Deadly Christmas Secrets. Shirlee McCoy

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СКАЧАТЬ guess that depends on whether or not you try to run when the cops get here.”

      “When the cops get here—”

      “Tell you what,” Logan interrupted. “How about we skip the discussion and get to the point. Who hired you to follow me out here?”

      The guy went silent, his face blazing with anger.

      “Right. So someone did hire you.”

      “I didn’t say that!” the man snarled.

      “Which answers another question. You’re afraid of whoever hired you, and that’s why you’re denying it.”

      “I’m not—”

      Sirens cut off the words, the screaming sound of them filling the woods. Picasso barked frantically, excited and alarmed by the chaos.

      Harper just wanted it to be over.

      She wanted the police to take the gunman away. She wanted Logan to leave. She wanted to go back to the life she’d made for herself. Quiet. Simple. Free of disappointments and heartaches and sorrows.

      She supposed that made her a coward.

      She wasn’t really.

      She’d loved the life she’d once had—the hectic, high-stress graphic design job, the sweet brownstone she’d bought for a steal and remodeled. She’d loved her sister, her niece. She’d even fallen in love. Once upon a time. When she’d still been in college and not nearly as convinced that Shelby women always chose men who were going to hurt them.

      Daniel had taught her a valuable lesson about that.

      If she hadn’t learned it from her college sweetheart, she might have learned it from watching Lydia. Gabe hadn’t been the kind of husband any woman deserved. He’d cheated. More than once, and he hadn’t been apologetic about it.

      And then Lydia and Amelia had died, murdered by a homeless man who’d stolen Lydia’s purse. That was the story the prosecuting attorney told. He’d built a tight case and presented it to a jury, convincing them that Norman Meyers had killed Lydia and Amelia and tossed their bodies into the Patuxent River. Norman was a known meth addict who’d committed enough petty crimes to be a frequent flyer with the police. He’d been married twice, and both his wives had restraining orders against him. Violent was a word that had been used a lot during the trial, and Norman’s angry, defiant glare hadn’t done anything to convince the jury otherwise. Despite the fact that Amelia’s body had never been found, the prosecuting attorney had gone for two counts of second-degree murder. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, and Norman had been put away for life.

      Harper had always thought she should be happy with that, but she’d felt no sense of closure. Most days she could convince herself that the jury was right, that Norman was guilty. There were other days when she thought it was all a little too convenient—Lydia and Amelia sneaking out of her place in the middle of the night, walking along a street quiet enough for them to be accosted without any witnesses. Amelia’s body missing and never found. Harper’s brother-in-law finally free of a wife he’d seemed to despise. Harper had spent enough time with her sister and brother-in-law to hear the arguments, the accusations, the veiled threats. She knew that Gabe loved his daughter. He would have never been able to hurt her, but Harper wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have hurt Lydia.

      Had he killed her? Secreted their daughter away somewhere?

      The idea seemed farfetched. Besides, the only family member the police seemed to have suspected was Harper. She’d been the last person to see her niece and sister alive and—according to her brother-in-law—was a jealous younger sister who’d hated Lydia.

      The press had had a field day with stories that implicated her. She’d lost a few clients because of it, and then she’d lost her job.

      Worse, she’d had no alibi, no way of proving that her sister and niece had left her house alive. Until Norman Meyers had pawned Lydia’s engagement ring, Harper had been certain she was going to be tried and convicted.

      Not good memories. Any of them.

      She shuddered, taking a step away from Logan and the man he was still holding down.

      “Harper?” Logan said sharply, and she thought he must have already tried to get her attention. “Can you head to your place and lead the police here?”

      “Why?” the gunman spat. “Because you plan to murder me and don’t want any witnesses?”

      Logan ignored him, pulling out his cell phone and glancing at the screen. “Tell the police that I’ve got Langley Simmons here. Looks as if he has a warrant out for his arrest.”

      The gunman cursed, tried to twist out from under Logan.

      “Harper?” Logan prodded.

      “I’ll get them,” she responded, calling to Picasso and jogging away. She wanted to leave both men behind, leave the entire mess behind.

      She knew she couldn’t, of course.

      She’d spent her life trying to do the right thing, trying to live the way she’d thought she should—following the rules, being moral and just and kind. She’d wanted what her mother had never been able to achieve—stability, security, edifying relationships.

      God had obviously had other plans.

      Her life had taken a turn she hadn’t anticipated, and now all she wanted was to be at peace.

      It didn’t look as if that was going to happen, either.

      But God was in control.

      He had a plan and a way.

      She just wished He’d tell her what it was.

      There was a lesson in trust there, she supposed, but she’d never been good at trusting. Even when it came to God. Maybe especially then. She’d prayed a lot when she was a kid, begging God to step in before the family was evicted or the lights were turned off or the police came to search for the drugs one of her mother’s boyfriends had left.

      Most of the time, those prayers hadn’t been answered. At least not in any way that made sense to her. Lights were often turned off and evictions happened. As an adult, she knew those were natural consequences to her mother’s habitual sins, but those old feelings of distrust and anxiety were still there.

      She pushed aside the memories as she raced up the steep hill that led to her cabin. Picasso bounded out of the woods in front of her, and she heard a masculine voice call his name. Sheriff Jeb Hunter or one of his deputies.

      Seconds later, she hit the top of the path and ran out onto her driveway. Two police cars were parked close to the cabin, Jeb Hunter crouched next to one of them shooting pictures of a bullet casing. Picasso lay a few feet away, panting quietly.

      Jeb looked up as Harper approached, his deep green eyes shaded by a uniform hat. “Heard there was trouble out here, Harper. From the look of things, that might be true.”

      “It is.”

      “Want to tell me what happened?”

      “Someone СКАЧАТЬ