Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I cross the drive and march up the stairs. Entering the house, I shut the door and prepare to start a search. But damn it, it’s impossible not to feel the betrayal of Faith’s trust in that act. It feeds my need to prove her innocence and not her guilt, which I’ve already established is a problem. At this point, I’ll take innocence any way I can frame it, and she’s logical and smart. It will be a blow to realize why I sought her out, but she’ll understand. Forgiving me might be another story, but right now, I just need to find a murderer that isn’t her. I glance at my watch: eleven fifteen. I need time to review the material North has certainly already emailed me, but by the time I do this search and eat with Faith, that’s not going to happen. Not willing to compromise the prep for the deposition or my management of North, I snag my cellphone from my pocket and text him: Move to two o’clock.
He responds so damn fast I don’t know how he has time to type: Copy that, boss.
I smirk and shove my phone back in my pocket. “The kid’s eager,” I murmur. “I’ll give him that.”
In the interest of time, I head for Faith’s bedroom, where most people keep their secrets. Once I’m there, I place my hand on a dresser drawer and hesitate. Damn it, I hate doing this, but I have no other option. I pull open one organized drawer after another, finding nothing out of the ordinary. The nightstands are next, and I find more of the same. The bed’s a platform, which means there are no hiding spots beneath it, but my gaze lands on the painting above Faith’s bed—one of her own works, this one of a vineyard, with a streak of red on one vine. She’s talented, stunningly so, which brings my attention to that card from Faith’s father she didn’t want to open. Why do I know that card is all about his confidence and pride in her for taking over the winery, with a negative spin on her art, her passion? And yet, even in death, she wants to please him, craving his love. Not a problem I had with my father. I never craved anything from the man. Hell, he probably only gave Meredith Winter a million dollars so it was a million less that I’d inherit.
Rejecting the grind in my gut with that thought, I turn away from the bed and head into the bathroom, searching the drawers there, and then I move into Faith’s closet. My digging there includes checking pockets and shoes, but the results are the same. Nothing. From there, I make my way to the opposite side of the house, where I find a small library with a couple of overstuffed chairs and art books filling the shelves. I don’t have time to check those books. I need to find an office. There has to be one, or at least a place where she keeps her documents, and this isn’t it.
Glancing at my watch, I estimate I have thirty minutes before Faith returns, and I track a path to the kitchen, do a quick search. Realizing that I have no place but Faith’s studio left to search, I hesitate. That feels like a place she should take me, but there could be an office up there somewhere, and I have to look for that. For now, though, I walk into the dining room, where I’ve left my briefcase, which I retrieved from the car before Faith left. I sit down at the rectangular dark wood table and glance at the credenza, which has no drawers, before I unpack my MacBook and files to make it look like I’ve been working.
Next, I have to make a phone call before Faith returns, even above searching the studio for an office. Moving to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the credenza, I pull back the curtain to keep an eye on the driveway before removing my phone from my pocket, dialing Beck Luche, a tatted-up former CIA agent who now does private hire work, and not for a small price. He also did five years undercover as a rogue US hacker deep inside a Russian hacking operation. It’s a detail about his past I learned when he was under consideration for a hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck from one of my high-tech clients. He got the job, and I hired him personally three days ago after waiting two weeks for him to be free from another job. But I didn’t want this screwed up.
“Nicolas,” he answers, using that name despite me explicitly telling him not to. “How’s the meeting with the would-be black widow if she ever got married?” he asks.
I grind my teeth at the dagger he’s just thrown. “She’s either innocent or a damn good actor.”