But she hadn’t even put it in Park before someone was pulling open her door and dragging her from behind the steering wheel. She had no time to reach inside her bag and pull out the gun.
Strong hands held tightly to her arms, shoving her up the brick walk to the front door. It stood open, a woman standing in the doorway as if she’d been expecting her.
Yet she acted puzzled, her brow furrowed as if she was trying to place Josie. Of course, Josie didn’t look the same as she had when she’d informally interviewed Margaret O’Hannigan four years ago. Back then the woman had believed Josie was just her stepson’s girlfriend. And since they’d only met a few times, it was no wonder she wouldn’t as easily see through Josie’s disguise as Brendan had.
But Margaret must have realized she’d given herself up during one of their conversations. That was why Margaret had tried to kill Josie.
While Josie had changed much over the past few years, this woman hadn’t changed at all. She was still beautiful—her face smooth of wrinkles and ageless. Her hair was rich and dark and devoid of any hint of gray despite the fact that she had to be well into her fifties. She was still trim and tiny. Her beauty and fragile build might have been what had fooled Josie into excluding her as a suspect in her husband’s murder.
But now she detected a strength and viciousness about the woman as she stared at Josie, her dark eyes cold and emotionless. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
“Josie Jessup,” she replied honestly. There was no point clinging to an identity that had already been blown.
“Josie Jessup? I thought you were dead,” the woman remarked.
Josie had thought the same of her. That Brendan might have killed her by now.
“Are you responsible for this?” Margaret asked, gesturing toward the open gates and the dark house. An alarm sounded from within, an insistent beeping that must have driven her to the door. “Did you disable the security system, forcing open the gates and unlocking the doors?”
Brendan must have. He was here then. Somewhere. Josie wasn’t too late.
“Search her car,” Margaret ordered the man who’d held her arms.
Josie stumbled forward as he released her. But the woman didn’t step back, didn’t allow Josie inside her house.
“I wouldn’t know how to disable a security system,” Josie assured her. “I am no criminal mastermind.”
“No, you’re a reporter,” Margaret said. “That was why you were always asking all those questions.”
“And you were always eager to answer them,” Josie reminded her. Too eager, since she hadn’t realized she’d given herself away. But then neither had Josie. She still wasn’t sure exactly what it was in those folders that had convinced Brendan of the woman’s guilt. “You were eager to point the blame at your stepson.”
“A man shouldn’t benefit from a murder he committed,” she said, stubbornly clinging to her lies.
“Brendan didn’t kill his father,” Josie said, defending the man she loved.
Margaret smiled, but her eyes remained cold. “You weren’t so convinced back then. You suspected him just like everyone else.”
“And just like everyone else, I was wrong,” Josie admitted. “But you knew that.”
The woman tensed and stepped out from the doorway. She held a gun in her hand.
For protection? Because of the security breach? Or because someone had tipped her off that either Brendan or Josie was coming to confront her?
“How would I know something that the authorities did not?” Margaret asked, but a small smile lifted her thin lips. “They all believed Brendan responsible, as well.”
“But they could never find proof.”
“Because he was clever.”
“Because he was innocent.”
The woman laughed. “You loved him.”
It wasn’t a question, so Josie didn’t reply. Or deny what was probably pathetically obvious to everyone but Brendan.
“That’s a pity,” the woman commiserated. “It’s not easy to love an O’Hannigan. At least you don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
“I don’t?” Josie asked.
“Brendan is dead.”
Pain clutched her heart, hurting her as much as if the woman had fired a bullet into her heart. He’d already been here. And gone.
“You didn’t know?” Margaret asked. “Some journalist you are. How did you miss the reports?”
Had his death already made the news? The Volkswagen had no radio—just a hole in the dash where one had once been. The kid who’d sold her the auto had been willing to part with his car but not his sound system.
Margaret sighed regretfully. “And it was such a beautiful estate. I’d hoped to return there one