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“Or on foot. I work from home, and most of the places I go on any given day I can reach by walking.”
“Not sure that’s a good idea.”
“It’s not like my track record in a car is exactly stellar after this morning,” she joked.
He didn’t smile. “Are you going to be at my class tomorrow afternoon?”
She shook her head. “The academy is a little too far away for a bike ride. Maybe I can pick up the class the next time you offer it.”
“You’ll have your car back soon. I can give you a ride to the class until then. Just be ready about a half hour early and I’ll swing by to pick you up.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“Because I think you need it. It’s not like it’s a big problem for me to give you a ride.”
She nibbled her lower lip, considering his offer. He was right about one thing—she’d like to know how to protect herself in a pinch. Wasn’t that why she’d picked up the self-defense class in the first place?
But Mike Strong was taking a peculiar amount of personal interest in her well-being, and she had a feeling it wasn’t a matter of altruism. He had seemed suspicious of her the very first class, hadn’t he?
A new thought occurred to her. Could Mike have been the person who’d tampered with her brakes?
“What is it?” he asked, looking suddenly concerned.
She schooled her own features, trying to hide her doubts. “Nothing. I was just remembering this morning. Can’t seem to shake it.”
“That’s natural,” he assured her with an easy smile. “That had to be a pretty terrifying few minutes.”
“Definitely.” She forced a smile. “And you’re right. I should be back in my car in a week, so there’s no real reason not to try to keep up with the self-defense courses.”
His concerned expression had cleared completely, now that he’d gotten his way. “So I’ll pick you up about thirty minutes before class starts? I like to get there early and do some prep work, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” she assured him, smiling again. “Do I need to bring anything besides me and my sparkling personality?”
He grinned. “That should be all you need. We’ll supply the rest.”
At her insistence, Mike let her pay for lunch. But he insisted on coming into her house with her instead of just dropping her off.
“You didn’t think someone was going to cut your brake line, either,” he argued when she told him he was being paranoid. “I’d like to be sure you’re not about to walk in on an intruder alone.”
Grimacing, Charlie gave in, hoping she hadn’t left the place in too much of a mess that morning. Fortunately, neither of her cats had pulled one of their insane stunts, such as trailing toilet paper around the house or dumping over all the potted plants.
The house was silent and still when they entered. No sign of intruders. And thanks to Mike’s presence, no sign of the cats, either, save for His Highness’s well-worn catnip mouse sitting in the middle of the living room floor.
“You have a pet?” Mike asked, picking up the toy.
“Two. Cats. Currently in hiding, since you’re here.”
He gave a nod of understanding.
A quick walk-through seemed to satisfy his need to play protector, and Charlie walked him to the door. “Thanks for your help this morning.”
“I’m glad I was able to help.” He looked up and down the street behind him, as if he expected trouble. But the street was as quiet and normal as the house. “See you tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Lock the door behind me.” He started down the porch steps and crossed to his truck, turning as he reached the vehicle. “Lock the door, Charlie,” he repeated, nodding toward her.
She closed the door and engaged the lock as he asked.
But as the sound of the truck’s engine faded to silence, she realized she didn’t feel any safer.
* * *
MIKE PULLED OFF the road onto the gravel-paved scenic overlook and got out of the truck, pacing with restless energy to the steel railing that kept visitors from stepping off the edge of the bluff. He curled his fists around the top rail, ignoring the burn of the cold steel against his bare palms. If anything, the discomfort helped him focus his scattered thoughts.
Lunch with Charlie Winters hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. He’d figured her obvious shakiness after the near disaster with her car might have made her drop her guard. He could use her rattled state to coax a few secrets out of her, and then he’d have a better idea what her real agenda might be.
Instead, not only had she managed to keep all her secrets, he was now convinced she was hiding even more than he’d suspected.
And instead of probing her story, trying to break through her wall of protection, he’d just sat back and listened. Because he liked to hear her talk. He liked the soft twang of her Kentucky accent, the way her lips quirked when she shot him a quizzical smile. He liked the twinkle in her eyes when he said something she found amusing. He liked the way she smelled—clean and crisp, like a garden kissed by the morning sun.
And the fact that he could come up with a description as ridiculous as “a garden kissed by the morning sun” was why he felt as if he’d just walked into a booby trap and all that was left for him to do was curl up in a ball and wait for the explosion.
He took several deep breaths and gazed across the hazy blue mountains that stretched out for miles before the first sign of a town showed up in the distance. Maybe he was just making too much of the way Charlie was making him feel. It had been a while since he’d really let himself think about a woman as anything other than a fellow soldier or one of the faceless, nameless civilians his orders had required him to protect from the enemy.
After his career as a Marine had ended and he’d entered the civilian force, it had taken a while just to get back into the swing of a life that didn’t include gunfire, explosions and endless miles of dirt and sand. He hadn’t wanted to look within the walls of the academy for a woman to share his bed and he’d been so focused on his job that he hadn’t really looked outside the academy walls, either.
