Wilmington, Delaware, Stevens thought. Derek Mathers.
It was morning. The bedsheets lay in tangles around him. He hadn’t slept much through the night, and he wasn’t sure whether it was Andrea and Nancy or Mathers and Windermere or Gilmour and Gardham that had kept him awake.
One thing was for certain: Richard O’Brien and David Gilmour had been in Wilmington, Delaware. And two more men were dead.
Gilmour’s doing, probably. O’Brien’s Mustang was missing. Gilmour’s rental car was abandoned. The two murdered men had been discovered on the side of a lonely road. Gilmour had probably hijacked their car.
So he was mobile. So was O’Brien. They were both up in Delaware. And meanwhile, Stevens had dragged Windermere to North Carolina. They still had no leads. And Windermere had slept with Mathers.
Stevens rolled over in bed. Kicked the sheets off his legs. Who the hell cared who she slept with? She was young and beautiful, and he was married. She’d had a boyfriend when they’d met, and he hadn’t cared then. Why the hell did he care so much now?
They’d come close in Philadelphia. That was why he cared. They’d shared something, briefly, and at the last moment, they’d flinched. He’d gone home to Nancy, and she’d gone straight to Mathers.
Stevens stared up at the ceiling. It was stupid to feel this way. It was practically cheating. He was never going to leave Nancy, not in a million years. So why did it matter who Windermere slept with?
Stevens didn’t have an answer. He had a jealousy problem and a labyrinthine case. Sighing, he swung his legs off the bed and stood stretching in the hotel room, trying to push Windermere from his mind.