Spring raced by, rushing headlong into summer, which melted into early autumn, bringing chilly nights and the first frost of the season. And Lindsay’s wedding day. She and Judd had married in a simple private ceremony, with only the closest family and friends in attendance. Her cousin Callie had been her matron of honor. Griff had been Judd’s best man. Their very special guests had included Cam Hendrix, Sanders, Barbara Jean Hughes, Yvette Meng, Maleah Perdue, Rick Carson, and Holt Keinan.
Judd had offered her a honeymoon anywhere on earth, reminding her that she had married a very wealthy man and could have anything her heart desired.
“My heart desires you,” she’d told him. “And a honeymoon at the hunting lodge.”
So they had driven one county over to the Walker lodge outside Whitwell for what was supposed to have been a two-week honeymoon. That had been nearly two months ago. After just three weeks there, they had decided to contact an architect and a contractor and make plans to renovate the place, after the first of the year.
Judd hadn’t decided if he wanted to return to practicing law or if he wanted to be a gentleman farmer. Lindsay didn’t care. Whatever made her husband happy was fine with her. After all, she had everything—well, almost everything— she’d ever want. And come late summer next year, she would have everything.
Side by side, Lindsay and Judd worked in Mimi’s old flower garden, planting the tulip and daffodil bulbs that would bloom in March and April. A row of bronze and yellow mums they had planted in early October grew in profusion along the back walkway. The next heavy frost would probably get them, but they would simply die down and then be reborn next fall.
Judd helped Lindsay to her feet, their gloved hands clasping. He put his arm around her waist and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “It’s a wonderful day.”
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Everyday with you is a wonderful day.”
“How would you feel about living here permanently?” he asked.
“Do you mean it?”
“If you’d like to. If it’s what you want.”
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “It’s exactly what I want. You know I love this place. I love fishing in the creek and skinny-dipping in the pond. I love our long walks in the woods and working in the garden together and …” She looked him square in the eyes. “And I can’t think of a better place to raise our little girl.”
“Our little girl?”
“Well, she could turn out to be a he, but—” Lindsay laid her hand over her still flat belly “—somehow I just know our first child will be a girl.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Uh-huh. I picked up a pregnancy test at the drugstore in Whitwell yesterday and when I took the test this morning—”
Judd lifted her off her feet and swung her around and around, then eased her down his body, holding her close.
“I want to name her after your mimi,” Lindsay said. “But you’ve never told me what her given name was.”
“Emily,” Judd told her. “Mimi’s name was Emily.”
“It’s lovely.” She looked questioningly at Judd. “So, is it all right with you if our little girl is Emily Walker II?”
Judd glanced heavenward, then kissed Lindsay playfully on the nose. “Have I told you today, Mrs. Walker, just how much I love you?”
She squirmed against him. “Not since this morning before breakfast, so maybe you’d better tell me again.”
“I love you,” he said, then laid his open palm over her stomach. “And I love our little Emily II. Or possibly Jud son VI.”
Savoring the joy of the moment, Judd and Lindsay embraced, and their laughter carried far and wide on the cool November wind.
Nic Baxter recognized the caller ID and thought twice about answering her phone. But curiosity got the better of her.
“Hello, Mr. Powell, what can I do for you?”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Griff said. “Are you anticipating a lovely day with family or friends or do you have to work?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I’m driving down to the Walker hunting lodge to spend the holiday with Lindsay and Judd and I got to thinking about you, wondering if you were all alone.”
“Either tell me why you really called or I’m going to hang up.”
“Ah, you’re no fun.”
Nic groaned.
“There were two of them,” Griffin told her.
“What did you say?”
“You probably figured that out about the same time I did that—Cary Maygarden had an opponent in his sick little Dying Game—but you’ve kept that information to yourself. Otherwise the bureau wouldn’t have closed the BQ Killer case.”
“It’s just a guess,” she said. “I have no proof.”
“Yeah, it’s just gut instinct with me, too. But you know what that means, don’t you? Out there somewhere, there’s still a serial killer on the loose.”
“That well may be, but there hasn’t been another BQ murder since Cary Maygarden was killed.”
“That’s because that game ended when Maygarden died. Who do you think our other shooter was that day at the Woodruff Building?”
“Maygarden’s opponent.”
“Bingo. And once a serial killer, always a serial killer. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before this guy kills again, if he hasn’t already …”