Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,9

slightly grateful expression that will prompt her to get going.

“You know, Gwenna White…she keeps to herself.” She glances over her shoulder, at the trees. “She got hurt sometime back. No one really knows the details, but she has a limp, and…some, well, facial…differences. When she smiles…”

I feel the smile slip off my own face.

“Very pretty woman, though. And very nice.” Again, the soothing tone. Slightly patronizing, really, not that I give two fucks.

I nod. “Thank you again, Mallorie.”

Embarrassment stains her cheeks. That she made small talk with me, and I—what? Didn’t seem interested enough? All this time learning to blend in, and now I’m living here among the civvies, realizing I don’t.

“Any time,” she says. “I’ll keep you posted as we move toward closing. I know where you live.” She shakes her finger.

I offer a tight smile. It was intended to look genuine and kind, but as the circumstances go, the half-grimace seems to be the best that I can do.

Three minutes later, Ms. Pryce’s pale blue Buick SUV is rolling down the long driveway, toward Blue Moon Road, an offshoot of a long, scenic road that leads from northeast Gatlinburg, Tennessee, to the stretch of I-40 between Hartford and Newport.

Alone again at last, I turn to face the house and look up at the porch. It’s at the top of sixteen thick, stone stairs, and like the rest of the second and third floors, rests atop a tall stone foundation that serves as the external walls of the lowermost level.

The movement of the porch swing catches my eye and snatches a knot of tension in my chest. I’ll need to bolt it down. Perhaps even remove it.

It’s the little things, I think. I can’t control it all, but what I can…

I look around me, at the verdant pine forest, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. This was unplanned, but it works out perfectly. Not just for the larger plan, but because I’ve always loved the cover of a forest. Sure as fuck beats somewhere dry and barren.

I turn back to my new-ish bike, a Harley Wide Glide I parked beside the garage, on the right side of the house. Stashed in the vegetation near the house’s stone base is my pack. I throw it over my shoulder, then walk up the stairs and unlock the front door with the only key that’s sized to fit a deadbolt.

The slick, mahogany door opens to the house’s high-end kitchen. It’s got granite, stainless, all the shit people are always crowing about on TV shows like House Hunters. The floors are all hardwood, and there’s no wall or other dividing line between the kitchen and the cavernous living area.

The living room is done in dark woods and stone, with a two-story ceiling, an enormous, L-shaped couch in a soft, shearling-type material, a weathered leather recliner, a coffee table that looks to have been made of tree limbs, and two thick, cedar rocking chairs.

Across from the couch, on the wall to my right, is an enormous stone fireplace with a mantel that sports what has to be a five-foot-long flatscreen. The back wall of the living area—which also happens to be the rearmost wall of the house—is part slider door. I know from my tour this morning that the door opens to a stilted, second-story deck that overlooks the forest.

To the right of the slider door, nestled into a corner, is a large gun cabinet. My gaze clings to it for a moment. Then I stride through the kitchen, into the den, and hang a left, heading down a staircase that leads to a wine cellar and home gym.

I walk through both dark spaces and into the small bathroom between—clearing the floor. (Some habits never die). Then I go back up to the main floor, carry my pack over to the gun cabinet, and, using a small pick I’ve got in my pocket, unlock the cabinet door. The keys on the key ring appear to be a garage key and two house keys—one a deadbolt, the other not. No one’s mentioned anything about Haywood coming back for the contents of this gun cabinet, so for now I’m going to call it mine. I stash my weathered M-14, my M4 Commando, and my HK MP5 there, but leave my TAC-338 in its hard case.

With my bag over my shoulder and the McMillian case in my right hand, I make a quick pass with my left hand over the butt of the .45 at