What he needed was a real date. A woman, a nice dinner, maybe some dancing or a movie. Ease into a love life again. No strings, no pressure. No bright hazel eyes making his stomach feel as if it were turning inside out.
Maybe Heller’s wife had a friend he could meet. Weren’t women always trying to fix up their husbands’ single friends?
He pulled out his phone to record a reminder to feel Iris Heller out about her single friends the next time he ran into her, but he saw there was a “missed call” message. It was from someone named Randall Feeney.
For a moment, he thought it must have been a wrong number. Then he remembered the phone call he’d made before he’d set out on his search for Charlie Winters. He took a chance and called Feeney back.
“Randall Feeney,” a man answered. In the background, Mike heard the low hum of voices and the ringing of phones—the sounds of a busy office.
“Mr. Feeney, this is Mike Strong from Campbell Cove Security Services. You just called my cell phone.”
“Right, because you called the campaign office wanting to talk to someone about Alice Bearden.” The man’s voice lowered a notch. “May I ask the reason for your interest?”
Mike had already prepared his answer, but he’d really hoped to talk to Craig Bearden himself. “I’d rather discuss it with Mr. Bearden.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Feeney said firmly. “However, I’m Mr. Bearden’s executive aide and a longtime friend of the family. If you have any questions about Alice or the tragedy of her death, I may be able to help you. But I’d prefer to meet in person. Can you be at the campaign headquarters in Mercerville tomorrow afternoon? Say, around three?”
“I’m sorry, I’ll be busy then. What about later today? Maybe around six?”
There was a brief pause before Feeney agreed. “Six is doable. I’ll meet you here at the campaign headquarters. Do you know where that is?”
“I do.” He’d looked up the address before he’d made the first call.
“I have to admit, however, I’m a little puzzled why someone from your company would have any interest in what happened to Alice,” Feeney added, sounding wary.
“It may have some bearing on a case we’re helping to investigate,” Mike said, keeping his tone noncommittal. “I’ll know more when we speak.”
“Very well, then. See you at six.” Feeney hung up without any further goodbye.
Mike pocketed his phone, feeling a little less rattled than before, now that he had a mission. He’d go talk to Randall Feeney, hear the story of Alice Bearden’s death from someone who, as Feeney had proclaimed, was close to the family. If anyone would know what role Charlie Winters might have had in the death of Alice, it would be Craig Bearden’s personal assistant.
Maybe Feeney could shed some much-needed light on what Charlie Winters really wanted from her self-defense classes at Campbell Cove Academy.
Then Mike could put the confounding woman out of his head for good.
Chapter Four (#ulink_be8c0820-265f-5458-bafe-7c583d35f840)
If there was one thing Charlie was good at, it was making lists. Grocery lists, to-do lists, Christmas lists—she found satisfaction in writing down things that needed to be addressed and marking them off when she’d tackled and conquered them.
Today’s list was a to-do list of sorts, though marking off the items would take more than just a few hours of concentration and dedication.
First item on the list was already underway, at least. Learn the basics of self-defense. Couldn’t really mark it off yet, since she was only two classes into her lessons. But maybe if she agreed to Mike Strong’s offer to join his intermediate class, she’d reach that particular goal more quickly.
On the other hand, what if he turned out to be a problem? He was already giving her strange looks, as if he knew her reason for taking a self-defense class wasn’t as simple as the fact that she lived alone and wanted to be able to protect herself.
Was there something else on the list she could start to tackle before she was finished with her self-defense classes?
The second item was a possibility: make another attempt to talk to Mr. Bearden. Alice’s father.
She knew there wasn’t any chance of talking to Alice’s mother, Diana. The woman hadn’t been able to look at Charlie at the funeral, even though she’d always been kind to Charlie before Alice’s death.
To be honest, Charlie hadn’t been that eager to face Diana Bearden, either. Fair or not, Charlie had always felt a great deal of guilt for what had happened to Alice, too.
But maybe she could handle Craig Bearden. Assuming she could get the man to talk to her after all this time. It had been years since she’d seen Craig Bearden, if you didn’t count the signs and billboards that had cropped up all over eastern Kentucky since he’d announced his run for the US Senate. And even if they’d been closer, how easy would it be to get any face time with a political candidate?
Besides, they hadn’t exactly parted company as friends. He’d never said the words aloud, but Charlie believed he’d blamed her for Alice’s accident. Most people had. After all, Charlie was one of the Winters from Bagwell. The wrongest of the wrong sides of the tracks.
And her childhood talent for elaborate story fabrication hadn’t exactly helped her case, had it? That Charlotte Winters never met a truth she couldn’t gussy up.
