When a Stranger Calls. Kathleen Long

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СКАЧАТЬ a public defender, Matt had butted heads with the man on more than one occasion. One thing was for certain—Frank Bell had the tenacity of a pit bull terrier. If he wanted the governor’s mansion, he’d let nothing get in his way—including any doubts about the conviction that had made his career.

      “Thought you would have left by now.” Bell’s voice carried across the small waiting room from where he stood next to the chair his wife had vacated.

      Matt stood, fully aware he’d adopted an antagonistic stance. He’d learned a long time ago that head-on was the smartest way to address the mighty Mayor Bell. “Wanted to make sure your niece was all right.”

      “She’ll be a lot better off if she doesn’t see you here.” Bell turned away, but barked out over his shoulder. “Maybe you should be paying attention to your clients and leaving my niece alone.”

      “She deserves to know her mother’s killer got away scot-free.”

      Bell pivoted, unchecked hatred seething from his battleship-gray glare. Bitterness swirled in Matt’s gut. No wonder his father’s defense had never had a chance. If Frank Bell had managed half of the fury he was projecting now, the jury would have been terrified to do anything but return a guilty verdict.

      “My niece sleeps just fine at night knowing the man who killed her mother met his just end in jail.”

      “But you never found the body. How can you be so sure?”

      “Evidence doesn’t lie.”

      “No, but it can be conveniently interpreted for a quick conviction.” Matt fought to hold his anger in check. “You and I both know this topic isn’t closed, Mayor. Whoever sent that copy and attacked your niece is determined to reopen old wounds.”

      He turned sharply on one heel, stepping toward the elevator, determined to have the last word. For once.

      “My niece fell, Mr. Alessandro.” Bell’s words stopped Matt cold. “The shock of seeing her mother’s ID was too much for her. If I find out you’re behind any of this, you’ll pay.”

      “How can you—” Matt spun to argue, but Bell had disappeared back into the treatment room.

      Fell. Could the man honestly believe that? Lindsey Tarlington had been certain she’d been shoved when Matt found her, and he saw no reason to doubt her story.

      So why did Frank Bell? Maybe believing his niece complicated Bell’s plans for the governor’s mansion.

      Matt punched the elevator button, hot emotion rolling through his veins. He believed Lindsey’s story, and he planned to tell her so—in person.

      Her attack might present just the opportunity he needed to begin earning the woman’s trust.

      THE NEXT AFTERNOON, LINDSEY stood in the middle of the attic studio, deserted since the night her mother had vanished. She closed her eyes, trying to sense her mother’s presence, wishing fervently for a sign or a clue as to what had happened all those years ago.

      Lindsey had been discharged from the hospital just a few hours earlier, sent on her way with a mild concussion, nothing more. The doctor had agreed with the police that her pounding head was consistent with an accidental fall.

      A disbelieving laugh burst from her lips. Fall, her foot. There was no way she’d confuse being shoved with falling.

      Even more discouraging had been Uncle Frank’s phone call. The photocopy of her mother’s license had been made on paper found in any office supply store. There had been nothing distinguishing to provide a clue. Nothing. Not a single fingerprint or fiber.

      The house below her creaked, and she flinched, even though she’d checked and double-checked every door and window before she’d pulled down the old attic steps and made the climb up to what had been her mother’s sanctuary.

      Lindsey hadn’t been up here in recent years. Any time the urge had sneaked into her mind, she’d ignored it, choosing instead to pretend the space didn’t exist. Sometimes avoidance was easier to face than the truth.

      She opened her eyes to take in the sight. The attic remained as it had always been, a small art studio, lovingly filled with her mother’s work and favorite things.

      Lindsey stepped gingerly toward the easel that stood off to one corner. She fingered the wooden shape, draped in an old sheet, then stood back, watching dust particles dance in the beam of sunlight forcing its way through the streaked attic window.

      One thing had never made sense to her, even as a child. If, as the prosecution had claimed, her mother had been in love with Tony Alessandro and her murder the result of a lover’s quarrel gone horribly wrong, wouldn’t there have been some trace of the affair here in her mother’s retreat? Wouldn’t there have been a letter? A photo? Something. Anything.

      Lindsey sank to the plank wood flooring. She’d searched this space relentlessly as a teen, until her father had begged her to stop. The pain of her mother’s death and supposed infidelity had been more than the once-vibrant man could endure.

      He’d never been the same after that stormy night.

      When he died four years later in a one-car crash, during a late spring thunderstorm, the residents of Haddontowne had murmured suicide.

      Emotional pain engulfed her, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs. How could her father have made that choice? How could he have left her alone?

      The doorbell rang, and Lindsey swore softly under her breath. She stood quickly and her vision swam, an unwanted reminder of the blow she’d taken to her head. She glared at the attic steps.

      Climbing up the unsteady staircase had been a challenge. Climbing down in time to catch the door would probably be the death of her. A chill tap-danced up her spine, and she shuddered.

      She had to stop expecting the worst.

      Carefully, she set one foot and then the other on the ancient rungs, the springs and hinges squeaking and groaning as she descended. When she hit the hallway floor, she hurried toward the downstairs, ignoring the pounding in her skull and leaving the attic stairs down behind her.

      It would be easier to leave them unfolded than to wrestle them up and down each time she went searching. And she had every intention of searching her mother’s studio again.

      Just as it had when she’d been younger, her gut told her something lay hidden in that space—something that would unlock the mystery of exactly how her mother had died.

      “Who is it?” she called out as she hit the foyer.

      “Matt Alessandro.”

      Lindsey’s breath caught. She stopped in her tracks, unsure whether or not to open the door and unable to coax additional words from her mouth.

      “I came to see how you were.” Matt’s deep voice rumbled through the heavy old wood. “I was worried about you.”

      Disbelief fired in her belly as she reached for the knob. “You were worried about—” The sight of him froze her last word on her lips.

      Genuine concern painted his features. His gaze bore through her, kicking СКАЧАТЬ