Page 84 of Noble Neighbor
Sucking in deep breaths, Sunny tried to make sense of the document on Oliver’s computer.
She scanned the screen.
It was part of an email, she realized, and forced her hand to grip the mouse and click back to the message.
Mr. Armstrong,it read.This is just a courtesy to inform you of the article running next week.As you never take the time to reply or answer my calls, I didn’t bother contacting you this time. But if you ever change your mind and decide to talk about your wife, my door is always open.
The signature read,G. Gordiano.
No.No, no. Sunny rammed her trembling hands into her hair, fingers gripping, pulling.
This was a mistake.It had to be.
A dreadful macabre mistake, but a mistake, nonetheless.
Oliver’s wife’s name was Christie.
And Christie Armstrong wasnota victim of the Silk Rope Strangler.
Sunny would know — their names were forever etched in her mind.
*
Five years ago …
Savannah ripped the fitted sheet from the bed. To the devil with Lathan and his bad moods. A woman could only take so much, and then no more.
And he’d crossed her line.
Her husband had arrived home late from work on Friday, disheveled and upset, and had gone straight to his study, ordering her not to disturb him. Relieved, she’d gone to bed.
With Mary barely three weeks old, exhaustion was a constant, her body still recovering from the emergency cesarean.And as sweet as Kate was to her new sister,having an active four-year-old and a new baby demandeda lot from her.
Lathan had remained sequestered behind closed doors most of the weekend, only appearing for meals. Where he slept, she had no idea, and she couldn’t actually give a flying fig.
But this morning he’d shouted at Kate, calling her stupid and causing their daughter to cry. In no way was that right, and she’d given him a piece of her mind. He’d stormed from the breakfast table without finishing his food. Good riddance.
He’s having an affair.
The thought brought her to an abrupt halt, and she straightened, scowling at the bed. Theirmarriagebed. It wasn’t the first time she suspected infidelity. With a growl, Savannah stomped into his dressing room. Damned if she was going to become the wife-who-was-the-last-to-know.
It took her a beat to realize his valet stand was bare. She frowned at the anomaly. The most fastidious man she knew with his clothing, he always hung his suits to air after he undressed. Plus, he’d worn a new Tom Ford one on Friday.
She remembered commenting on how his red tie picked up the red thread in the houndstooth weave.
Savannah tipped the laundry basket, finding only casual wear from the past two days. She riffled through his dozens of suits. Nope.
Temper rising, she did an about turn and all but flew down the stairs and into the laundry room. The rack where garments hung waiting for dry cleaning was empty. Hands on her hips, she did a three-sixty, eyes scanning.
And noted a tied-off laundry bag stuffed in a corner.
It hadn’t been there on Friday.
She ripped it open. The white shirt and houndstooth red-thread suit spilling to the floor did not surprise her. She picked up the shirt and shook it out, expecting to find an incriminating smudge of lipstick on the collar or maybe catch a whiff of perfume.
All she found was a crusted brown streak on the arm. Frowning, she pulled the sleeve taught. A slit? About an inch below the shoulder seam. She sniffed. Metallic. Blood?
Lathan must’ve cut himself. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? Well, at least there was no unfamiliar female scent coming from it. Releasing the shirt, she lifted the jacket and found a matching cut on the sleeve.
