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But what did the Maxwell girl think of Burnet? During the months she’d been back, Rusty hadn’t heard of her making any local friends, socializing, or mixing or mingling anywhere. It seemed she kept pretty much to herself out there and lived like a nun.
Well, she had fucked somebody, hadn’t she? But who? And where was her baby’s daddy now? He remained a mystery. In fact, a lot of mysteries swirled around Miss Arden Maxwell, the chief one being the whereabouts of her thieving father, who had made off with Rusty’s half a mil.
Folks thought Joe had gotten off scot-free.
But in Rusty Dyle’s book, nobody got off scot-free.
The clock on Arden’s nightstand read eleven twenty-two. Her drive-by had made his round, but still she couldn’t sleep.
She was so angry over what she’d learned from the unwitting Lois Miller that she punched her pillow extra hard as she turned onto her side and tried to find a more comfortable position.
From the top of the dresser, an oscillating fan blew a gentle stream of cool air across her. It also provided a lulling white noise. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax by engaging in a meditative exercise that eased tension out of muscles.
But two minutes into this sleep-inducing drill, a noise shattered her concentration and jerked her bolt upright.
The fan hummed; it didn’t clank.
When the sound came again, she threw off the sheet and slipped out of bed. She crept to the door that connected to the kitchen, where the range light shed a soft glow. The door stood ajar. She peered through the crack.
Ledge Burnet was standing just inside the back door, leaning with his back against it, arms folded, ankles crossed. “See how useless that lock is?”
His arrogance made her want to kill him. She raised her right hand and aimed her pistol at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Proving my point.” Upon seeing the pistol, his natural squint had narrowed. Otherwise he remained exactly as he was.
“Get out of my house.”
“You lied about having a gun.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to announce it to a potential intruder, and I was right to be suspicious of you.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes.”
“Who taught you?”
“I had lessons.”
“How long ago?”
“When I bought the gun.”
“And when was that?”
“A few years ago I worked in an art gallery in the French Quarter. Sometimes I had to close up for the night. I thought—Why do you need to know?”
“Because the gun under review is in your hand, and it’s aimed at me.”
“Because you broke into my house.”
“Put the gun down. You’re not going to shoot me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you. I—”
“You could have proven your point about the locks this morning. Why wait until this time of night?”
