Page 215 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

He didn’t answer but strode forward and grabbed the blankets from the floor. Tossing them onto the bed, he glanced around the room.

Becca saw something at his feet. “What’s that?” she asked, joining him in the middle of the room. She knelt and grabbed a familiar fountain pen. She turned it over to reveal the initials MD. Max Duncan.

She remembered when she first came here and he wouldn’t let her use this pen. No one used it, he said. Something squeezed at the hope she’d nurtured. “I think this is yours,” she said.

He glanced to the pen in her hand. “My pen. How did it get in here?”

“You tell me.” Tears burned the back of her eyes. “I’m going to call the sheriff.” Expecting him to leap toward her, she backed away from him toward the phone on the dresser.

“I’m not going to attack you,” he said.

His face softened with a plea she had to steel her heart against.

“I don’t know how my pen got in here, but obviously someone wants to implicate me in this attack. Call the sheriff.” He held out the phone.

Becca snatched up the phone and dialed. When the dispatcher answered, she told her what had happened, and the woman said a deputy would be out in a few minutes.

“It wasn’t me,” Max said when she hung up the phone.

“Then how did your pen get here? You always have it in your pocket. You wouldn’t even let me borrow it in your office.”

“Someone must have taken it.” He patted his pocket. “I didn’t realize it was missing. Surely, if I’d attacked you, I’d have a better story made up.”

Oh, how she longed to believe him. She felt hurt and shattered inside by his betrayal. One minute he’d kissed her and the next he tried to choke her. Was he some kind of psychotic?

He took a step toward her, and she shrank back. Consternation filled his face. “Becca, you’re killing me.”

He was the one trying to murder someone. She held out a hand to ward him off. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll scream.”

He stopped and shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered.

“What’s going on?” Gram stood in the doorway. Her robe belted around her ample figure, she blinked sleepily.

“Someone tried to choke Becca. The sheriff is on his way. She thinks I tried to kill her.”

“Oh my dear, are you all right?” Gram stepped into the room and put her arms around Becca.

Becca burst into tears and buried her face against her grandmother’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” she sobbed. “I want to go home. I want my mother.”

Gram patted her shoulder. “There, there. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m sure it wasn’t Max who tried to hurt you, but we’ll figure it out.”

Why would no one believe her? The proof was still clutched in her hand.

Her hand.

She dropped the pen on the floor. “I shouldn’t have touched it,” she said. “The sheriff will want to dust for fingerprints.”

“It was likely someone who broke in and took Max’s pen to implicate him.”

Becca knew she’d find no ally in Gram. She wouldn’t want to believe anyone in the house could be guilty of attempted murder. But the stakes had been raised by Gram’s announcement, and Becca knew it would take a miracle to live long enough to collect any inheritance.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The sheriff had taken Max’s favorite pen in for fingerprints, though he’d muttered something about it likely being an attacker from the village.

Max couldn’t blame Becca for being suspicious, but it hurt all the same. The evidence seemed overwhelming. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to have lost the pen during a struggle with Becca.

But he hadn’t been there. He curled his fingers into the palms of his hands. Becca was in danger, and he needed to do something about it. But how could he when she suspected him of the murder attempt? The helpless feeling made him feel caged.

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