Page 49 of Sinister Secrets

“Alicia Harris.”

My mouth drops open, because it’s true. I did kill Alicia Harris, but in my defense, if I hadn’t, I’d be the one who’s dead right now.

“Now, Cheryl.” Sheriff Kingston holds a placating hand up as he steps between us. “That was in self-defense.”

“Was it?” she spits. “According to who? Her?”

His gaze hardens. A stone drops into the pit of my stomach, landing with a splash of acid that reaches all the way up the back of my throat as he turns a suspicious gaze on me.

“Why would anyone need to defend themselves against a sweet girl like Alicia?” she continues. “She wouldn’t have hurt a fly. She certainly wouldn’t have been foolish enough to attack an FBI agent.”

But she hadn’t known. Then again, she hadn’t been a sweet girl, either, unless by sweet you mean someone responsible for at least two murders, one of them my octogenarian grandfather.

Stepping around the sheriff, she gets in my face again. “Just be honest with me. Did you do it?”

“I… yes. I did shoot Alicia. But—”

“No. Did you kill my boy?”

“Of course not.”

Her lips curl into a smile so cold and cruel it makes a shudder run down my spine. “You better hope not, because I’m going straight to the state police when I leave here, and I’m giving them everything. Every shred of evidence that was in the package I got in the mail.” She turns a scathing look toward Sheriff Kingston. “This is on you if she did. You better make sure that’s the truth.”

And with that, she leaves.

I sink down into the chair in front of Kingston’s desk, not trusting my legs to continue supporting me.

“You have any idea what evidence she’s talking about?” he asks.

“No, none.”

“Well, you better figure it out, and quickly.”

“Lyle, you know that Alicia was a cold-blooded killer.”

“Yep. That I do.” But the way he’s looking at me right now makes it obvious that he’s not sure she was the only one.

My thoughts spin, replaying the confrontation over in my mind. She said that someone mailed her a package filled with evidence that would supposedly prove that I murdered her son. Ice spreads through my veins as I realize what’s happening. I’m being framed.

CHAPTER 27

This whole time I’ve been wondering why. Why did someone dump a body in the pond on my property? Why was Gordon killed? Why can’t I shake the feeling that this is more personal than just a message I can’t quite interpret?

Was this the plan all along? To make it appear as if I perpetrated the crime?

If so, it doesn’t make sense—not that any of this does. Because if you were going to go to this much effort to frame someone, wouldn’t you make sure that they actually stood a chance of facing charges for the crime? Though being accosted by Gordon’s mom wasn’t my favorite thing ever, it’s better than an arrest, a trial, a prison sentence.

Fortunately, I never mentioned to anyone what I’d found in his yearbooks, or even worse, handed them over as evidence, although if anyone finds out about them now, it will only serve to make me look guilty. I can’t risk that happening. I have to figure this out, but not here.

Putting my car in gear, I pull out of the sheriff department’s parking lot and drive out of town. When I hit the light at the Tamiami, I turn left, going west instead of east toward home. I can’t face Jake yet. Not until I’ve found the ounce of hope I’m looking for.

So I head to what used to be my happy place. A spot that never failed to bring me comfort. Somewhere I used to be well-known, but after twenty years away I’ll be able to remain anonymous—the Palm County Public Library.

Parking in the scant shade of a palm tree, I get out of my car and jog across the lot. For the first time ever, I don’t pause just inside the doors to take a deep breath. The scent of books isn’t going to bring me comfort, not today. Only answers will do that.

I hurry past the counter, heading to the far corner where the public workstations are. Choose the one farthest away from everyone else and plop myself down in the chair. Tap the mouse to wake the computer, open a browser window, and bring up my email.

Finding the one Dr. Monroe sent yesterday with his preliminary report for Gordon’s autopsy, I open it, not sure exactly what it is that I’m looking for, knowing only that this is the best place to start. Pushing the image of Gordon lying on the stark metal table from my mind, I begin reading.