Cold Pursuit - Carla Neggers [58]
But who were they to judge? Nora just wanted her mother to be happy. That was what her father had told her, too. “I just want your mother to be happy.”
Except it wasn’t that easy. Maybe, with Alex’s death, her father would dump Melanie and go back to her mother.
Just so long as no one thought he’d run over Alex. Her father had never shown any anger or sense of betrayal, but he wouldn’t. He was restrained that way—emotionally repressed, her mother would say.
A branch snapped down toward the trail, and Nora bolted upright and stifled a scream.
Dead leaves crunched nearby—she couldn’t tell how close.
She could feel her heart thumping as she took small, shallow breaths.
The owl had stopped hooting, but she could hear the rush of the falls down the mountain. She sat as still and as quiet as possible.
But she didn’t hear anything more.
A bear, maybe.
Making as little noise as possible, she eased deep into her sleeping bag. It was funny, she thought sarcastically—right now she’d rather have a bear find her tent than anyone she knew in Black Falls. Even Beth, Dominique and Hannah. Even Elijah. What did she know, really, about any of them? And why should they care about her?
Nora stared wide-eyed into the darkness and told herself over and over again not to think.
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.
As if it was a mantra that could block out any intrusive thoughts and fears, and keep her safe.
Fifteen
Grit decided Myrtle Smith could drink him under the table without even putting her mind to it. It’d come automatically, effortlessly. She was a hard-nosed warhorse Washington reporter. He was a SEAL.
He didn’t stand a chance.
It was late at the bar in the hotel where Alexander Bruni had been run over by a black car, now in the hands of law enforcement.
“You know the natural result of banning smoking in bars?” Myrtle asked out of the blue. She was like that, Grit had figured out; her mind pinged around like a pinball machine.
He set down his scotch. “Less cancer?”
“More drunks. You wait, someone will do a study and discover those of us who smoke aren’t quitting—we’re just having an extra scotch or two when we’re trapped in a bar without our cigarettes.”
“You should quit.”
“Some politician will kill me in my sleep long before I die of lung cancer. But I did quit, you little snot. Two years, seventy-seven days, ten hours ago. The ‘us’ was in solidarity with smokers. I hate seeing smokers treated like criminals.”
“I don’t think I’ve been called a ‘little snot’ since I was four.”
“‘Little’ as in you’re younger than I am. ‘Snot’ as in—well, you know. You’re a SEAL. All that humility and professionalism is just your way of saying you’re better than the rest of us without being obnoxious.”
“How’d you know I’m in the military?”
“I’d like to say I have a nose for Navy SEALs, but I don’t. I checked you out with a source. Silver Star. Badly wounded in Afghanistan in April. Lost a friend.”
Moose gave a low whistle next to Grit. “She cuts to the chase, doesn’t she?” Grit ignored his comment.
“I’m sorry,” Myrtle said simply.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Grit appreciated how succinct she was.
She leaned forward, her eyes darkening to purple in the dim bar light. “Life sucks. So, want to get on with it?”
“Okay. What do you know about Ambassador Bruni’s enemies?”
“Nothing no one else doesn’t know. He was tough, smart and arrogant. Ambitious. Important. He divorced his first wife to marry the wife of his best friend. According to my sources, he had enemies but no active threats against him.”
“Then there’s no reason to think the hit-and-run was a professional job,” Grit said.
Myrtle leaned back, eyed him. “Are you suggesting there is?”
“How would I know? Anything on where he was headed when he was hit?”
“Most likely a breakfast meeting that wasn’t on his calendar. No reservation in his name. No one left waiting in the restaurant, checking his watch for him—at least no