“Not even your late husband?”

Jesus, did it really matter? They were both getting what they wanted. She expected nothing from him. No strings or baggage.

The buildup to her release was losing steam, and she didn’t want to go home alone and sexually frustrated. “It’s only you,” she lied.

A slight cock of his head told her he wasn’t sure he believed her. He wanted to. But . . .

“Right now, it’s just you and me.” She smiled enough to ease the apprehension coiling in his body. “I can get to where I want to go alone, but I’d rather do it with you.” She arched toward him in a show of unity.

His eyes smoldered, and seemingly shoving aside his doubt, he quickened his pace. Sweat moistened the base of his spine, and she knew he had lost himself in the moment. She tightened her grip on her breast and moaned as the edge raced toward her faster than it ever had.

When she tumbled, she arched, allowing her body to give in completely to the sensations washing over her in rolling, hot waves.

Vaughan’s body went rigid, and the muscles in his neck bunched as he bored deep into her. The tension in his back released, and his eyes glistened with the triumphant spark men had when they orgasmed.

He lowered down on his elbow and rolled on his back beside her. She closed her eyes again, nestled closer to his warmth, and drifted back to that fleeting place between the past and the present. She was not with her husband but with Vaughan; she could almost pretend she was happy like she used to be.

And these days, almost had to be good enough.

 

Nikki’s heart beat in her chest as she shoved through the front door of her condo. In one hand, she clutched a grocery bag stuffed with the essentials: wine, aspirin, and coffee. In the other, she balanced a duffle, crammed with files she kept in her storage unit, and a pizza box.

She still couldn’t believe that the skull belonged to Marsha Prince!

Nikki pushed her front door closed and crossed into the kitchen, dumping her purchases on the marble countertop.

After toeing off her shoes, she moved to her computer and pulled up her site. She had written and posted a quick recap of Marsha right after the detective and agent had left her. She checked the comment section and saw two dozen comments. Not stellar, but not terrible.

From the bag she removed the DVDs she had retrieved from storage. She arranged them in chronological order, starting with the first story she had filed on the Prince girl’s disappearance. Today she would create a montage of videos for her site so that her audience could see what it had been like for her to cover it in real time.

She loaded a DVD in the disk drive, and as it queued, she poured herself a glass of wine and plopped three slices of pizza on a plate.

Six months ago, she would never have indulged in the carbs, but months of unemployment had translated into so many bad habits she now doubted she could fit into one of her trademark pencil skirts.

She sat at her small kitchen table and watched as the camera panned from the Princes’ two-story home to her. For a moment, she hit pause, leaning in and staring at her face. Jesus, when had she ever been that young? She looked like Bambi caught in the headlights of a hunter. And the hair. Who had told her bangs looked good on her?

“Time marches on, McDonald.”

She hit play and watched detectives cluster near the house as a grim-faced Hadley peeked out from the curtains of the large front bay window.

“I’m at the home of Larry and Edith Prince. Police are not saying much, but it appears that their nineteen-year-old daughter, Marsha, has vanished. My sources are telling me that the 911 call came in early morning, when Marsha’s mother realized she’d not come home. I’ve spoken to several neighbors, who tell me that they saw Marsha Prince up to two days ago.”

Over the course of the next several reports she had filed, neighbors and friends had had lots to say about the family. She’d learned of Mrs. Prince’s multiple sclerosis and Larry’s financial struggles, but most had conceded the Princes were a normal family. There had been potential sightings of Marsha and tips called into the hotline, but she had never been found.

Nikki drained her glass of wine and crossed back into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. As much as she would like to finish the wine, she needed to start making a list of the people associated with this case.

Her attention shifted back and forth to the pictures she had of the girl and to the images she had taken of the blackened bones nestled in the chest filled with brittle tissue paper. She did not know the actual cause of death but wondered, given the state of the bones, if it even could be determined now.

But someone out there knew exactly how Marsha had died. And it was likely that someone had sent her to the remains because he or she wanted the girl’s story known.

Her fear was that her friendly tipster would lose his nerve and remain as silent as he had been over the last eight weeks. Up until now, her contact had had all the power. Now she needed to get the upper hand. She quickly typed out a public plea on her website to her tipster, suggesting he was a coward if he did not contact her.

Her finger hovered over the “Post” button as she considered what kind of trouble she could be stirring up with an individual who could be unstable.

Seconds ticked, and her nerve actually wavered before she hit the button.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tuesday, August 13, 2:30 a.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

The Day Of

Hadley had arrived home shortly after midnight, barely twenty minutes before Mark had pushed through the front door. She had lain in bed, listening to him move around downstairs, shower in the bath off the hallway, and change into jogger shorts and a T-shirt. The choice of clothing was for Skylar’s benefit. If their daughter caught him on the sofa or downstairs, he could simply say he was out for an early run or had fallen asleep in front of the television. Mark did everything for that kid. He adored her, and Hadley knew if he had to choose between Skylar or her, their daughter would win hands down.

When their girl had had her troubles in Oregon, it had been Mark’s idea to move back east. Hadley had not wanted to return to the East Coast but realized leaving Portland was better than facing the questions and stares. He had reached out to his company and requested a transfer.

Now as she rolled out of bed, minutes after three o’clock in the morning, she glanced briefly toward the spot where her husband had slept until last week. They had both agreed divorce was the only option available, and they were simply waiting for the best time to tell Skylar. He had wanted to wait for a few more weeks to give Skylar a chance to settle into her school year. Hadley had insisted it be done by Friday.

Hadley knew her daughter well enough to know she was very smart and had to have sensed major problems in the marriage.

“Mom, why were the cops here?” Skylar asked. “I’ve been good. I’ve done everything you asked.”

“They weren’t here for you,” Hadley said.

“Then why?”

A headache pulsed behind her eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

Her daughter’s temper snapped. “You only say that when there is a problem!”

Hadley now quickly made the bed, smoothing out all evidence of the separate sleeping arrangements. She dressed in jogging shorts, a bra, and a T-shirt, made a notation in a small notebook she used to track her workouts, and then tiptoed past Skylar’s closed door and down the stairs. Mark lay on his side, his back pressed against the cushions and his arms crossed over his chest, as if trying to squeeze his large frame into the too-small space.