Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower

“That’s another reason,” he said, “why I don’t think you should go back to your father’s house tonight.”

She turned to him. “You think Daniella…”

“We’ll be questioning her again.”

“But why would she kill Robert? If she loved him?”

“Jealousy? If she couldn’t have him, no one could?”

“But he’d already broken off our engagement! It was over between us!”

“Was it really?”

Though the question was asked softly, she sensed at once an underlying tension in his voice.

She said, “You were there, Sam. You heard our argument. He didn’t love me. Sometimes I think he never did.” Her head dropped. “For him it was definitely over.”

“And for you?”

Tears pricked her eyes. All evening she’d managed not to cry, not to fall apart. During those endless hours in the hospital waiting room, she’d withdrawn so completely into numbness that when they’d told her Robert was dead, she’d registered that fact in some distant corner of her mind, but she hadn’t felt it. Not the shock, nor the grief. She knew she should be grieving. No matter how much Robert had hurt her, how bitterly their affair had ended, he was still the man with whom she’d spent the last year of her life.

Now it all seemed like a different life. Not hers. Not Robert’s. Just a dream, with no basis in reality.

She began to cry. Softly. Wearily. Not tears of grief, but tears of exhaustion.

Sam said nothing. He just kept driving while the woman beside him shed soundless tears. There was plenty he wanted to say. He wanted to point out that Robert Bledsoe had been a first-class rat, that he was scarcely worth grieving over. But women in love weren’t creatures you could deal with on a logical level. And he was sure she did love Bledsoe; it was the obvious explanation for those tears.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as frustration surged through him. Frustration at his own inability to comfort her, to assuage her grief. The Roberts of the world didn’t deserve any woman’s tears. Yet they were the men whom women always seemed to cry over. The golden boys. He glanced at Nina, huddled against the door, and he felt a rush of sympathy. And something more, something that surprised him. Longing.

At once he quelled the feeling. It was yet another sign that he should not be in this situation. It was fine for a cop to sympathize, but when the feelings crossed that invisible line into more dangerous emotions, it was time to pull back.

But I can’t pull back. Not tonight. Not until I make sure she’s safe.

Without looking at her, he said, “You can’t go to your father’s. Or your mother’s for that matter—her house isn’t secure. No alarm system, no gate. And it’s too easy for the killer to find you.”

“I—I signed a lease on a new apartment today. It doesn’t have any furniture yet, but—”

“I assume Daniella knows about it?”

She paused, then replied, “Yes. She does.”

“Then that’s out. What about friends?”

“They all have children. If they knew a killer was trying to find me…” She took a deep breath. “I’ll go to a hotel.”

He glanced at her and saw that her spine was suddenly stiff and straight. And he knew she was fighting to put on a brave front. That’s all it was, a front. God, what was he supposed to do now? She was scared and she had a right to be. They were both exhausted. He couldn’t just dump her at some hotel at this hour. Nor could he leave her alone. Whoever was stalking her had done an efficient job of dispatching both Jimmy Brogan and Robert Bledsoe. For such a killer, tracking down Nina would be no trouble at all.

The turnoff to Route 1 north was just ahead. He took it.

Twenty minutes later they were driving past thick stands of trees. Here the houses were few and far between, all the lots heavily forested. It was the trees that had first attracted Sam to this neighborhood. As a boy, first in Boston, then in Portland, he’d always lived in the heart of the city. He’d grown up around concrete and asphalt, but he’d always felt the lure of the woods. Every summer, he’d head north to fish at his lakeside camp.

The rest of the year, he had to be content with his home in this quiet neighborhood of birch and pine.

He turned onto his private dirt road, which wound a short way into the woods before widening into his gravel driveway. Only as he turned off the engine and looked at his house did the first doubts assail him. The place wasn’t much to brag about. It was just a two-bedroom cottage of precut cedar hammered together three summers ago. And as for the interior, he wasn’t exactly certain how presentable he’d left it.

Oh, well. There was no changing plans now.

He got out and circled around to open her door. She stepped out, her gaze fixed in bewilderment on the small house in the woods.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“A safe place. Safer than a hotel anyway.” He gestured toward the front porch. “It’s just for tonight. Until we can make other arrangements.”

“Who lives here?”

“I do.”

If that fact disturbed her, she didn’t show it. Maybe she was too tired and frightened to care. In silence she waited while he unlocked the door. He stepped inside after her and turned on the lights.

At his first glimpse of the living room, he gave a silent prayer of thanks. No clothes on the couch, no dirty dishes on the coffee table. Not that the place was pristine. With newspapers scattered about and dust bunnies in the corners, the room had that unmistakable look of a sloppy bachelor. But at least it wasn’t a major disaster area. A minor one, maybe.

He locked the door and turned the dead bolt.

She was just standing there, looking dazed. Maybe by the condition of his house? He touched her shoulder and she flinched.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look so fine.”

In fact she looked pretty pitiful, her eyes red from crying, her cheeks a bloodless white. He had the sudden urge to take her face in his hands and warm it with his touch. Not a good idea. He was turning into a sucker for women in distress, and this woman was most certainly in distress.

Instead he turned and went into the spare bedroom. One glance at the mess and he nixed that idea. It was no place to put up a guest. Or an enemy, for that matter. There was only one solution. He’d sleep on the couch and let her have his room.

Sheets. Oh Lord, did he have any clean sheets?

Frantically he rummaged in the linen closet and found a fresh set. He was on top of things after all. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Nina.

She held out her arms for the sheets. “I’ll make up the couch.”

“These are for the bed. I’m putting you in my room.”

“No, Sam. I feel guilty enough as it is. Let me take the couch.”

Something in the way she looked at him—that upward tilt of her chin—told him she’d had enough of playing the object of pity.

He gave her the sheets and added a blanket. “It’s a lumpy couch. You don’t mind?”