Page 121 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Please, Caitlyn, just wait a few days. Give me some time to work things out. I know the D.A. Let me talk to Kathy Okano and see where we stand.”

Caitlyn wasn’t convinced she was doing the right thing, wasn’t certain the police were the enemy, though when she remembered Detective Reed standing on her doorstep, she was tempted to change her mind. She’d even caught a glimpse of him another time, at a coffee shop around the corner from her house, just casually ordering a bagel. In her neighborhood. Oh, sure. He was the reason she felt she was being followed, she was certain of it.

But would he call you on the phone and not answer?

Or would he pretend to be your child?

No. She didn’t believe that of him.

He was relentless, yes, and she imagined that he was capable of bending the law a bit, but she didn’t think he’d stoop to psychological harassment.

She left the lawyer’s

office and drove by Adam’s office—Rebecca’s old office. The fact that Adam now used it as his office was odd. Kelly was right. At times she felt he wasn’t being straight with her, was holding something about himself back, and other times she felt he was being absolutely honest. She didn’t know which but found him more fascinating than she had imagined. There was something restless about him, an impatience hidden beneath his calm veneer and it touched her . . . called out to her.

You really are wacko, aren’t you? Worse yet, a romantic wacko. What do you really know about him? Nothing. Other than what he’s told you.

Bothered, she drove out of the city. She still hadn’t heard from Hannah, and she was getting worried. Caitlyn had called Troy, and he’d reminded her that Hannah was like a wounded dog when she was troubled, that she liked to be left alone to lick her emotional wounds. But Caitlyn wasn’t convinced, and Amanda was jittery.

“I don’t like it, either,” she’d said when Cailtyn called her. “I’d run out there this afternoon, but I’m buried at work. And I’ve got to meet with the minister and the funeral director for Mom—Dear God, can you believe it?” She sighed. “Maybe I can run out later—oh, damn, I’m supposed to pick up Ian from the airport. But then I’ll stop by.”

“Don’t worry about it. If she doesn’t call me back this morning, I’ll go out after my appointment with Marvin Wilder.”

“Then call me. I want to know what Marvin says one way or another. In the meantime let’s hope that Hannah calls.” Amanda sounded distraught. “I’d insist upon police protection, but they’re all such dicks. We’d be better off with a private service—bodyguards all around. I’m going to suggest it to Troy, and if he won’t loosen the estate’s purse strings, then I’ll pay for it myself. My God, Caitlyn, we can’t just let ourselves be sitting ducks. But . . . I’m sure Hannah’s all right,” she added with more of her usual calm.

Caitlyn wasn’t convinced and dialed Troy again. With no luck.

She was told by a snippy secretary that Troy was “in a meeting” and couldn’t be disturbed. So Caitlyn was on her own. Driving to Oak Hill and hoping like hell that Hannah was there.

The mailbox was empty and covered in cobwebs. The gate to the lane was secured by a heavy rusting chain. But the lock looked new, and there were what appeared to be fresh tire tracks in the mud. Adam double-checked the address. This was the place. He was sure of it. He’d pushed Caitlyn into telling him where Kelly lived, and she’d reluctantly come up with a place—she couldn’t remember the address, but her description had helped him narrow the possibilities. He’d checked with the county, done some digging and found that this house had been rented to one Kacie Griffin. According to the not-so-tight-lipped receptionist at the rental management company, the checks came in like clockwork.

Well, if this was the place, so be it. He had his picks and the imposing lock was spring loaded, not much of a challenge for someone who as a youth had learned the skills from street kids he hung out with. Lock picking, hot-wiring cars, slipping in and out of houses undetected, he’d perfected these skills and was on his way to major trouble when his grandmother had found out and hauled his ass to his older brother, who was then a military policeman. He’d suggested she turn Adam over to the local cops. Grandma had given him one more chance, but taken him to a state prison and had a friend walk him through the place. The catcalls and whistles, iron bars, barbed wire and eyes in watch towers had convinced him to give up his juvenile life of crime.

But the old rusty skills still came in handy.

He neatly picked the lock, but thought better of driving his car through the gate. He didn’t want to be trapped. If someone came, he could hide and sneak away fairly easily—but not with the car parked out front announcing he was inside.

With that in mind, he parked his car at an abandoned gravel pit half a mile away and jogged back to the old gate, slipped inside and continued down the gravel lane, which was little more than two ruts with weeds growing between them. Guarded by oak and pine, the lane was shaded and secluded, but not forgotten. The grass and weeds were bent in places, and he wondered if Kelly, or Kacie, was at home.

What then?

It was possible she was a murderess.

People were dying daily.

Whoever she was, she wouldn’t want to be exposed, would want to protect the privacy she’d worked so hard to create. He felt a chill, as if he were walking a path evil had already taken, as he rounded a corner and saw the house. It wasn’t much. Not by Montgomery standards. Set in the trees with a view of the river, it had to be a hundred years old. Maybe more. Painted green and brown—well, once anyway and a very long time ago—it was nestled in the forest at a bend in the river and looked like a little hunting or fishing cabin.

Hoping he wasn’t met by a man with a shotgun, he rapped on the front door. He’d be straight with anyone who answered, say he was looking for Kacie, and hope that whoever was inside didn’t take offense and blow him away. She could be a murderer. Remember that. And don’t be macho enough to think that you can overpower her because she’s a woman. She’s killed before.

He knocked again. Waited. Strained to hear some movement inside.

But there was no noise over the wind in the trees, the lap of the river or the occasional call from some marsh bird.

Carefully, he circled the small home, trying to peer through the windows, though most of the blinds were shut, dead insects and cobwebs and dirt between the closed shutters and the dirty glass. If Kelly Montgomery lived here, she was a pig. The front door was bolted; a small door to a lean-to carport was also locked tight. At the back of the house, he noticed footprints in the mud and dirt near the back veranda, cigarette butts crushed in the sand. Someone had been here recently.

On quiet footsteps he walked up two steps to the deck. It creaked under his weight, protesting his intrusion. The French doors were locked as well, but he withdrew his picks and quickly sprung the mechanism.

Slowly he pushed open the door. Then, telling himself he wasn’t a common burglar, that the only law he was breaking was that of trespassing, he stepped inside.

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