Mr. Bearden hadn’t wanted to listen when she’d told him she thought Alice had met up with someone else that night at the bar. Facing the tragic death of his eighteen-year-old daughter had been horrific enough.
He’d never been willing to contemplate the idea that what happened to his little girl might not have been an accident.
Charlotte hadn’t wanted to believe it, either. It was one bald truth she’d had no desire to doctor up and make more interesting.
But after a while, the nightmares had started. It had taken a while to realize the fragmented scenes of fear and confusion were actually memories that had been buried somewhere in her subconscious.
That night at the Headhunter Bar, three sips of light beer were all Charlie could remember for years. After that, nothing. No memories. No sensations or sounds or smells. Nothing but a terrifying blank.
Until the dreams had started.
She didn’t imagine she could have gotten drunk that night, because she had never been much of a drinker. Thanks to her two jailbird brothers, she’d taken her first taste of alcohol at the age of twelve. The hard stuff, hard enough to turn her off alcohol for years. When she hit high school, she’d occasionally drunk a beer when she was with other people—peer pressure, she guessed—but she had no taste for it, and she certainly wouldn’t have drunk enough to get so wasted that she’d black out.
But the alternative had been far more horrifying to contemplate, so she hadn’t. She’d gone along with the accepted story—two teenage girls buy fake IDs and go drinking. One passed out and the other wandered drunkenly into the path of a car and died of her injuries. Alice’s blood alcohol level had been elevated—.09, which was over the legal limit to be considered impaired.
But had she been impaired enough to walk in front of a car without trying to escape?
The police had used a breathalyzer on Charlie when they’d shown up to ask questions about Alice’s death, but several hours had already passed since she’d awakened, half-frozen and disoriented, in her backyard.
Charlie rubbed her forehead, feeling the first grind of a tension headache building behind her eyes. She drew a line through goal number two—speaking to Craig Bearden—and rewrote the goal several steps down the page. It was way too early to talk to Alice’s father about her death, especially now that he had made increasing penalties for both serving alcohol to minors and reckless driving laws a significant part of his political platform.
Besides, she’d called him not that long ago, without getting any response. Well, unless you counted brake tampering. And did she really think Craig Bearden would do something like that?
Nellie looked up with alarm when Charlie scraped her chair back quickly, bumping up against the bookcase where she perched. His Highness merely blinked at her, uninterested, from his sunny spot on the windowsill.
“Mama needs to get out of here,” Charlie told them, going as far as to grab her jacket before she realized she couldn’t leave. Beyond the work she still had to complete before quitting time this afternoon, she no longer had a car at her disposal. And the bike wasn’t exactly a safe alternative, was it?
An image flashed through her head. Alice lying dead on the road, her body battered and broken from the collision with a car. Blood seeping from her head, thick, dark and shiny on the pavement.
She sat down abruptly, her limbs suddenly shaky. Why was that image of Alice’s broken body in her mind in the first place? She hadn’t been there when Alice died.
Had she?
* * *
MIKE REACHED THE Craig Bearden for Senate headquarters in Mercerville with only a few minutes to spare, but he used every one of those extra minutes trying to get his mind off those terrifying moments when he’d thought he wasn’t going to catch up to Charlie Winters before her runaway car slammed into the line of vehicles waiting at the four-way stop.
It had been close. Too close. And strangely, the time that had passed between their close call and now only seemed to intensify his memories of those heart-racing seconds.
Catching up, then passing her to get in front. Trying to time his slowdown—not too sudden, or the impact of her car against his might have injured her. But if he hadn’t slowed down soon enough, they might have run out of pavement between them and the cars on the road ahead.
It had been a nerve-racking few minutes, and he was in no hurry to repeat the experience anytime soon.
The clock on his dashboard clicked over to 5:59. He made the effort to shake off the unsettling memories. Put on his game face.
It was showtime.
Bearden’s campaign office was a storefront with wide plate glass windows and a glass door, all imprinted with Bearden for Senate in big red letters. The place was still bustling with staff and volunteers, including an energetic young woman in jeans wearing a large round Bearden for Senate button on her sweater. “Bearden for Senate. Would you like to sign up to volunteer?”
“Actually, I’m here to see Randall Feeney. Is he here?”
The girl looked sheepish. “Oh no, I’m sorry. You’re Mr. Strong, aren’t you? Mr. Feeney was called away unexpectedly and I was supposed to call you to ask if he could reschedule for another day, but it just got so busy.”
Mike suppressed his irritation and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He withdrew a card and handed it to the woman. “Please see that Mr. Feeney gets this card. He can call and reschedule when his calendar is less crowded.”
“Will do,” the girl said brightly. “Sure you don’t want to volunteer to work for the campaign?”
“Yeah, I’m not very political.” He’d been in the Marine Corps long enough to avoid politics like the plague. It just got in the way of doing his duty. He supposed now that he was a civilian again, it was time to start thinking about his civic responsibilities.
But not today.
