Blazer gave her a glance of dark approval. “We saw no obvious indications of that in the preliminary, but we’ll know more tomorrow.”
Harper doubted it. Shooting yourself once is hard enough. But twice? That would take determination.
“Are there any suspects?” a man asked.
The lieutenant squinted into the lights. “None I can tell you about at this time.”
“What about Cara Brand, Rayne’s girlfriend?” the same man pressed in a flat West Coast accent. “Is she a suspect?”
Harper twisted around to see him. He was short and wiry, with dark, unruly hair and an unshaven jaw. She recognized him instantly as the man she’d passed on the footpath earlier trying to find a way into the house.
She turned back, waiting for Blazer to shut him down.
“I’m not prepared to comment on suspects at this time.” The lieutenant’s tone was measured.
Harper stared at the lieutenant, stunned.
Everyone else accepted his statement at face value, and the questions resumed. But she’d covered the police long enough to know what he wasn’t saying. He wasn’t saying no.
Cara was a murder suspect. And so was everyone in that house.
11
The press conference continued for a few more minutes, but Harper tuned out. She kept thinking about the way Cara’s face had crumpled earlier tonight—those thin shoulders trembling. It had been picture-perfect grief. But, perhaps, too perfect?
After all, a voice in her head reminded her, she’s an actress.
On the front steps, the lieutenant was wrapping things up. “That’s all I have at the moment. Call the press office in the morning for updates.”
With the reporters shouting questions at them, the detectives trooped back to the house. Luke got there first, holding the door open for the others. For a brief moment, in the glow of the chandelier, Harper glimpsed Allegra at the foot of the stairs, looking tiny and trapped.
Then the door closed, shutting them all inside.
As soon as the detectives were gone, the TV reporters raced back to their vans. Miles walked up to Harper, his camera in one hand. “I’m going to get a few shots of the house. I’ll meet you in the newsroom.”
“Baxter wants us there faster than physically possible,” she told him. He just nodded and kept going.
She headed toward the Camaro. She was just passing the last TV vans when the small wiry reporter suddenly appeared at her side.
“You’re Harper McClain, aren’t you?” In the dark, his eyes glinted. “I’m told you’re the one who knows everything when it comes to Savannah cops.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said.
“I would.” He held up his phone. It displayed the story she’d filed earlier. “If the time on this is right, you wrote this before the press conference. Is that where you were going when I passed you earlier? Who tipped you off?”
Harper stopped walking. “Look, who are you and what do you want? No offense, but I’m on deadline.”
“No offense taken.” He had a predatory smile. “I’m Jon Graff. I work for the blog, L.A. Beat—maybe you’ve heard of it?”
For a second Harper drew a blank. Then she remembered the tabloid that had covered Cara’s love life with obsessive interest.
“I’m looking for juice on this case,” he continued. “Anything you’ve got on Cara Brand. We pay good money for tips. I know reporters in cities like these don’t make much.” He paused, still smiling. “No offense.”
She fixed him with a withering glare. “No thanks.” She resumed the walk toward her car, but Graff stuck to her heels. He seemed amused.
“Hey, wait. I thought Southerners were supposed to be friendly. How’d you get the story before everyone else, Harper? I saw you come out of the house. You pretty friendly with the Xavier disciples in there? What’d they tell you?”
Gritting her teeth, she kept moving, but it was like trying to ignore a wasp buzzing around her head.
When they neared the Camaro, he gave a low whistle. “Nice car.”
She wheeled on him. “Look, Graff, why don’t you try doing your own reporting for a change? It’s easier than begging for scraps.”
Her tone was scalding, but his unpleasant smile only broadened. “I like you, Harper McClain. I can see why people talk about you like they do. You want to get a drink later?”
She gave him a look of pure disbelief. “You must be out of your mind.”
Without waiting for him to reply, she climbed into the Camaro and slammed the door. She started the engine with a roar, and backed out, tires spinning.