Marlie shrugged. “Okay.” Turning away, she unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. The parking space in front of her was empty, meaning she didn’t have to back out; she pulled out through the space in front, leaving him to park the cart or do whatever he wished with it. She wasn’t in the mood to be gracious. She was tired, depressed, and angry. Worse than that, she was frightened. Not of Detective Hollister, as unpleasant as he was. Her fears were much deeper than that.
She was afraid of the monster who had butchered Nadine Vinick.
And she was afraid of herself.
By the time she stopped at the second traffic light after leaving the grocery store parking lot, he was right behind her again. The man really had a talent for getting around in traffic.
The sight of her house wasn’t as enticing as it usually was. She was wryly certain that its sanctuary was going to be violated by a big, grim man who seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to her. She was used to skepticism from people, but not actual dislike; his attitude wounded her a little, though she was surprised at herself for feeling that way. Detective Hollister wasn’t anything to her, so it had to be merely that it was human nature to want others to think well of oneself.
Just as she had expected, he pulled into her driveway before she had time to cut the ignition off. He got out of the car and took off the sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. No matter how uneasy sunglasses made her, she suddenly wished he had left them on, because his hazel green eyes, caught by the last rays of the sinking sun, were hard and frighteningly intense.
“What now?” she asked. “Or did you come all this way to help me carry in my groceries?”
“You said you could manage them without my help,” he pointed out. “I thought we’d have a little talk.”
Someone came out next door. She looked up and saw her neighbor, Lou, standing on the porch and staring curiously at them. Marlie waved and called out a hello. Beside her, Detective Hollister also waved.
“Nice to see you again,” he called.
Marlie sternly controlled her temper. Of course he had already been out questioning her neighbors; she wouldn’t have expected him to do otherwise. He had made it plain this morning that he was very suspicious of her.
Despite what he had said, when she opened the trunk he plucked all four bags of groceries out, clutching two in each hand. “After you,” he said politely.
She shrugged; if he was willing to carry her groceries, she was willing to let him. She unlocked the front door and held it open for him, then followed him inside and directed him back to the kitchen, where he placed the bags on the table.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Why say thank you now, when you didn’t before?”
She lifted her brows. “You told me not to.” She began putting the groceries away. “What’s on your mind, Detective?”
“Murder.”
The circumstances of Nadine Vinick’s death weren’t something she could be flippant about. Strain tightened her face as she said simply, “Mine, too.” Her eyes were wide and haunted.
He leaned against the cabinet, eyeing her thoughtfully as she moved about the kitchen, bending to stow this item here, stretching to put another on a top shelf. He hadn’t missed the strain in her expression.
He looked around. He liked the kitchen, which was a rather unsettling thought; whatever he had expected the interior of her house to be like, this soothing coziness wasn’t it. His own kitchen was strictly utilitarian; Trammell’s was the latest in high tech, totally intimidating. Marlie Keen’s kitchen was comforting. Rows of herbs in small pots grew in a rack in the window over the sink, giving the air a fresh scent. The tile under his feet was a creamy white, with patterns of soft blues and greens. The open shutters over the windows were painted the same soft blue. A white ceiling fan was positioned over the table.
“Did you find out anything interesting about me today?” she asked, keeping her back turned to him as she placed canned goods on a shelf.
He didn’t reply, just broodingly watched her. He wasn’t about to keep her informed of his progress, or lack of it.
“Let me tell you,” she offered lightly. “Today you found that I’ve never been arrested, never had a traffic ticket, and that to the best of my neighbors’ knowledge, I don’t date or have anyone over. I pay my bills on time, don’t use credit cards, and don’t have any books overdue at the library, though I would have if I hadn’t returned those today.”
“Why don’t you tell me again about Friday night,” he said. His tone was sharp. She had neatly outlined his day, and he didn’t like it. The anger that had simmered in him all day was under control, but just barely. The lady definitely put his back up.
He could see her shoulders tense. “What part didn’t you understand?”
“I’d like to hear it all. Humor me. Just start at the beginning.”
She turned around, and she was as pale as she had been that morning, when she had related the story for the first time. Her hands, he noticed, were knotted into fists at her sides.
“Does it bother you to talk about it?” he asked coolly. He hoped it did. If her conscience was bothering her, maybe she’d spill her guts. It had happened before, though usually it was sheer stupidity and a perverted sort of pride that led the perp into confession.
“Of course. Doesn’t it bother you to hear about it?”
“Seeing it was a lot worse.”
“I know,” she murmured, and for a moment the expression in her eyes was unguarded. There was pain in those dark blue depths, and anger, but most of all he saw a desolation that punched him square in the chest.