Winston revealed little when he said, “Some new evidence has come to light, and we’re trying to determine the validity of it.”
“New evidence about my mother’s guilt, or innocence?”
Dora Prince had steadfastly maintained her innocence. Of course, there was hardly an inmate in any prison anywhere who didn’t. Still, she was my mother, and I wanted to know if there was truth to her claim. I’d love to believe her. Hell, I’d be beside myself to learn my mother wasn’t a killer. I’d held on to the possibility for as long as she’d been locked away, grasping it tenaciously, never letting it go, waiting for a moment like this. For the chance that she might not have done it. That I wasn’t raised by a murderer. I dug my fingers into my palms in anticipation.
But the expression on Winston’s face was stony, his eyes hard. “New evidence about the crime,” he said, giving nothing away. “I know you were fourteen at the time, but do you remember at all any of the people your mother was associating with then?”
A muscle in my jaw twitched. The answer was yes, and the answer was no. I knew more than I should, but not enough to make sense of what my mother had given me, and I sure as hell didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I bought myself some time. “Can you be a little more specific?”
“We want to know who she spent time with. Beyond Stefano,” he said, dropping the name of the shooter, a former hitman with The Royal Sinners, a Vegas gang.
“I’d just finished eighth grade.” Keenly aware of my own body language, I tried to strike a mix of casual and interested. Even though I was innocent, even though I didn’t have firsthand knowledge of the murder, I had intel about my mother I didn’t intend to share, and that made me hypervigilant. I could hear the words she’d said to me, crystal clear. Never say a word. No matter what, no matter who asks, don’t say anything. Promise me. I’d taken that directive from her to heart when I was younger, and as the years went on too. Besides, what I knew would have no bearing on my mother or her freedom. But rather than focus on the classified documents in my head, I narrowed in on the truth as I answered, “I didn’t have a great sense of the conversations she was having with that guy or any others—beyond the customers who came to our house to pick up clothes and costumes.”
Winston nodded and rubbed a hand over his chin, slowing as he seemed to consider. “We just want to get a better understanding of everything that happened. Something that might seem innocuous to you could actually wind up being a key piece of information for us. Were there new people in her life? Did she have any new friends?”
My senses tingled as my analytical mind played connect-the-dots. “Does this mean you think there were others involved?”
Winston leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, the classic pose for trying to get somebody to open up. “Listen, I’m really just trying to get a better picture of what her life looked like at the time of your father’s murder. Trying to understand who she was involved with. It could be relevant to the investigation.” Winston made an encouraging gesture with his hands. “The customers you said would come over to pick up clothes—was there anyone new in the months or weeks prior?”
I scrunched up my forehead, rewinding time. “Around that time, she was sewing leotards for a local gymnastics team. She tailored dresses for some of the girls in the neighborhood going to prom. She joked once that she had so much leftover fabric that she was going to start making dog jackets,” I said, and Winston’s lips quirked up in the barest grin.
“Big fan of dogs myself,” Winston said.
We had that in common. “Man’s best friend for a damn good reason.”
The dog talk ceased when he asked, “Any idea who her clients were? Beyond the gymnastics folks? Her friends?”
“Sorry. I honestly didn’t keep track of who her friends were,” I said, speaking the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Listen, if anything comes to you, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could share it with me,” Winston said, turning off the recorder then pushing back from his seat and standing up.
I tilted my head, pressing, wanting to know what he was on the hunt for. “What is it you’re looking for, detective? It would help me if I knew what sort of info you think would be useful.”
“Honestly, anything,” he said, emphasizing the last word with a touch of desperation. “Even if it seems like nothing—even if it seems like the smallest piece of evidence,” he said as he opened the door and escorted me through the main office, where weary cops and detectives finished phone calls, shuffled papers, and glanced at the clock.
I couldn’t blame them. I was eager to end this workday and get on the phone to sort out my new evening plans at Aria. I said goodbye to the detective and returned to the blanket of heat outside, scanning for the Aston Martin. The car was still there, but the blonde was gone.
Damn. I wouldn’t have minded another chance to drink her in. She would be a balm after that conversation with the detective, which had stirred up too many memories and far too many buried emotions. The past was such a thorny son of a bitch. Diving back into my younger years was not a favorite hobby of mine. Those days were messy and dangerous, and I wished I could leave them behind.
I’d never been able to though. They had dug claws into me. Grown knotty roots inside my head and my heart.
All the more reason to focus on the things that would take my mind off my obsession with the past.
Like tonight, and the chance to see that woman again. As I walked down the steps, I wondered briefly what kind of business she had at the municipal offices. One thing I was fairly certain about—she probably wasn’t talking to homicide detectives about an eighteen-year-old case.
A case I’d love to know more about. What I wouldn’t give to know what was inside John Winston’s head.
2
Sophie
After I finished chatting with two of my favorite people—my friend Jenna, then my ex-husband Holden—I headed inside the building, knocking twice on the glass window of my brother’s office. John looked up and flashed a brief smile. I wasn’t surprised to find him bent over his desk, one hand pushed through his dark-blond hair, the other flipping through some papers. Probably some case he was hell-bent on solving, since that pretty much described his single-minded mission in life. Always a hard worker, he’d be burning the midnight oil tonight, either here at the station or at home.
“Hey you,” John said, after he opened the door and dropped a quick kiss on my cheek.
“Hey you to you,” I said, my voice bright and bubbly to my own ears because I was still in a fantastic mood thanks to Mr. Green Tie. I was hoping that handsome man—wait, make that devilishly handsome, because he’d had a wicked glint in those dark-blue eyes—would pick up the trail of breadcrumbs I’d left behind. The way he’d looked at me on the street . . . I’d never felt so deliciously naked while wearing clothes. A man like that, bold enough to walk right up and talk to a woman . . . he was exactly the kind of man who would show up tonight at Aria.
Anticipation knitted a path up my spine. I barely knew the guy, had uttered all of ten words to him, but I had a feeling about him. A good feeling. A sexy feeling.