“Tell me about that spot, the other clearing, up the ridge from the crime scene.”
“You saw it. Smaller clearing, rougher track with a great vantage for watching somebody below without being seen yourself.”
“Pan was killed in summer, the leaves were all out. Would’ve been a lot harder to see below if someone wanted to spy.”
He nodded. “Also meant better cover for anyone up there. Plus, the plants were five years smaller.”
She shifted, facing him. “Tell me about ‘Nothing. This Time.’ ”
He returned her look for ten, then twenty seconds. “There were footprints up there after Pan was murdered.”
“What? What makes you think that?”
“Not think. Know. I saw them.”
“Why didn’t you tell—”
“I did. The sheriff. The deputy. Dallas.”
“There is not a word in the official file—”
He grunted disdain for the file.
“—and nothing at trial or—”
“Sheriff never checked and they were rained out by the time Dallas could get someone up there. It would have sounded like a desperate story with nothing to back it up.” His mouth twitched. “You would have made sure of that.”
She sure would have tried.
“What kind of footprints?”
He grimaced. “They were already pretty sloppy when I saw them the day after Pan was found. Wet — soaked ground and a rainstorm — had distorted the size and shape. Hard to tell if they were from a man or woman. Couldn’t have come from a real big guy or a kid, that’s about all I could tell for size. Probably not hiking boots. Maybe running shoes. The one thing real clear was there were a number of them — a dozen, maybe more — right where somebody would stand for the best view down to where Pan parked her car whenever she dropped me off.”
“All made at the same time?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. Some were in a lot worse shape than others. The ones in the best shape were fairly deep, like the person stood in the same spot a spell and sank deeper into the muck.”
“There were no tracks at the overlook this time,” Maggie reminded him.
“No. There weren’t. This time was different. With Pan, it was a murder of opportunity. The killer watched her, approached her when she was alone. Hadn’t brought a weapon, used her gun. Maybe didn’t intend to do it at all. Until something set him — or her — off. But the murderer planned to kill Laurel.
“The murderer had to arrange to meet her there. There’s no other way Laurel would end up in that clearing. She wouldn’t go there on her own. And this time he brought the means.”
She was silent half a minute. “How many people know that spot?”
“Anybody who ran these woods as a kid, which is pretty much every soul who grew up in the county.”
“I get the feeling you have a love-hate relationship with this county. Why did you stay here after you were acquitted?”
“Everyone here knew who I was, knew I’d been tried for murder, knew I’d been acquitted, and knew some people thought I’d gotten away with murder. Outside Bedhurst, the trial is something for people to find out.”
“You’ve made this another kind of prison.”
“The food’s a lot better. And so’s the view.” He stood. “Speaking of food, how about some.”
* * * *
He heated soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches in a cast iron skillet that were the best she’d ever had.
When he started cleaning up, she picked up a towel to dry the wood-handled spoons and the heavy skillet while he put the rest in the dishwasher.
As she went to hang the damp towel on the oven handle, their paths crossed.
He stopped.
Directly in front of her but not touching.
…you better be prepared…
Was she?
Waiting, waiting, waiting. Leaving her time to back away, despite his words.
Words echoed now not as a threat, but a prediction.
She hadn’t let herself want him yesterday. Now she could.
She wanted him.
Slowly, he raised his hand, brushed her hair back from her forehead with the back of his fingers, watching the movement.
He slid first one hand, then the other along the line of her jaw, under her ear, and around. Touching her, but not holding her, not compelling.
He didn’t need to.
Slowly, he bent his head to her. She tipped hers back.
She felt his breath on her lips but still he didn’t touch them.
“I’ve wanted to do this since…”
His lips brushed hers.
Then again. Again. Again.
She stretched up, extending the contact. Kissing him.
She felt it all through her, deep inside her, but also odd spots. As if the back of her knees melted, her palms tingled, her shoulders ached.
Against her lips, she felt the ridge of the scar near the corner of his mouth. A point of friction, the slightest rasp sensitized her lips even more.
She pulled her mouth away. His lips slid over her jaw, down her throat. Lower. A button gave way, another. His mouth grazed the sensitive skin above her bra.
“Say it, J.D.,” she whispered.
He stilled, then raised his head.
Not meeting his gaze, she touched her tongue to that scar, tracing it from the corner of his mouth, diagonally across his chin, and disappearing under his jaw. “Say it?”
“No.”
“I didn’t — I don’t mean a declaration of love. I don’t need tha—”
“I know what you want me to say.”
“Then why won’t you? You said it before.”
“That’s why.”
“But…”
His face was impassive. Or was it? The tick of the muscle under the scar at his jaw. And his body. His body wasn’t impassive. Not at all.
“But what, Maggie?” he asked, soft and sharp.
But I need to hear it.
Or did she?
An alibi she could rely on, because it was her.
That was proof. That was certainty.
She reached up with one hand, circled to the back of his head and pressed, bringing his mouth back to hers. Under her fingertips she felt the muscles of his neck tighten to resist. She added her other hand. His resistance strengthened.
She came up on her toes, leaning against him, her mouth two inches short of his. Feeling the sharp bursts of air from him. Once. Twice.
Then his mouth came down on hers.