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If that shopkeeper Barker was correct, there were seven statues in all. Which meant only three were still remaining to be delivered.
Time was running out.
So was Royce's patience.
He'd narrowed things down as best he could. There were twenty-five names remaining on his list. Caution decreed he weft until he'd cut that number in half before confronting the suspects.
But caution had never been his strength. He was a risk-taker by nature. He pushed the boundaries and then some. That was how he'd survived as a child, and that was how he achieved his success as an adult.
In this case, however, the risk was acute. By aggressively pursuing the killer, he'd be making himself a walking target. And by doing so without having a damned good idea who the killer was, he'd be relinquishing the upper hand, leaving his own back exposed to attack.
Jeopardizing his life.
Before now, he'd have met that challenge head-on. But now, there was Breanna—Breanna and their future together. How could he put that future on the line? He couldn't.
Except that, fairly soon, he'd have to. There would be no other option. Because if it came down to a choice between Breanna's life and his, there was no choice to make. He'd die before letting that bastard hurt her.
So, if the stream of statues finished arriving at Medford before he finished conducting his investigation, he'd be forced to take action.
By stepping into the middle of things, he'd disrupt the assassin's plan, break his building momentum. Not only that, he'd also divert the assassin's attention from the women to him, acting as a decoy of sorts. He'd venture out to the front gates, announce to Mahoney that he'd narrowed down the list of suspects to three, all of whom he was on his way to confront. On that unnerving note, he'd ride off like the wind. And, like a vicious dog who'd been thrown a piece of meat, the killer would veer off after him, ready to attack his more immediate and dangerous enemy.
The killer's identity would still be unknown.
But he'd be called off Anastasia and Breanna, focused on stopping the man who was threatening to best him.
And when the moment of truth arrived, when the son of a bitch emerged to silence and outwit him, Royce would have his chance to obliterate him.
One chance.
It was a risk. A big one.
The question was, who could shoot first?
Given equal odds, Royce's answer would have been different. But the odds weren't equal. Not when he had no idea who the enemy was. The full advantage lay with the killer.
If there was just a little more time. If Royce could pare down the list to, say, five or six, strengthen his position.
Then he could make his move.
A confident move.
With vehement determination, he returned to his analysis.
Another tortuous day passed.
The next afternoon arrived, menacing skies and icy temperatures matching the somber mood that permeated the house.
Breanna moved about the sitting room, fluffing some cushions, brushing some invisible dust off the wood, and trying to calm her nerves.
She couldn't bear the tension any longer.
She glanced over at Royce, who sat on the settee, his head bent over his work, and watched him slash another three names off the guest list.
She was going to go mad.
Wandering over to the window, she perched at the corner of the ledge, peering around the curtain and surveying the frosty grounds.
A moving object caught her eye, and she squinted, focusing on it and waiting until she could make out who it was.
