In This Town

“What time did you leave the party?”

“Midnight? Maybe a little later.” She tossed the empty bottle aside. It rolled across the table, stopping at the salt and pepper shaker holder. “Look, it was late and—”

“Were you drinking that night?”

“I had a few glasses of wine.” Had needed them considering her ex, Greg, had been there with his new girlfriend. Colleen Gibbs taught at the same school as Tori’s cousin Erin so Tori had spent a tense evening watching them cozy up to each other. Even though Tori knew she’d made the right decision asking Greg for a divorce, seeing him with her, seeing how happy he was with another woman—when she’d failed so miserably at being his wife—hurt.

“Were your sisters there?”

“My sisters, my father and Celeste—”

“Celeste Vitello, your father’s girlfriend and owner of this establishment?”

Nerves tumbled in Tori’s stomach. She hadn’t been far off the mark with her smartass comment about his investigation skills. He was good, better than she’d expected.

Lesson learned.

“Yes,” she ground out, hating that he’d pushed her into being unable to muster up any pretense of indifference. “Ross was there, too, as was Griffin—for an hour or so—not to mention my uncle and his family and around two hundred of my cousin and her fiancé’s closest friends.”

“Where did you go when you left the party?”

“Home.”

“Alone?”

Now she smiled, slow and easy. “I had several men offer me their…company…but yes, I was alone.”

Bertrand looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Your son didn’t go home with you?”

Her son. He knew about Brandon. She snorted silently. Of course he did. He probably knew what color panties she had on, what she liked to eat for breakfast and how much money she made in tips last year.

“Brandon went home with his father.” He preferred being at his father’s house. Preferred being with Greg and Colleen over Tori.

She was surprised Bertrand didn’t know that as well.

“So no one can verify your whereabouts during the hours of midnight until Dale York’s body was found at approximately 6:00 a.m.?”

“Nope.”

He leaned forward. “Mrs. Mott, did you kill Dale York?”

She mimicked his stance and tone. “No, Detective Bertrand, I did not. Although as far as I’m concerned, whoever did kill him did the world a favor.”

“There’s no proof Dale York killed your mother,” he said, all emotionally closed off and professional. “What if he was innocent?”

“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. I would’ve thought they’d have taught you that at the police academy.” She slid to her feet, reached back for the water bottle.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking completely confused and irritated.

“This is called leaving. It’s what happens when I get tired of a conversation or am bored. I’m both. And since you’ve asked me all your very important questions, I see no reason for us to have our official meeting Friday afternoon. But before we both go our separate ways, there is one thing I want to say.”

“I can hardly wait,” he muttered.

“This thing with Layne, it’s a load of crap. She doesn’t break the rules…she makes sure the rules are maintained. And Ross? He’s as by-the-book as they come.”

“He’s sleeping with a subordinate officer. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand, “don’t tell me. They’re in love and love trumps everything else, even rules, regulations and law and order?”

“I have no idea if they’re in love or in lust or just scratching an itch until something or someone else comes along. All I know is that they’re two unattached adults and neither one would let their personal relationship interfere with their jobs. And they sure as hell wouldn’t create some sort of grand conspiracy.”

“I guess that’ll be determined. I’ll determine it.”

“You’re an arrogant one, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “Confident. As if your badge gives you the right to look down on the rest of us mere mortals. I thought a good cop waited until he had all the facts before deciding whether someone was guilty, but you…you’ve already judged us. And found us guilty.”

He held her gaze, not the least bit cowed by her sharp words, her acerbic tone. “I’m trying to get to the truth.”

“I hope you find it because it’s going to prove that neither my sister nor Ross have done anything illegal or unethical. It’s also going to show that no one in my family killed Dale York.”

She walked away. And prayed that she was right. Because if Bertrand discovered something, anything, that could be used against her sister or any member of her family, they were screwed.

* * *

LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Anthony Sullivan pulled a coffee cup from the dispenser. Ever since his freshman year at Boston University, he stopped at this same store whenever he got back into town. Some habits were hard to break.

The bell on the door rang and he glanced over—and wished he’d attended a twelve-step program for lovers of bad convenience store coffee.

It was her. Jessica Taylor. He knew he should look away, but his eyes locked on her. She held the door, said something to the short redhead who waitressed with her at the café. Then she laughed, the sound seeming to float across the store to wrap around him. Torture him.

Goddamn her.

Ducking his head, he watched the chemically enhanced vanilla-flavored coffee squirt into the takeout cup. His shoulders ached with tension. His chest was tight, as if he’d explode if he took a full breath.

They’d met here, right here at this very spot, well over three months ago. When he’d run in for a coffee, he hadn’t known his entire life was about to change. But then he’d turned and saw her and it was as if he’d been struck by lightning. As if everything out of order in his life had neatly fallen into place.

He’d been such an idiot.

Anthony sensed her approaching, caught sight of her from the corner of his eye. She was close enough he could smell her light perfume. Could reach out and trace his finger down the softness of her cheek like he used to. Longing mixed with the anger in his gut, made it impossible to ignore the memories that rushed into his mind. Ones he’d been fighting ever since he walked away from her.

“Anthony,” she said, her voice breathless. Scared. She cleared her throat. “Hi.”

He should walk away now. He didn’t owe her anything, not even politeness. But he made the mistake of turning, and noticed how nervous she looked, the way she twisted her hands together at her waist.

And his feet froze to the floor.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, all he could give her. All he wanted to give to the girl who’d lied to him, who’d made him look like such a fool.

She’d cut her hair, he realized with a jolt, his fingers twitching with the need to touch it, to see if it was still as soft as he remembered. Instead of falling to her shoulders, the pale, almost white strands barely reached her chin now and her thick, straight bangs skimmed her eyebrows.

She was unique, so different from all the other girls with her light hair and blue eyes, her lush curves and go-to-hell attitude. She was beautiful. Smart. Funny and sarcastic and jaded. It was the combination of her looks and her world-weary attitude—as if she’d seen and done it all and found each experience boring as hell—that made her seem older. More mature.