LITMIR.BIZ

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Either way, Dalton had plans to see this through. Tonight was the closest he’d been to Alexandria’s killer, and he could feel it in his bones that these two crimes were related beyond a copycat. He knew for a fact that the use of the trucker’s knot had not been reported in any of the stories. He shouldn’t read them, but how could he help it? He owed Alexandria that much.

      Hell, he’d been the one to point out to the sheriff that was what they were dealing with when Sawmill had shown him the picture of the hangman’s rope fourteen years ago. Pointing out the type of knot used had also most likely helped put him on top of the suspect list. At seventeen, he had been naive. He’d believed that he was helping the investigation.

      Dalton was no longer a kid. And he didn’t give up so easily.

      * * *

      HOURS PASSED BEFORE Dalton deemed it safe to revisit the crime scene. The sheriff had said that he wanted it cleaned up as fast as possible before copycats got any more ideas and reporters fed them with notions. His remarks were further evidence that Sawmill was considering this a suicide.

      The sun was beginning to rise in the eastern sky, allowing enough light to see clearly since the trees were barren of leaves.

      It was the dead of winter, close to Christmas but Dalton wasn’t in a festive mood. There were two killers on the loose, his father’s and a teenage girl’s. Plus, no matter how complicated Dalton’s relationship might’ve been with the Mav, he couldn’t imagine the holiday without his father’s strong physical presence.

      A foreboding overcame Dalton every time he came near the spot where Alexandria had died and this morning was no exception.

      Between law enforcement and emergency personnel, there were too many footprints leading up to the tree. Dalton took out his phone and started snapping pics of everything. The unforgiving earth leading up to the tree. The oak from every angle. The perimeter of the crime scene.

      He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to return and evidence was still fresh even if it had been trampled all over. He had no idea what could be significant, so he figured he’d capture everything and study the photos later.

      The tree was mature, coming in at a height of forty-plus feet. It was majestic and had been around for as long as Dalton could remember. He’d seen it more times than he could count going back and forth to town from the ranch as a kid.

      This location was between Dalton’s family ranch and Alexandria’s house in town. He could almost still see her silky blond hair flirting with the breeze on a warm summer night. Her nervous smile. The way she tugged at his arm when she wanted him to put it around her. When Sawmill couldn’t prove that Dalton had anything to do with her death, he’d ruled suicide. Did Alexandria have a difficult relationship with her parents? Yes. There was no question about it. That didn’t mean she took her own life.

      Tires crunching on gravel caused him to spin around. The detective parked her sedan and exited the vehicle. The sun was to her back, rising, creating a halo effect.

      “What are you doing here?” he bit out sharply.

      “Looking for you.” There was so much hurt in her voice, even though her set jaw said she was trying to put up a brave front. He knew exactly how difficult it was for her to be there, in this location, facing down that tree.

      “How’d you know where to find me?”

      She tucked her hands into the pockets of her blazer and shivered against a burst of cold air. Dalton hadn’t really noticed before but his hands were like icy claws. He put them together and blew to warm them.

      She shrugged. “This is the first place I would come if I were in your shoes.”

      “You don’t know anything about me,” he stated. He had no intention of discussing Alexandria with her. Since there was nothing else to say, he stalked toward her because she was in the way of getting to his sport utility.

      “Hold on,” she said as he passed her.

      He paused as he heard the hum of a car engine on the farm road. The noise was growing louder, which meant the vehicle was moving toward them. It was probably nothing but he didn’t like it. He should’ve heard her approach as well, but he’d been too lost in thought and the winds had blasted, muffling other sounds.

      Dalton watched as it turned toward them into the empty lot where all kinds of summer fruit stands had been set up over the years. There was only one time that growers had moved to a different location, because this one had had bouquets of flowers all around the tree’s massive trunk and the ground had seemed sacred.

      Or maybe they were afraid. Afraid the place was cursed. Afraid a murderer was still out there, watching, searching for his next victim.

      This sedan seemed out of place at this time of morning. There were no signs of law enforcement and that got all of Dalton’s radars flashing on full tilt.

      Had news of Clara’s murder leaked? The sheriff had intended to keep details as quiet as possible, but then it seemed like reporters were everywhere since the Mav’s murder and especially since the will would be read on Christmas Eve.

      Would the media play to Dalton’s advantage? Surely, reporters would be just as suspicious as he was about two suicides playing out in the same spot and on the same day fourteen years apart.

      On the other hand, media coverage this early could work against them. There’d been a reporting frenzy after his father’s murder and the sheer amount of false leads that had been generated as a result had bogged down the sheriff’s office.

      Dalton didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to this case.

      The detective muttered the same curse he did, seeming to realize how little the sheriff might appreciate the two of them being photographed at the scene of his investigation.

      Dalton needed to create a distraction. But what?

      One thing came to mind. Plan A might get him punched in the face, but there was no plan B and he was running out of time.

      He hauled the detective against his chest—ignoring the feel of her soft skin and the way her breasts pressed harder into his chest with her sharp intake of air—and then dipped his head to kiss her.

      Every muscle in her body chorded as he pulled hers flush with his in an embrace. He half expected the feisty detective to bite him but then she seemed to catch on. This maneuver would keep her face away from whoever was behind the wheel.

      Dalton Butler was well-known, but she wasn’t. As long as he shielded her, it would be next to impossible to figure out who she was. That would most likely keep her name out of the headlines. It was a risky move, though. There were a dozen ways this could come back to haunt them, but time was the enemy.

      Out of Dalton’s peripheral, he watched a young man pop out of his small sedan. He stood in between the opened door and his vehicle, causing Dalton to brace for the possibility that the young man had a gun, but stopped short of closing his car door. His body remained wedged in between the car and door with one hand on the wheel and the other on the door casing.

      “Excuse me,” the young man said.

      Dalton’s hands tunneled into the detective’s hair as her palms pressed firmly against his chest. She repositioned, wrapping her arms around his neck and a sensual current coursed through him when her firm breasts pressed further against him as they deepened the kiss. Heat penetrated layers of clothing and caused his skin to sizzle.

      He was going to need a minute when this was over to regain his bearings, because in that moment, this stranger felt a little too right in his arms.

      “Sorry to bother you, but I’m lost,” the young man said.

      Dalton took in a sharp breath before pulling back. As he looked at the man, he saw a camera being aimed at him.

      “Don’t turn around,” he said under his breath to the detective before looking straight at the guy who had to be a reporter. “What the hell do you want?”

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