Page 39 of No Offense

Molly was sitting very upright and proper in the passenger seat beside him as he drove her to the hotel where she lived (and worked), her gaze glued to the road. Her profile looked very delicate and feminine against the dark car window beside her. She was being unusually silent, but he could understand that. What had happened back at the widow’s house had probably frightened her.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s very nice of you to offer to stay the night with Mrs. Tifton.”

She turned those huge dark eyes to look at him. “It’s nice of you to offer to sit outside her home, as well. We couldn’t very well let her stay there alone after what happened.”

“Of course.” They were getting very close to the hotel, which was really only a couple of blocks away from the widow’s house. That was one of the few problems with Little Bridge: Everything was only a couple of blocks away. This was an advantage most of the time, but not duringsituations like this: their ride wasn’t going to last very long. But then he had the ride back to Mrs. Tifton’s to look forward to. “But you really don’t have to worry about him coming back. The High School Thief, I mean.”

The dark eyes seemed to grow even larger, but that might have been a trick of the streetlights beneath which they were passing.

“So you think it was him? The High School Thief?”

“Well, it’s the same M.O.”

“Except for the break-in. I thought the High School Thief only sneaked in through unlocked doors.”

“That’s true.” John didn’t want to say what he really thought—that it was Beckwith, and that he’d done it as a huge “eff you” entirely to John, to ruin his evening at the Red Cross Ball, his attendance at which was known island-wide, because that would sound conceited. What kind of law officer went around thinking that criminals committed crimes for the sole purpose of annoying them?

But it could not be denied that some criminals did, in particular sociopaths like Beckwith.

“We’ll have to wait until my tech crew has finished processing the scene, and see what they come up with,” he said instead.

This made Molly swallow hard and look away.

“But I am really certain it’s him,” John hurried to assure her, sure now that he’d been right: she’d been frightened back at the house. “And he never hits the same place twice—certainly not in the same night. So you and Mrs. Tifton will be totally safe. Besides, I’ll be right outside—”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” She gave him a tight little smile. “Here we are.”

He hadn’t even noticed that they’d reached the Lazy Parrot, a large Victorian mansion not unlike Mrs. Tifton’s home, only this one had been converted into an inn. He pulled into the single parking space outside the hotel, marked with a hand-painted sign that read “For Lazy Parrot Guest Drop-Off/Pickup Only.” Parking spots were at a premium on the island. Many of the fights John and his deputies broke up were over parking spaces.

Molly was already undoing her seat belt. “Would you like to come in and wait while I get my things?”

Was this an invitation to her room? He had no idea. But he wasn’t about to turn it down.

“Sure,” he said, and put the car into park and followed her.

Like many houses in Little Bridge, the Lazy Parrot was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. Once they’d gone through the lobby—an old-fashioned foyer, complete with an (unmanned, at this hour) front desk—and sitting room, they reached the gigantic backyard, lush with subtropical foliage, in the center of which sat a large, sparkling swimming pool, lit up turquoise blue. The air was heavy with the scent of chlorine and night-blooming jasmine. All of the guests, as well as the hotel owners, appeared to have retired for the evening. He and Molly seemed to be the only two souls alive, save for some frogs he could hear croaking near the hot tub.

It was one of the most romantic places he’d ever seen.

He turned to Molly to tell her so—or tell her something,anyway—only to see her hurrying toward a set of outdoor steps leading to the Victorian’s second floor, the doors of which could be reached only by a long balcony.

“I’ll just get my things and be right back,” she said. “You can wait right here. I’ll only be a second.”

She indicated a wrought-iron lawn chair beside the pool.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Great.”

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “A drink or something while you wait? The bar is right over there—”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Miss Montgomery,” he said, with mock severity, “I’m the sheriff. I can’t be drinking and driving.”

“Ha.” She laughed weakly. “Yes, of course. But, you know, a Coke or something.”