resist taking it out. Drawing the gun from the holster and sighting it.
The Beretta was a bit too small in his hand but probably was a good fit for the woman. Checking, he discovered it was unloaded. Either he’d overlooked a magazine in his search, or she didn’t have ammunition for it. Either way, it didn’t worry him.
He replaced the weapon and started to head out of the room, brushing a pad of paper off the bedside table to the floor. He picked it up, searched for the pencil that had gone rolling. Everything had to be left exactly as it was found.
Idly, he flipped through the pad, and when he saw the sketches, he stopped to look more closely. Then felt the blood congeal in his veins.
The fire was so real he could hear its crackle and hiss, even in the black-and-white drawing. The trees hemmed the clearing, not so close that the fire would be in danger of spreading to them. He hadn’t made that mistake twice. He turned the page, saw a sketch of the old oak with the crossed branches.
Everything inside him went still. He stopped breathing for a moment.
And there he was. A black silhouette against the flames, arms out-flung in exultation over what he’d accomplished.
The pad started shaking. It took a moment for him to realize his hand was trembling. She knew everything. Had seen everything.
Frantically, he flipped through the pictures, examining every page with desperate eyes. He wiped a hand over his face, fought for calm. The drawings were all of the same scene. Painstaking details of Christiansen’s death. It was as if she’d been there, documenting how it went down.
But that wasn’t possible.
It wasn’t possible, he assured himself and worked his shoulders impatiently. The bitch wasn’t there because nobody had been there. He’d made damn sure of that. If she had been, if she’d been close enough to see the detail for these sketches, she’d have seen him.
And if she’d seen him, he’d be in jail right now.
The logic of it calmed him as nothing else could. It was just a figure of a man. The details didn’t identify him. Of course. She was working on the case. She’d seen pictures. Maybe even been to the scene. It’d take nothing but memory and a little talent to draw a visual of what must have transpired that night.
He’d almost believe that. He looked through the sketches again, his heart still racing. If it weren’t for the figure she’d drawn. The familiar pose of it. And try as he might, he couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for that portion of the sketch.
With quick, jerky motions he shoved the sketchpad under his sweatshirt. Strode toward the kitchen. He had to get it together. Too many years had been spent planning. Chandler wasn’t going to interfere with that. There was nothing here to convince him to deviate from his schedule. Preparations were made. Everything was set.
But there was enough, more than enough, to convince him that once he’d dealt with more pressing issues, Chandler would have to die.
Chapter 12
The detective pushed the door shut behind him and locked it before dropping his keys on the wicker table nearby. He hated wicker. Even the name sounded wimpy, but Cheryl had insisted that decorating the house was her domain. If the house were her domain, he’d have figured the bedroom was his. But a year ago he’d found out she was using it with their accountant to go over more than their numbers.
It’d seemed only fair then that he’d kept the house. Or probably she just hadn’t given a damn. She’d moved in with the boyfriend in the suburbs. When the divorce was final, he was going to load up all the shit she’d bought. Every last damn flowered curtain, vase of dried flowers, and for damn sure, all the wicker. He’d haul it to her new home and dump it on the front lawn for her fuck buddy to deal with.
He’d start over and fill the place with stuff a guy could feel comfortable in. The first thing he’d done after she’d walked out was smash the collection of antique teapots displayed on a unit in the family room where a TV should have gone.
The second thing he’d done was go out and buy the biggestscreen TV he could find.
He toed off his shoes and padded stocking footed to the kitchen. Opened the fridge to grab a beer. Twisting off the cap, he tossed it to the