he’d been stalking, the first thing he’d do was imply she had another stalker. “When did you stop chatting online with Randi?”
The pastor thought for a moment. “Late summer. I remember the charity shop was busy with customers looking for back-to-school clothes.”
Kir considered the possibility that the man was telling the truth. And that Randi had found a new man to flirt with online. What was the possibility that it was the killer?
“What was Randi’s username in the app?” he asked. He had a friend who was a computer whiz. He might be able to track Randi’s online activities.
“Roses4ever,” Bradshaw answered without hesitation.
“And the name of the app?”
“Local Lover.”
Kir tucked away the information. He would call his friend later, but he knew it would take time for any answers. He wasn’t going to sit around waiting for something that might be a dead end. Instead he tried to discover more about the dead woman, and what she’d been doing before she was murdered. “When was the last time you spoke with Randi in person?”
This time Bradshaw didn’t have to consider his answer. “Last Sunday when she delivered the flowers.”
“Did you have a conversation?”
“It was brief.” He shook his head in a sad, slow motion. “She seemed distracted.”
“Was she scared? Nervous?”
“No. She seemed . . .” Bradshaw struggled for the right word. “Excited. As if she was expecting something wonderful to happen. I even asked her why she had a sparkle in her eyes.”
Kir wasn’t expecting that. He blinked, trying to shift his mind from a woman who was being hunted by a madman to one who had a sparkle in her eyes.
She certainly wouldn’t have been excited if she thought she was in danger. Which meant the killer hadn’t tormented her. Odd. Why would he torment Lynne with that picture, but not try to terrorize Randi?
And why was she excited?
“Did she answer you?”
“Some nonsense about her teenage daughter returning to school. At the time I didn’t think anything about it. Now . . .” He deliberately paused. Was it for dramatic effect? “Now I think she was excited because she’d started a relationship with someone else.”
“At least you hope she had,” Kir said in dry tones.
Bradshaw’s expression hardened to stone. He looked like a man who was done with the conversation. “I don’t know who killed Randi or the other woman,” he told Kir in harsh tones. “It had nothing to do with me. I just don’t want any trouble.”
Intending to press until he’d determined whether the man was guilty or innocent, Kir was interrupted by the vibration of his phone. Pulling it out he read the text that flashed across the screen.
Can you come to the clinic?
His heart missed a beat. It was from Lynne. He’d put his number in her phone last night, insisting she promise to call if she needed anything.
Any interest in continuing the confrontation with Bradshaw was forgotten. He did, however, point a finger in the man’s pale face and deliver a warning.
“I wouldn’t leave town if I was you.”
Chapter 16
Nash was enjoying a deep, alcohol-induced sleep when the pounding on his door shattered his dreams. He groaned, pulling the covers over his head. What sort of monster disturbed a man before noon on a Monday? There was a law against that, wasn’t there? If there wasn’t, there should be.
He tried to recapture the darkness that had offered him a temporary peace, but the pounding continued with a ruthless determination. Whoever was outside wasn’t going to leave.
“Christ.” Climbing out of bed, Nash pulled on a pair of jeans he’d tossed on the floor and headed through the cramped front room. He was currently stuck in the renovated garage behind his mother’s house. If she heard the commotion, she’d scurry across the backyard to poke her nose into his business. “Keep your pants on. I’m coming,” he yelled, his head pounding.
How much had he drunk last night? A full bottle of vodka? Pulling open the door, he winced. The morning was gloomy with fat gray clouds hanging low, but it was still bright enough to make him narrow his eyes.
“Morning, Nash,” a short woman with a bright red coat wrapped around her full figure said as she brushed past him.
“Shit, Chelsea.” He slammed shut the door and whirled to face his unwelcome visitor. “Do you know what time it is?”
She shrugged. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“On a Monday.”
“I came by after lunch yesterday. You said you’d be here.”
Nash had a vague memory of Chelsea cornering him at