I’d opened the car door and was about to duck inside when a flashy red number whipped into the driveway in front of Alexandra Weston’s house. The coupe jerked to a stop. A giant of a man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped out. He was six foot five and every bit of solid. Dressed in a black leather jacket with the collar up, jeans, and square-toe, polished black shoes, it was obvious he liked to make a lasting impression.
He turned in my direction, lifted a pair of black shades off his face, and flashed me a sly grin that made me sick to my stomach, like he imagined me without any clothes on. Even with his chiseled Anderson Cooper looks, he radiated an uncomfortable vibe, and I found myself clearing my throat multiple times. Finch, on the other hand, was stepping out of the car and in front of me, like a hockey goalie protecting the net from a puck.
I stepped around Finch, attempted to walk over to Porter. He grasped me by the wrist.
I flashed him a look that said, What are you doing?
He leaned in close. “I don’t like this guy.”
“You don’t even know him,” I whispered.
“Neither do you.”
“He’s fine. I can handle this.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
He didn’t have to say it. It was obvious.
Before I could say anything more, the man said, “Hello?”
I turned toward him. “Porter Wells?”
He held out a hand. I shook it. He did a quarter turn and offered the same hand to Finch. Finch nodded, didn’t take it.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Nancy Drew of the Forensics Channel,” Porter joked. “I imagine you’re here to see Alex. Haven’t you heard what happened?”
“I have. I was at the bookstore the night she died.”
A second car turned into the driveway behind Porter’s. Chelsea walked around to the passenger side and opened the door.
Porter looked at Chelsea. “Sweetie, can I talk to you for a minute before you leave?”
She ignored him, slid inside the car, and slammed the door.
Porter smiled like nothing had happened and said, “Excuse me a moment.”
He walked to the driver’s side of the car, knocked on the window. The window came partway down. Porter whispered something too quiet for me to hear. A male about the same age as Chelsea with short, black hair and olive skin smiled and said, “Sorry, Mr. Wells. Chelsea doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Bradley, put the window up,” Chelsea growled. “Let’s go.”
Porter grimaced. “Bradley, please tell my daughter to work on her manners and show some respect.”
“Respect?” Chelsea spat. “You need to give it to receive it.”
“Chelsea, if you would give me a few minutes. I need to talk to you about—”
“Stop it! Just don’t. I want you out of mom’s house by the end of the week.”
“The house isn’t just your mother’s,” Porter said.
“Correction,” Chelsea fired back. “Mom’s attorney just sent me a text. He wants to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“He said the house isn’t in your name. It’s in hers, and she left it to me.”
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing. Yet.”
Chelsea leaned across Bradley’s chest and put his window up. The car backed out of the driveway.
“Please, Chelsea,” Porter pleaded. “Can’t we talk about this?”
Chelsea pressed her middle finger to the glass, and the car sped up the road. Porter bowed his head, massaging his temples with his hand. “What a brat.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You saw what just happened,” Porter said. “Can you blame me?”
“She just lost her mother.”
“So, what, she gets a free pass to treat me like dirt? She’s not the only one who’s hurting.”
He didn’t appear to be hurting to me.
“Don’t you think there’s a reason she’s acting this way?” I said.
“She’s upset. Probably thinks if she hurts me, it will make her feel better.” He raised a brow. “If you know Alex is dead, why are you here?”
“To ask you about your wife’s life insurance policy.”
Hands on hips, he tapped a foot on the ground like an unruly child. “Her life insurance? What right do you have showing up here and asking me personal questions that aren’t your business?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you in the past twenty-four hours.”
“From whom?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What have you heard?”
“You’ve had multiple affairs over the years. Your marriage was nothing more than a piece of paper you no longer honored. As soon as Chelsea married, Alexandra was filing for divorce. You signed a prenup when you married her. With the marriage over, you’d be broke, left with nothing. No money to pay for the lifestyle you’d become accustomed to living. Should I keep going?”
I expected him to blow up. Yell. Curse. He didn’t. He shook his head. Disgusted. “You think I offed Alex to collect on her life insurance policy? Really?”
He snorted a laugh.
“I don’t see why it’s so funny to you.”
“Oh, it’s funny,” he said. “Alexa isn’t my wife anymore. She hasn’t been for the last three months.”