“She had an alibi?” Hunt asked.
“She said she’d been held by a madman. An art admirer who’d been stalking her. She’d reported him before. NYPD hadn’t been able to track the threatening letters and gifts down to anybody.”
“But?” Hunt prompted.
“She was covered in cuts. The police surmise that they could have been defensive wounds.”
“Any pictures?”
Ace shook his head. “Then Susannah Hart disappeared.”
“And Savannah Cole was born,” Vander continued. “She moves around, rarely stays anywhere long.”
Hunt nodded. “She’s currently housesitting.”
Vander crossed his arms. “No lease or bills in her name.”
“Someone attacked her. And likely shot at her at the coffee shop.” Hunt had connected the dots.
“Maybe Amelia Kerry’s family? After revenge?” Ace suggested.
Hunt growled. “Savannah did not kill that woman.”
The man looked at him steadily.
He cursed. “Don’t tell me you think she did.”
Vander leaned back in his chair. “Fuck, no. It took Ace an hour to find her stalker.”
The image changed to show an unassuming man in his mid-twenties. He was smiling like life was good.
“Andrew Brandon Walkson. Art lover.” There were candid shots of the man at the gallery, standing right behind Savannah.
“How come NYPD didn’t nail him?” Hunt said.
Ace shrugged. “I ran every person from all of Susannah Hart’s art shows, and focused on repeat customers who bought her artwork. Got hits on CCTV at her old apartment. This guy also has a juvenile record for stalking a girl at his high school. According to him, she was his girlfriend. She said they barely knew each other.”
“How did you access a sealed juvie record?” Hunt shook his head. Ace was a top-notch hacker. “Never mind. Don’t tell me.”
Ace grinned, but then his smile dissolved. “Susannah Hart started getting gushing, creepy cards, letters, flowers. She ignored them. Then she started dating a guy, a stockbroker.”
Hunt kept his face blank.
“When she did, the letters turned threatening. The police had no leads. Walkson bought a lot of her artwork, then she found one piece, broken, on her doorstep. Walkson said it was stolen. Then Susannah was allegedly attacked, and Amelia Kerry was murdered.”
“And Savannah ran. And she hasn’t stopped. Where’s Walkson now?”
“New York. He’s an insurance salesman. Travels a lot.”
A muscle ticked in Hunt’s jaw. “Makes for good cover to stalk a woman on the run. Has he been here in San Francisco?”
“He was in LA recently, but not San Francisco. As far as I can tell, he’s in New York.”
“Why shoot up a coffee shop?” Vander asked. “Or get someone to break in and choke her? Does that fit this guy’s profile?”
No. It didn’t.
“I need to talk to Savannah,” Hunt said.
He tried to control the emotions inside him. Usually, it wasn’t a problem, but this mix of anger, rage, fear, and frustration was volatile.
He’d asked her if she was in danger, and she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him.
He looked at the open, pretty face of Susannah Hart. Could he really blame her?
“Thanks, Ace, Vander. I owe you.”
“We’ll keep digging on Walkson,” Vander said.
The men rose.
Vander stopped by Hunt. “And you don’t owe me anything. I know I owe you, for so many things.”
“Including letting you touch my cousin,” Hunt said dryly.
Vander’s lips quirked. “I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Said what?” As though they’d summoned her, Brynn appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing, Detective.” Vander tugged her close and kissed her. “Your cousin was just being protective.”
“Overprotective.” Brynn rolled her eyes. “He can’t help himself. I’m living with the man, Hunt. You’ve got to let it go.”
Hunt tugged on her ponytail. “Never. I need to talk with Savannah.”
Brynn eyed his face and frowned. “Problem?”
“Yeah. I’ll let Vander update you.”
Hunt headed for his office.
It was time for some answers.
Wielding her paintbrush, Savannah slashed paint on the paper she’d spread out on top of Hunt’s desk.
She’d sketched for a while, but the urge to paint had taken over.
She’d spread some plastic on his desk, rolled out a large sheet of paper, and gotten to work.
It was an impressionistic portrait of the police station. People coming and going, leaving trails, like car lights at night.
She wished the cops in New York had helped her. She didn’t blame them, though. They had rules to follow, and so many who needed help. Walkson had set things up to make it look bad for her. She shuddered.
Daubing some blue paint on the paper, her thoughts turned to Marcie. She wondered how the woman was doing. Savannah dipped her brush in the blue paint and swiped some more on the paper.
One person in the painting stood in the center of the chaos, like a rock in a river. So steady and strong.
Hunt was really turning into her muse. She’d painted the detective faceless, with his hands on his hips, tie askew and holster on. But he had Hunt’s broad shoulders and long legs.
The office door opened.
She looked over her shoulder and saw Hunt in the doorway. He looked at his desk, and his mouth dropped open. His brows drew together.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Brain surgery.” She moved the brush, adding more strokes.
“On my desk?” He strode over.
“I covered it in plastic. It’s fine.”
He growled.
She turned. “You wanted me to come here. I needed to work.”
“I thought graphic design was your job.”
“It is, but I…needed to paint.”
“Art is your true calling. You should have a showing.”
Her belly curdled and she looked away. “No. It’s just a hobby.”
“We both know it’s not just a hobby, Susannah.”
Ice flowed over her, locking her chest. She turned slowly, unable to breathe. “What did you call me?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I know that you’re really Susannah Hart.”
She backed up and shook her head. “No.”
“Hey, take it easy.” He held out a hand.
She couldn’t be Susannah. If she was, she’d be dragged back to that horrible place. She’d be Andrew Walkson’s victim.
Walkson would get her. Hurt her family.
“Susannah—”
“Don’t call me that.” Her vision swam.
Hunt studied her for a beat. “Savannah.” He nudged her into a chair. “Head down. Just breathe.”
She did as he ordered and clutched her paintbrush like it was a lifeline.
“I didn’t kill her,” she whispered.
Poor, poor Amelia. Nausea whirled. Would she get locked up? Walkson had said he could reach her, even in jail.
“I know you didn’t kill her,” Hunt said.