Page 104 of Call Back

Chapter 21

Brady insistedon walking us to Belinda’s car, which she’d moved to the back parking lot. Why hadn’t she knocked on the back door?

She stopped next to her car and turned to look up at him, her key fob dangling from her hand. “As sweet as your concern for Magnolia is, it seems overzealous. Is she in any danger?”

Brady held her gaze. “She has ties to several people who have been murdered since she came back to town. I think my concerns are justified even if there is no clear connection.”

The setting sun had made the sky a pallet of pinks and oranges and reds, casting Belinda in an unearthly glow. She looked more like an avenging angel than a wedding planner. “She’ll be perfectly safe with me.”

Standing in the parking lot like a sentinel, which now seemed more suffocating than protective, he watched us drive away.

“I know this is none of my business,” Belinda said, her eyes firmly on the road. “But how serious are you and Brady?”

I resisted the urge to squirm. “We just got involved last week.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said in an even tone. “I have plenty of brides show up who have only known the grooms a few months.”

My mouth dropped. “I’m not getting married.”

“I never said you were,” she said, unruffled by my protest. “But you can still get serious.”

“Let’s just say he wants a relationship, and after a brief attempt, I’ve decided it’s a bad idea.”

“You broke up with him?” When I didn’t respond, she said, “It’s obvious he’s not ready to let it go.”

“I suppose.” I sure wasn’t about to admit how unsettled I was by the way he was handling my experience with the serial killer.

She grinned at me. “I’m your sister-in-law. I think it’s my job to quiz you on your love life.”

Like you answer questions about your love life with Roy?But I was smart enough to keep that to myself. Instead, I got the point across by asking, “Is Roy really out of town?”

“Yes.” She glanced my direction again. “I would never bring you to my house if he was there. I would never willingly subject you to that.” She hesitated. “But if you’re really in danger, maybe we should just head to my house. It really is safe. You can come with me to the shop in the morning and try the dress on then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t really feel like trying dresses on anyway.”

We were quiet the rest of the drive to the neighborhood she had brought me to the night of the Bunco party nearly a month ago. She pulled into the driveway of a brick two-story house with a full front porch. Even in the fading sunlight, I could see the yard was lush and green, and the landscaping was impeccable. While I knew Belinda had excellent taste, part of me wondered if it was also my brother keeping up appearances.

She pressed the garage door opener and the door rolled up, revealing a nearly empty garage except for the shelves lining the back wall, stacked with an assortment of coolers, paint cans, and tools. All very neat and tidy.

As soon as she pulled into the garage, she pushed the button to close the door and stayed inside the car until it was completely closed. She turned to me with a small smile. “You can’t be too careful.”

Her behavior led me to believe this was a habit.

Belinda unlocked the door to the garage, and led me into her kitchen. She turned off the alarm at a keypad next to the door, then quickly turned it back on.

“Do you really have a panic room?” I asked.

Her serious eyes met mine. “Yes.” Then, as if she’d said nothing more startling than that it might rain later, she walked into the kitchen and set her Kate Spade purse on the breakfast room table.

“Belinda, your house is beautiful,” I gushed as I took it in. The kitchen was decorated in warm creams and reds, with granite counters. It was open to a living room with overstuffed furniture, vintage light wood tables, and heavy drapes. Both rooms looked like they could have been in a decorating magazine featuring French Country design.

I’d expected her home to be as well put-together as she was, but this house looked like a builder’s showcase. The closer I looked, the more I realized there were no hints of the things that made a house a home—an open book, put down mid-read, a grocery list on the fridge, a stack of unopened mail. No shoes in the corner or even dirty dishes on the counter or sink. While the house had touches of Belinda all over it, it didn’t have the warmth I’d come to love about her.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked as she stopped in front of a small wine refrigerator.

“Yeah . . . Do you really want to cook dinner?”

She laughed. “We have to eat, don’t we?” She selected a bottle of wine from the fridge and quickly removed the cork. After retrieving two white wine glasses from the hanging display over the wine refrigerator, she gave us each a healthy pour.

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