Page 22 of Hell Hath No Fury

Emma’s expression soured. She told him about Nell not wanting Emma and Matthias to track them down. About Nell calling her judgy. About Eric asking Emma to stay away for now.

“Did you ask him about her signing Sonny’s sales agreement?”

“No. I want to have that conversation in person.”

Matthias looked back at the crime scene and at Fergusson. As much as he wanted to forget the last case they’d worked on, it was seared in his memory. He may have screwed up, but not nearly as badly as Fergusson had. Matthias took Emma’s hand and drew her farther up the hill. “I need to talk to you,” he whispered. Once they were well out of hearing range, he faced her. “They’re going to question you.”

“I know.”

He lowered his face, locking her in his gaze. “You need to be very careful what you tell them.”

Confusion narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

He glanced around to make sure no one had approached. “Sonny’s death was not an accident. They’re going to look for anyone with a motive to want him dead.”

Emma stiffened. “I didn’t want to sell my land to Sonny. I didnotwant him dead. You know that.”

“Of course I know. It’s more than not wanting to sell. The two of you had words yesterday. When he was pressuring you to sign those papers… well, as they say, if looks could kill, he’d have been dead on the spot.” Matthias pitched his voice even lower. “And his work crew witnessed it.”

“You honestly think that’s motive for murder?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is whattheythink.” He jerked his head toward the cops gathered around the body. “Don’t say anything more than necessary. And…” Matthias couldn’t believe what he told her next. “Don’t be afraid to demand a lawyer.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again and chewed her lip. Her gaze shifted in the direction of the entrance to the development. “I wasn’t the only one who was miffed at Sonny yesterday. He was having an argument with one of his workmen when we first got here.”

“Yeah, he was.”

Emma continued to look downhill. “Guess who just showed up.”

Matthias turned to see the man to whom Emma was referring step out of his pickup and jog toward the crime scene. “Stay here,” Matthias told her and strode toward the grave.

The same two troopers, who’d confronted the widow, blocked the new arrival. “Sir, you need to stay back.”

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded, straining to see beyond them.

“This is a crime scene. I’m afraid you can’t come any closer,” one of the uniforms said.

“Excuse me, but I’m the foreman of this construction site, and I need to know what’s happened.”

Fergusson escorted a fragile Ashley Jones back onto the road and toward them.

“Patrick,” she said, her voice little more than a squeak, “Sonny’s dead. Someone killed Sonny.”

The foreman’s eyes grew wide. He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “What? No. You must be mistaken.”

“He’s my husband. I’m not mistaken.”

Fergusson reached for her arm, but she again avoided his touch. She drew her hands deeper into her sleeves and burrowed them into her pockets. With her shoulders hunched, she appeared to be wearing her hoodie the way a turtle wears its shell.

“Sir,” Fergusson said to the foreman, “what’s your name?”

“Patrick Winslow.” He kept a worried gaze on Ashley. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

“No,” she said, her voice cracking.

Winslow looked at Fergusson. “I should see Mrs. Jones home.”

“I can drive myself,” she said brusquely.