Before I got beyond the first lines, I heard the door open behind me. Bolting upright, I spun around to see Brady walking through the front door.

It always made me smile to see him. He looked like a Boy Scout all grown up—tall and broad-chested and wholesome-looking, with wavy brown hair. He smiled back at me. “You’re a welcome sight to come home to.”

Brady made me feel things I wasn’t used to feeling. Safe. Protected. Appreciated. I kept waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop because everyone had an agenda. Everyone wanted something. But I had to wonder if I’d just become too jaded.

“Hey,” I said softly and closed my laptop lid as he walked over and sat down next to me. “How was your day?”

His eyes filled with tenderness. “I’m the one who should be asking you. It was your first day back to work. I hope you didn’t overdo it.”

“I got a little tired, but nothing I couldn’t handle. It helped that I only worked at the boutique today.”

“I heard you put on a sidewalk concert with Colt.”

I studied his face for signs of disapproval. Brady had made no secret of his dislike of my friend, but he looked pleased.

“How did you hear that?” I asked.

“I told you, I have eyes and ears everywhere.” He grinned. “But in this case, it was Owen.”

I struggled to hide my surprise. “Owen?”

“Yeah, he said he was downtown and stopped to listen. He also said you had quite a crowd.”

Unless Brady was a hell of a good actor, he had no knowledge of my performance with Colt in my apartment a couple of hours ago. Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to viewing it yet, but I couldn’t let my head go there. I needed to believe Brady was one of the good guys.

I turned on the sofa to face him, pulling the afghan higher on my lap. “It was Alvin’s doing, and I suspect it was his attempt to gather more customers. It worked because we were packed all afternoon.” I hesitated, then asked, “What else did Owen say?”

“That you sounded great. Maybe even better than when he heard you at the Kincaid.” He took my hand and held it between his own. “You’ve acquired a new fan.”

I couldn’t hold back the wry grin that lifted the corners of my mouth. I wasn’t surprised that was how Owen was selling it. “He stayed long enough to talk to me afterward.”

His eyes widened. “He didn’t mention that.”

“He wanted to let me know that my apartment has been cleared,” I said, testing him out. Sure, he’d welcomed me into his home a few days ago, and he’d held me at night when I couldn’t sleep, but we’d only shared one kiss—the night we met, four weeks ago now. Brady was a red-blooded man, and he was bound to be frustrated. It occurred to me that maybe he wanted me to go but was too nice to actually kick me out.

His smile faded. “You can’t go back yet. The door’s been busted in, and the floor . . .” His gaze held mine. “Your landlord has quite a few things to address before you can move back in.”

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