Don't Look Back

“It’s a possibility. Until we know more, we’re handling it as a murder investigation.”

“Scott murdered?” The words staggered Cassie. Jameson clasped her against him as her legs gave way. “How—I mean…” She didn’t know what to say. Thoughts that made no sense tumbled through her mind.

“Why does your partner think that?” Jameson tightened his hold on her.

“We’ll know more after our forensics team goes over the crime scene and we get the autopsy report.”

“Crime scene,” Cassie whispered, her throat raw with emotion.

“Let’s go inside and talk.” The police officer stepped to the side to allow Cassie and Jameson to enter the apartment.

He started forward.

Cassie hung back, frozen to the spot. “I can’t do this. I need to get home and tell Mom. I don’t want her to hear from anyone but me.”

“Ma’am, I understand. I’ll try to get you home as quickly as possible.” The young man went first through the entrance into Mrs. Alexander’s place.

“Cassie?”

The concern in Jameson’s voice touched the icy grip on her heart. She took a deep, fortifying breath and moved into the apartment.

The aroma of coffee drifted to her. Such an ordinary smell. Then Cassie remembered the other scents that accosted her in Scott’s living room—whiskey, blood. She shuddered.

Mrs. Alexander bustled out of the kitchen. “I’ve put a pot of coffee on. Would anyone like a cup?”

Cassie’s stomach churned, and she shook her head.

“I’ll take one.” Jameson guided her toward the couch and sat.

“Sure,” the officer said to Mrs. Alexander, who immediately went back into the kitchen. He sank into a chair across from Cassie and Jameson and opened his pad. “Tell me what happened.”

Exhausted beyond sleep, Cassie trudged into the kitchen, so glad to see Jameson still at the house even though it was well past midnight. He glanced up, quickly masking the apprehension in his expression.

“How’s your mom?” He cradled his mug and brought it to his lips to take a sip.

Cassie eased down into the chair next to him. “Finally asleep.”

He held up his cup. “Do you want any coffee?”

“No, can’t stand the stuff.” She stared at the oak tabletop, trying to put some kind of order to her thoughts. The sound of her mother’s sobs still crowded her mind. Someone did this to her family. She curled her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I want to find whoever did this and make him pay.”

“The police will be looking into Scott’s death. It hasn’t been ruled a murder yet.”

“So you think he simply fell and hit his head on the table?”

“There was blood on the edge of it and on nothing else—at least that I could see.” The last few words were spoken with less conviction that it wasn’t murder.

“Maybe the killer took it with him.”

“You would rather Scott had been murdered than drinking again?”

“No, of course…” She tightened her hands even more until her knuckles stood out, white. “I don’t know what to think anymore. But that officer was suspicious.”

“I don’t think it’s just because Scott had liquor all over the front of his shirt. He could have spilled that on himself. Whatever it is, the police aren’t saying. Maybe it’s just a gut feeling.”

She remembered one time that her brother had been so drunk he had done that very thing. Which was worse? Her brother drinking himself to death or someone killing him?

Jameson covered her hands with his. “Let’s give the police a chance. They’ll know more after the autopsy. His blood alcohol level will indicate whether he was drinking or not.”

Anger that held her stiff siphoned from her, and she sagged against the table. “I had to listen to my mother cry herself to sleep. We had come through so much with Scott. He was getting his life back on track finally. What if someone came along and ended it—” she snapped her fingers “—just like that. It could be tied to a story he was working on.”

“Why do you say that?” Jameson downed the last swig of his drink.

“All the questions about whether Scott worked at home or not, how he kept notes on a story he was investigating. Right before we left, I overheard one of the detectives say he was going down to the newspaper next.”

“That could mean anything. Scott had already gained quite a reputation for digging until he discovered the whole truth. He’d made a few people unhappy with some of his stories.”

Cassie scraped the chair back and shot to her feet. “Exactly! Scott could have made someone angry with one of his pieces, and he got even by killing him.”

“That’s a possibility, and the police will look into it. But they’re also asking questions about Scott and his drinking.”

Leaning forward, she rested her knuckles on the plaid place mat. “After the scene is processed, they want me to go through Scott’s place and see if anything is missing.”

“The police need to rule out robbery as a motive, if he was murdered.”

The thought of going through her brother’s possessions, knowing she would have to box them up soon, chilled her. “I—I know, but…”

Jameson rose. “Do you want me to go with you? I don’t mind helping.”

“I hate to ask you—”

He covered the small space between them and clasped her arms, compelling her to look up into his face. “You didn’t ask. I volunteered. I don’t mind. Scott was a friend. You are a friend.”

His words melted some of the cold deep in the marrow of her bones. Emotions she’d held at bay wedged a lump in her throat.

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “It’s okay to cry.”

She fought the tears back. “I don’t like to cry.”

“Why?”

It’s a sign of weakness, of losing control. Her gymnastics coach’s words came back to her. Whenever she had fallen in practice, she was never allowed to shed one tear. After years it had become ingrained in her. But she couldn’t tell Jameson that. Instead she murmured, “I just don’t.”

The steady beat of his heart drummed against her ear. His faint scent surrounded her and brought some consolation to her.

“It’s never easy losing a loved one,” Jameson finally said, breaking the silence. “No matter the reason for the death.”

She remembered the death of his wife at the end of last year. Had he had anyone to help him through his pain? He always seemed so alone. Was he experiencing his own loss again?