Page 173 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

He raised his eyebrows. “What sort would you expect me to drive?”

“Oh, maybe an old convertible you work on yourself.”

“Like maybe the 1969 Roadrunner convertible in the other stall in the barn?”

She gaped. “You really have one?”

“Yep. The Cadillac was my wife’s. I seldom drive it.” His gaze mocked her.

“I see.” She wouldn’t look at him. Why did he always make her feel like a fool? She flipped open the book in front of her. “Did you get the copy of my research paper?”

“Yeah, I did. Looks well-written.”

Heat spread up her chest at his praise. “Thanks. I worked on it forever.”

“If I could just get this plot to come together in my mind, I’d be ready to write.”

“It looked like you were writing when I came in.”

He shook his head. “Stream of consciousness writing, trying to get a feel for my characters.”

“It must be hard to think up new characters here when you are exposed to so few people. The visitors you had a few weeks ago must have seemed like a breath of fresh air.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Who have you been talking to—Shayna? They were quite ordinary people.”

Becca bristled. “I wouldn’t think a marine biologist would be ordinary. I love to talk to people with exotic professions.”

“Science is boring to me. All those formulas to remember.”

He was skirting her question, she realized. “So you didn’t find them interesting?”

He shrugged. “Oh sure, they were nice people. And Molly was excited to meet a new aunt and uncle.”

“I bet they were quite taken with Molly.” Becca turned away so he couldn’t see the sorrow in her face. Her parents used to talk all the time about grandchildren. Now any grandchildren that came along would never know them. A lump formed in her throat, and she struggled not to cry.

“Yeah, they were. Molly still isn’t over the explosion.”

“She cried when she talked to me about it.”

He frowned. “When did you talk to her about it?”

Too late she realized Molly hadn’t wanted her father to know about going to the attic. “Yesterday when I arrived. I ran into her.” She prayed he didn’t ask where.

His attention wasn’t on her. He gazed through the window. “What’s he doing here?” He jumped up and strode to the door into the side yard.

Becca looked out to see a man about forty tying his small boat to the pier. She followed Max out the door.

“I told you not to come here.” Max had his hands on his hips and barred the man’s approach to the front door.

“You don’t own this place. Not yet.” The man had black hair with a shock of white running through it that hung over one eye. Slim almost to the point of emaciation, he didn’t seem put off by Max’s challenge.

“Gram isn’t here.”

That stopped the man. “Where is she?”

“That’s none of your business. You’ve milked her for enough money.”

The man’s gaze drifted past Max and fastened on Becca’s face. “Hello. Who are you?”

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