Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,49
She didn’t look back, but knew he was there, watching over her for as long as he could.
ADELE
Adele stood in the empty motel room and eyed Robyn’s laptop as if it was a coiled snake ready to strike.
“What were you doing?” she whispered. “Checking your e-mail? Your stock portfolio? Your horoscope? Or something I should know about?”
Adele wasn’t a computer whiz. She could use one for e-mail, banking, uploading her photos . . . A tool limited to what it could do for her, her interest extending no further.
The green light said it was turned on. The screen was dark, though, presumably to save power. Could she turn it back on without a password? If she tried, was there a way for Robyn to know she’d been on her computer?
Adele spent another minute eyeing the beast. There were other things she could search in Robyn’s motel room. She hadn’t done more than take a cursory look around, her attention snagged by the laptop, its promise making her heart race.
Bold moves, she reminded herself. She had to make the bold moves. Something on this computer had fascinated a fugitive, which was surely more important than anything she’d uncover rifling through drawers.
She touched the keyboard with a gloved finger. The screen lit up, colored lights flashing, and Adele stumbled back. But it wasn’t an alarm. Just a Web page advertising computer games.
She stared at it. Computer games? That’s what Robyn had been doing?
While Adele could believe Robyn Peltier would calmly play a game, confident that her name would be cleared any moment, she wasn’t about to walk away without a more thorough check.
She clicked the browser’s back button and was taken to a site about celebrities. This page seemed to be about Portia Kane. She read a few badly spelled messages—she might be homeschooled, but she was a lot better educated than most of these people, she reflected with satisfaction. Most of the messages seemed to be badmouthing Portia, though, so maybe they weren’t as dumb as they seemed.
She flipped through more sites Robyn had visited. Some were on Portia, others on Jasmine Wills, and all nothing more than mockery and rumors, people regurgitating and debating what they’d learned from that most unimpeachable news source—the tabloids.
Why was Robyn visiting sites about Portia and Jasmine?
Had she been checking whether there were any final rumors she needed to deal with before moving on to her next PR project? Compiling a final list of news agencies to contact later, and do her final duties, giving the tabloids something nice to say about the dearly departed, suggesting the best photos to use . . .
Photos . . .
Adele minimized the browser and popped open Robyn’s e-mail. And there it was, still in her in-box, an e-mail sent from her cell phone to her computer with that damning photo attached.
The message had been read, but didn’t look as if it had been forwarded. So Portia had sent the photo to Robyn’s cell and Robyn had forwarded it to her e-mail, where she could compile a message for her tabloid contacts. But she’d never gotten that far.
Adele let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief and pressed her hands to her stomach.
We’re safe.
Their future wasn’t entirely secured yet. There was still a lot to do, including one task regarding the photo: getting it off Robyn’s cell phone. There was a good chance she’d already deleted it, and hadn’t sent it anywhere except her laptop, but there was still that second picture—the one of Adele in the alley.
She needed that cell phone. Preferably without killing Robyn. Not that she minded the killing, but it complicated things unnecessarily. A simple theft should finish this. And if Robyn had forwarded the second photo, Adele might need her alive to question and figure out what she’d done with it and how to proceed. But she’d worry about that when the time came.
Adele deleted the e-mail.
Would that be enough or should she take the laptop? No. With all that had happened Robyn had probably forgotten the photo. If her laptop vanished, though, she’d know someone had broken in and that something on it had been valuable, probably linked to Portia’s death—
A rap at the door.
“Housekeeping!”
Adele shot to her feet. “I’m—”
The rattle of a key in the lock drowned her out. She wheeled toward the bathroom, but the door swung open and an old woman with a nut-brown face and a shock of white hair peered in.