Page 52 of Lie for a Million

Her body tensed with a hunted animal’s wariness. For now, she would have to watch her every move, guard her every spoken word. Her enemy had returned.

* * *

Roper took the call on his break. The message was brief, just a few words, but the anxiety in Lila’s voice set off alarms. He called her back. She answered on the first ring.

“Roper, thank goodness.”

“What is it, Boss? Are you all right?”

“For now. But we need to talk.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, picking up on her distress. “Where are you? Can you talk now?”

“I’m in my room. I’d come to you, but I don’t think that’s wise right now.”

“Just tell me. Whatever it is, I’m here for you.”

In the silence, he could hear her breathing. “It’s Sam,” she said. “He believes it was you who killed Frank.”

The words struck him like a shotgun blast. There had to be some mistake. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I swear to God, I didn’t—I wouldn’t. You’ve got to believe me, Boss.”

“I believe you,” Lila said. “I tried to tell him that. But Sam seems to think all the pieces fit. He said that he just needs a critical piece of evidence and he’ll be ready to make an arrest.”

“What kind of evidence? Did he tell you?”

“No. But I’m sure he meant for me to let you know. He wants you to react and give yourself away.” She lowered her voice, as if she feared someone might be eavesdropping. “Listen to me, Roper. You’ve got to behave as if you know nothing about this. Go on with your training as if nothing’s happened. If you try to leave—”

“I understand,” he said.

“There’s more.” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Mariah’s been spying on us and reporting to Darrin and Simone. They claim that you and I were having an affair while Frank was still alive. Sam believes you killed Frank because of me—and he suspects that I might’ve helped you. And now you’re competing in his place. You can see how this looks.”

“Yes. It looks like hell.” Roper felt as if he were drowning in the flood of her words. “I’ll deal with this, Boss. What’s most important is that you believe I’m not a murderer. Can I count on that?”

Was there a beat of hesitation? “Of course you can,” she said. “But there’s one more thing. You and I mustn’t be alone together. Someone might see, and that could be bad for both of us.”

“Agreed.” That brief pause in her reply had cut deep, but at least he knew where she stood. “I’ll just keep training the horses and hoping for the best,” he said. “Keep me posted. I’ve got to get back to work.”

Roper ended the call, laid the phone on the desk, and turned away. A shudder passed through his body as he realized that his whole life could change in a heartbeat.

He had long since stopped believing in happy endings. Fate could be fickle, and there was no compassion in justice. He hadn’t killed Frank, but that didn’t matter—not when one stroke of bad luck could put him behind bars for good.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

On Sunday morning, Sam drove into town for the ten o’clock service at First Community Church. He’d never been much of a churchgoer, but he was hoping to speak to the reverend about Ethel Grishman. Showing up for the meeting would be his best chance.

Arriving early, he took a seat in the back pew, where he could see the people who came in. Most of them were strangers, although he recognized a few he’d seen in town. Some had already taken their seats. Sam studied them from behind. One woman with her graying hair pulled into a bun looked vaguely familiar. At first, he couldn’t place her. Only when she turned her head, giving him a view of her profile, did he recognize Rachel McKenna, Roper’s mother.

For now, he abandoned his intent to meet with the reverend. That could wait. Questioning Rachel about her son could be the key to wrapping up this murder case.

Did Rachel know that Roper was the target of his investigation? Sam would bet against it. Even if Roper knew, it wouldn’t be like him to tell his mother. He wouldn’t want her to worry.

Sam wasn’t about to tell her either. He just wanted her to relax and talk to him. If he could get her to admit that Roper might’ve left the house the night of Frank’s murder, that would be pay dirt.

The service began with an opening hymn that Sam didn’t recognize. The sermon, delivered in a droning voice by the middle-aged minister, was mostly lost on Sam because his mind was racing ahead to the hoped-for encounter with Rachel. How would he approach her? How could he question her in a way that would encourage her to talk about her son?

What he planned to do wasn’t kind, but getting information from family members was part of his job. He’d long since learned to steel himself against any twinge of guilt. But the guilt was there, below the surface. Maybe that was why, when the collection plate was passed, he laid down a $20 bill.

After the closing prayer, the parishioners rose and began to file out of the chapel. Sam kept his eyes on Rachel. As she passed him on the way out, he fell into step behind her.

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