Deep Secrets. Beverly Long

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      * * *

      HER FOUR-BEDROOM RANCH house was too big for one person, and tonight, more than ever, she felt as if she was drifting from room to room, looking for ghosts. She was grateful, though, for the silence.

      Bray had been true to his word. He’d left, a worried look on his face, after he’d checked every room and the garage. She’d assured him that she’d set the alarm immediately and she had.

      Now she stood in her kitchen and Duke crowded in next to her, almost as if he knew that something wasn’t quite right. He was poking his nose at her knees, and when she reached down to pet him, she realized that there was blood on her dark blue pants.

      Milo’s blood. She hadn’t seen it before, but when she’d knelt next to the body, the blood had got on her.

      “Oh, Milo,” she sobbed, catching hold of the kitchen counter to keep herself upright. Tell Rafe they know. “What did you mean?”

      With jerky movements, she peeled off every stitch of her clothes. Then naked, she stuffed them into the kitchen garbage can. She roughly yanked out the plastic bag insert and tied it up tight. With heavy arms, she tossed the bag by the door that led to her garage.

      Then, feeling very old and weary, she walked back to her bedroom and straight into the adjoining bath. She turned on the shower, as hot as she could stand it. And when she stepped under the spray, she let the tears that she’d held back all night run down her face.

      Her chest heaved with her sobs and she braced herself against the wall.

      She wasn’t stupid. Tell Rafe. That implied that Rafe was alive. Was that even possible? His body had never been found. But what would keep him away? What would keep a husband away from his wife?

      Four years. Four long years.

      Over fourteen hundred days of heartache.

      It just wasn’t possible. Rafe would never hurt her like that.

      * * *

      RAFE HOPED THERE were no snakes in the damn grass. It was damp and scratchy and smelled like a herd of cattle had passed through. He’d arrived before dawn and had been on his stomach for the past several hours. He badly wanted a cup of hot coffee. But he didn’t move.

      Windows were open in the villa and music drifted up the hill. When the song changed, his gut tightened up. They played that one at his wedding. And in the morning, his beautiful bride had been humming it.

      She’d been so happy. And he’d thought it would last until balls started dropping out of the air. Accidents, some said. He knew better.

      His trusted coworkers had been murdered. He didn’t care what anybody said.

      And he suspected the man inside, who was probably about to sit down to breakfast with his family, was responsible. Luciano Maladucci. Richer than several European countries put together and more evil than most could even imagine, he delighted in playing chess with people’s lives.

      Unfortunately, Rafe hadn’t been able to prove Maladucci was behind the deaths. It had been his sole focus his first six months back, but every lead turned into a dead end. He had to stop when his boss told him in no uncertain terms to let it go.

      He let it go. At least as far as most people knew. But he’d found another way to tighten the noose around this man’s neck. One way or the other, he was going to see him behind prison bars.

      With his binoculars picking up every detail, he watched a Ferrari Spider turn into the circle drive. What was the youngest Maladucci son doing here? The older son and his family lived in the east wing of the villa. It was rare for the two brothers to be together, probably because the younger brother had slept with the older brother’s wife three years ago.

      Real friendly, the Maladuccis.

      Real deadly, too.

      He felt the buzz from his cell phone. His private cell phone. What the hell? Milo wasn’t supposed to check in until Sunday. It was Saturday.

      He shifted, pulled his phone out and realized it wasn’t Milo, but someone else he trusted explicitly. He stared at the text message.

      Milo is dead.

      There were a hundred possibilities. Like a heart attack or a stroke?

      But none of those would have warranted a special message. No. This message meant that there was danger. And it was headed toward Trish.

       Chapter Three

      She stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. When she got out, she considered not drying her waist-length hair but knew that it would be a tangled mess in the morning if she went to bed with it wet.

      She should have cut it years ago. But when she’d been married to Rafe, he’d convinced her to keep it long. I love your hair, he used to say. Your beautiful red hair. The night of the storm, I saw it through the window of the café. It looked like liquid fire. I thought I’d never seen anything quite so wonderful.

      After he’d died, she couldn’t bear to do any more than trim the ends. Wore it pulled back most of the time in a low ponytail.

      Tell Rafe they know.

      She sat down hard on the edge of the bathtub. It was crazy but she was so angry at Milo. The poor man was dead and she was furious that he’d said something like that and then died.

      She was a bad person. Horrible. A man was dead and all she could think about was herself.

      She jabbed the on button and held the dryer for too long in one spot, burning her scalp. Ten minutes later, she gave up. Her hair was still damp but she was so damn tired. She picked up her toothbrush, spread some toothpaste and halfheartedly brushed. When she tossed her toothbrush back onto the counter, a memory hit her so hard that she almost doubled over.

      Rafe putting his toothbrush back just so, in exactly the same spot every time. His shaving cream and razor, too. Everything in its place, he used to say, lightheartedly poking fun at himself. Before she’d married him, she’d considered herself pretty neat and organized. But Rafe had been the king of patterns and order. She’d noticed it slowly, over time. He kept very little paper around, usually just a small pile of unpaid bills. If you asked, he could tell you, in the order it appeared, what was on his desk at any one time.

      He never made a big deal out of it. And she had never taken it too seriously until one night they’d come home from a movie in Hamerton, entered the house, and he’d sensed that something was different. He’d grabbed her, pulled her behind him, and the gun that he always carried on him had been in his hand. The hallway light wasn’t on when we left, he had whispered in her ear.

      He’d inspected the whole house but had come up empty. But she could tell that he was bothered by the incident. It wasn’t until she finally checked her cell phone, which she’d turned off at the movies, that she heard the message from Summer. She’d stopped over to borrow a dress.

      When she’d told Rafe, he’d waved it off. She could tell he didn’t want to discuss it. But she hadn’t forgotten СКАЧАТЬ