Twelve
Rachael walked into
Cain’s office, her nose in Minnesota for
Morons. She hadn’t meant to let the book capture her, but
Cain had kept her waiting, so she had pulled it out and then . . .
and then . . . and then Cain’s assistant really hollered and Rachael realized Cain was ready
for their meeting.
“You know,” she said,
engrossed, “Stillwater might be very nice. It’s old, comparably
speaking. And the river looks so pretty.”
“Consider visiting.
Now.”
That got her head up in a hurry. Anger. Fear. Anxiety.
She snapped the book
closed. “What’s wrong?”
Cain was behind her
desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked like she hadn’t
changed her clothes in three days. She, ah, smelled like it,
too.
“A public relations
nightmare. That is what’s wrong.” Cain stopped pinching and looked
up. “I’m sorry. There have been some murders.”
“Local?”
“Yes.”
“Pack?”
Cain blanched. “Good
God, I don’t think so. That’s all we
need, dead Pack members popping up right when the Pack leader’s
cousin gets to town. Michael would be so pleased.”
Rachael snorted.
Pleased wasn’t the word that leapt to
her mind when wondering about Michael Wyndham’s reaction to a Pack
murder spree. What constitutes a spree,
anyway? She said murders, plural. Two?
Is two a spree?
“You’re jammed,” she
guessed.
“Extremely.”
“You could have
called . . . we didn’t have to meet today.”
“We did have to meet
today, Rachael. I’m sorry to have to tell you . . . this is going
to sound a little odd, but the two victims were on a list of small
business owners who are looking for an accountant.” Cain coughed.
“A list I had drawn up for you and was prepared to give to you this
morning.” Cain slid the list across her desk. “I strongly advise
you not waste your time calling Mr. Stewart or Ms.
Janesboro.”
Less than a week?
A WEEK?
Cuz, you are in for the spanking of your life if I ever
get back to the Cape.
“And we don’t
validate parking.” Rachael had been using the parking stub for a
bookmark. “Sorry.”
A never-ending nightmare.