Page 77 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

Chapter Forty-Two

Bang! Bang! Bang! Sloan Kennedy pounded on Miss Lilly’s front door a little too forcefully, but Molly sounded as if she were bordering on hysteria, and her sobs had shredded his calm. Which is why he’d sent the other officers to Pete’s house while he came straight here first.

“Molly? It’s Sloan—open up!” Leaning against the door with head bowed and one palm flat to the wood, he had no time to worry about the fact that he was being totally unprofessional. Where was his typical cool, calm, and collected when he needed it? For crying out loud, he was an officer of the law—he should be in control, not losing it over a woman he’d dated only once.

Once, for pity’s sake! He absently plowed fingers through his usually meticulous hair. And yet that’s all it had taken for him to know that Molly Stewart was something special and a woman he’d wanted to get to know better.

But not this way, for Pete’s sake!

For Pete’s sake. “Dear God,” Sloan muttered, “please don’t let him be involved.” He bludgeoned the door again. “Molly—open up!”

He was getting ready to break the door down when suddenly it lashed open and a sobbing blur bolted into his arms, almost knocking him over. “Oh, Sloan!”

His throat thickened with emotion as he held on tightly with eyes closed, silently thanking God she was all right.

He jerked back to hold her at arm’s length, brows pinched as he scanned head to toe. “You’re okay, right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

She peeked up beneath sodden lashes and a quivery smile, her fresh-scrubbed freckled face so blotchy, she looked like a little girl, making him want to hug her all over again.

“Just my pride,” she whispered with a tiny hiccup that coaxed a smile to his lips. She swiped at her eyes, “and what little makeup I had on.”

Hooking an arm to her waist, he ushered her inside and closed the door, leading her to the sofa. “Tell me what happened.”

His statement sobered her considerably as more tears swelled, and snatching a tissue from a box on the end table, he handed it over and sat down, affection battling propriety while she blew her nose. Drawing in a deep breath, she flopped back against the sofa with a tremulous sigh, tissue limp in her hand. “As you know I’d planned to take cookies to Pete—”

He nodded. “And Brec didn’t want you to go alone as I recall, and seemed pretty concerned about the prospect.” He paused to study her closely. “Did he have a particular reason as to why, Molly?”

She looked away, fingers digging into the seam of the rustic leather sofa, and Sloan knew she was hiding something. He just didn’t know why. Both Greg’s and Roy’s murders had plausible explanations that minimized the fear of a murderer stalking Lake Loon, so why the concern in visiting a neighbor?

Her shoulders lifted in an evasive shrug. “He’s just overprotective,” she whispered, and his mouth instantly tamped down. Yeah, he knew that. Big time he knew that. Sloan had been fielding laser looks and scowls from the guy since he’d met him. Especially lately. Which most likely meant that he was probably crushing on Molly, too, despite Molly’s insistence on their date that she and Brec were just friends. He couldn’t help a scowl.

Yeah, right. Maybe for her …

He took her hand in his, halting her fiddling with the seam of the sofa. “Molly.”

She turned to face him, a lump bobbing in her throat. “Yes?”

“Why was Brec so concerned? Because the guy I saw last night wasn’t just concerned—he had the fear of God in him, and I want to know why.”

Avoiding his eyes, she threw her hands up in the air, automatically dislodging his hold. “You’re a detective, Sloan. You deal in facts, and frankly, I’m afraid you’ll think it’s silly.”

“Try me.”

Her T-shirt rose and fell in a wavering sigh as she met his gaze with a nervous buff of her arms. “Okay. I don’t tell many people this because to be honest, it’s a little embarrassing, but I did tell Brec because I had to.”

“O … kay.” He waited, finding it hard to believe he’d think anything about this woman was “silly.”

She shifted to face him, her gaze locked on her nails as she commenced to picking at them. “You see, I have this weird sixth sense where my dreams—nightmares, really—well … they … they”—she gulped, lashes flipping up to face him with a sheepish look—“come true.”

“What are you saying?” he asked with a squint, “you’re clairvoyant?”

“Sort of. Or at least my nightmares are.”

“And why would that concern Brec?”

“Because I was having a nightmare one night and he heard it. It upset me pretty badly, so he insisted I tell him about it.” She hesitated, teeth tugging on her lip.

“And?” His voice was calm, but inside the tension stretched thin.