“They wouldn’t tell us anything,” Allegra said. “They treated us like criminals. We don’t know what’s happening. Or why they did that. We hoped you could help. Do you know what they were looking for?”
“A gun or blood,” Harper said, bluntly. “If Xavier was killed here and dragged down to the beach there would be blood evidence left behind. Short of that, bloody clothes. Or the murder weapon.”
“That’s sickening,” Cara said. “How could they suspect us? We loved him. Why would they ever—”
“Harper just told us why,” Hunter spoke over her, impatiently.
“Don’t talk to me like that.” Cara’s voice rose.
“Will you please stop fighting.” Allegra stood abruptly, hands curled in fists. “You’re making everything worse.”
The other two exchanged a look.
“We’re not fighting,” Cara said. “We’re just upset.”
“All you do is fight.” Allegra’s voice shook. “Ever since Xavier left you’ve been like that.”
Harper noticed she didn’t say “died.”
“Allegra, come on—” Hunter didn’t get to finish. The younger woman stormed from the room.
“Allegra, wait!” Cara followed her out.
Slumping back in his chair, Hunter stubbed his cigarette out. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, after a second. “We’re exhausted. Do you want something to drink? Tea?”
Harper didn’t want anything, but she said, “Sure.” He needed to do something and she needed to let him.
Getting up, she followed him down the hall. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was spotless, the tall cabinets neatly closed. Everything was scrubbed clean and in its place. The air smelled faintly of bleach.
Hunter poured water into an electric kettle and switched it on.
“How bad was it?” she asked.
His shoulders hunching, he said, “They trashed the place. When they were done, it looked like we’d been robbed. We’ve been cleaning all day. Putting everything back.”
Now Harper understood why there was no evidence of the search. They’d done their best to make everything perfect again. She glanced unconsciously at the sparkling white sink, a memory of something Luke said last night surfacing. “Traces of blood in the kitchen sink.”
“It just feels like they think we’re guilty,” Hunter said. Stirring himself to action, he pulled a box of tea from the cabinet. “The questions they asked—they were the kind of questions they ask suspects.”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” she said. “Until they get the killer.”
“Even you?” Cara had walked in without Harper noticing. She stood in the doorway, her chin tilted up, her eyes damp and the tip of her nose red and raw. “Or is it just us?”
“Not me,” Harper admitted. “I have no motive.”
“What’s my motive?” Cara demanded. “Why would I want to kill the man I loved?”
Harper turned to look at her directly. “Well, if there were problems in your relationship, that could cause tension,” she said, meaningfully.
Cara stared at her, her lips parted as if she’d meant to speak but had forgotten the words.
“You argued that last night, didn’t you?” Harper said. “About moving to Los Angeles.”
Hunter stepped between them, a mug in his hands. “They fought like couples fight. Nothing more than that.”
Harper didn’t look at him. “Let Cara answer.”
Cara held her gaze, those blue eyes wide and stunned.
“I didn’t kill Xavier.” She drew in a sudden breath. “My God. I can’t believe I even have to say that. I loved him.”
She was so convincing. But she was also an actress.
Harper said, “Have you spoken to a lawyer?”
The mug slipped from Hunter’s fingers and crashed to the floor.
“Shit,” he said, looking at the pieces as if he didn’t know what they were.
“What was that?” Allegra’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
Cara cleared her throat before shouting. “Nothing, Legs. Just a cup.”
When no one else moved, Harper stepped carefully back from the sharp shards of porcelain. “Have you got a broom?”
Wordlessly, Hunter pointed at a slim cupboard near the oven. Harper found a broom and dustpan, and quickly swept the broken pieces into a pile. She could sense Cara and Hunter having a silent conversation behind her back.
Cara spoke first. “How did you know Xavier and I argued the night he died?”
Harper dumped the shards into the kitchen bin before answering. “Your neighbor told the police.”
A shudder passed through Cara’s body.
“So, they were breaking up,” Hunter said. “That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“They were breaking up on the night he died,” Harper said. “That’s motive.”
She kept her focus on Cara, who didn’t seem to be breathing.
“I wish we hadn’t fought.” The woman’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I would take every word of it back if I could. I wish I’d never said anything. But I would never ever hurt him.”
They were both so fragile. So desperate to be believed. They wanted to talk. To be understood. To tell their side.
She had them right where she wanted them.
Harper pulled the notebook from her jacket pocket and set it down on the kitchen island. The granite top felt cold beneath her fingers as she glanced up at them.
“You better tell me everything.”
15
Harper was nearly to Savannah when Miles called. “Just heard from the press flacks at the cop shop. There’s a press conference at five. I’ve got two tickets.”
“I’m on my way into town.” She spoke loudly to be heard above her scanner, which crackled in the dashboard holder. “Any idea what it’s about?”
“No one’s talking. Maybe they’ve arrested someone. Maybe they’ve got the autopsy results and he died of a heart attack.”
She could hear his engine racing in the background.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“Been shooting a wedding in the suburbs,” he said. “Stuffed myself on canapés. I’m on my way back in.”
Miles worked freelance. Weddings were a lucrative sideline.
“I hope you saved me a crab puff.” Harper stopped at a red light, studying the traffic behind her. A dark BMW had been back there for a while. She was keeping an eye on it. Maybe things were heating up with the Xavier Rayne case, but she couldn’t lose sight of Martin Dowell. Somehow she had to juggle both cases. “Look, I’m going to stop by the paper first. See you at the police station?”
“I’ll be the one with bells on,” he said.
The newsroom was Saturday quiet when she walked in. The lifestyle-section writers had already finished and gone. She could hear the sports guys down the hall yelling at some basketball game. No other reporters would be expected in. The Sunday paper was mostly written on Friday, except for crime.