Devious - Lisa Jackson [69]
CHAPTER 23
Val sat in her favorite chair, her legs tucked beneath her, notes about Camille on the nearby table. A solitary lamp burned as the night encroached, and the television, tuned to an all-news station, was flickering quietly while Bo lay snoring in a tight little ball on the floor at her feet. She’d just hung up with Detective Montoya and was still processing the information when the dog, lying near the French doors, lifted his head and growled low in his throat.
“Stop it,” she said, but Bo climbed to his feet and pressed his nose to the paned glass. Again he growled, a deep, warning rumble.
“Hey!” she said. “Knock it off.”
But the hound’s gaze was glued to the window, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, his lips curling.
“What is it?” she asked, and snapped off the light beside her so that she wasn’t backlit as she walked to the window and cautiously peered outside and into the darkness.
The grounds were illuminated by the porch light and a few dim landscape bulbs that cast bluish pools over the walkways that spanned the grass. Oak trees cast weird shadows, but nothing seemed out of place. Warm lights glowed in the windows of Freya’s rooms and the main hallway, even one of the guest rooms, though the uppermost floor, where Slade was staying, remained dark.
“It’s nothing,” she told the dog, and tried to convince herself that he’d only caught the scent of a marauding possum or raccoon or maybe a neighboring cat.
And yet she, too, was a little jittery, her nerves still on edge as she snapped on the lights and made her way into the kitchen where she heated water in the microwave, then found a tea bag.
She’d just settled back into her chair and shaken off her case of nerves when Bo’s ears pricked, and he let out a soft little bark.
“Enough,” she said. “Okay?” Then she heard the low rumble of a truck’s engine. She knew before she glanced out the window that Slade was back.
Great. Just what she needed on top of everything else. Ever since her phone conversation with Detective Montoya, she’d been second-guessing herself. Reexamining her life.
She closed her eyes for a second and fought that tiny little urge deep within, the absolutely ridiculous feminine part of her that Slade still touched.
Quit fighting it. Be glad he’s with you. He might be able to help you find Camille’s killer. If not, at least he’s moral support.
She scoffed at herself. Moral support? From the man who’d tried to seduce her sister?
What a joke.
Then again, Cammie might have lied about what really happened. Hadn’t Val already considered that as a very real possibility? Either way, dealing with Slade would be difficult.
Bo was going nuts, wiggling and whining at the door. Sure enough, through the crack in the blinds, Val watched Slade get out of the truck and, instead of heading for the main house, turn and make a beeline for her cottage.
“Here we go,” she said, walking to the door just as he rapped on it. Bo was beside himself as she unlocked the dead bolt and tugged open the door.
Slade stood under the porch light on the other side of the screen. His face was all shadowy planes and angles, his jaw set and beard-shadowed. He offered her the hint of a smile, a crooked twist of his thin lips. “So did I give you enough space?”
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
There was no denying Slade Houston’s presence. His shoulders nearly filled the doorway, reminding her of how solid and wide his body was. “Be nice,” he said.
“I’m always nice.”
His grin widened. “Right. Nice people invite people standing on their porch inside.”
Bo yipped, then quieted with a sharp look from Slade.
“Fine,” she said, opening the creaking screen door and stepping aside. “Come in. I’ve got something for you.” She walked to her small desk where she noticed a few past-due notices in the stack of bills she’d been ignoring. She picked up a large envelope from her attorney. “This is what I’d been working on,” she said. “Preliminary.” She handed him the envelope, and he glanced at the return address. “Still some details to hammer out, and since