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“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“He’s still your husband.”
Her insides shriveled at the thought. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Something Ryder had mentioned earlier still bothered her. “You said that there were two reasons you wanted to haul me back to Louisiana, the first being to clear your name as that detective down there . . . what’s his name?”
“Montoya.”
“He thought you were involved in my disappearance.” She pulled her sweater from the pile of clothes she’d gathered on her lap and drew it over her head. “What was the second?”
Ryder was still standing by the fireplace. He’d scarcely moved a muscle.
“What’s the other reason?” she asked again. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that it isn’t because you missed my company.”
He was quiet, as if he didn’t want to admit to his reasons.
Though she’d sworn she didn’t care, she felt a niggle of disappointment. She’d kidded herself that he was different, that he wasn’t interested in her because of her looks, or her charm, or the fact that her family had money and someday she would inherit a small fortune. No, Troy Ryder had been different from the others, more into her as a person than anyone, including Bruce Calderone and Cade Grayson, had been.
She saw he wasn’t all that different, after all. And then, like a tidal wave that’s drawn far out to sea only to turn, she realized the truth in a crashing, drowning blow. “Let me guess,” she said, hating the thought. “You’re here because you think I have money.”
“Close.” His jaw was hard.
“You think my family will pay for me? You’re going to hold me for ransom?”
“Gettin’ warmer,” he said but didn’t seem to have any pride in his statement. And the drawl she’d once found so endearing actually grated.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not a ransom,” he said shortly. It was clear he was having some difficulty explaining himself.
Why would he chase her down, then spend these last months searching for her? Then she knew. “It’s a bounty. My damn family offered you money to bring me home and you accepted.” She let out a disgusted sigh and folded her arms across her chest, staring at him. “How disappointing.”
That actually looked like it penetrated, but she wasn’t going to let her romantic side believe something that wasn’t true any longer. “I can’t believe they even care,” she said bitterly. “How much am I worth, if I dare ask?”
It took him a moment or two, but then he bit out, “One hundred thousand dollars.”
“Cade Grayson’s still not answering,” Alvarez said from the passenger seat of Pescoli’s Jeep after calling twice. She’d left two messages for him to call her back.
“He might not have his phone with him.” Pescoli was driving, her wipers slapping off the snow. “He doesn’t seem the type to keep his cell with him twenty-four seven, and I don’t see him texting.” She turned off of the road leading down Boxer Bluff. “He’s probably pretty busy with his livestock in a storm like this. It’s not a p
icnic. If we have to, we’ll drive out there.”
Alvarez said dryly, “Conditions couldn’t be better.”
Ever since the meeting at the station less than half an hour earlier, Pescoli had been anxious, more anxious than usual. Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel as she followed three cars all creeping through town. Her mind was on the case, running through the newfound information about Anne-Marie Calderone. She felt a sense of urgency, as if time were her enemy and she had to keep moving—which was damn difficult as traffic was crawling more than ever, just inching along.
“Why don’t these people stay home?” she muttered when the lead car finally pulled into the parking lot of a pharmacy. The guy, ninety if he was a day, cruised slowly into a handicapped spot, his front tires running against the berm in front of the sidewalk.
“People still need their meds.”
“Then they should learn to drive in the frickin’ snow.”
Alvarez shot her a look and Pescoli gripped the wheel a little harder. She was tired, cranky, hungry, and had no use for anyone out driving in the bad weather who didn’t know how. No, strike that. She had no use for anyone driving and getting in her way.
Finally, the gas station mini-mart came into view. At the first entrance, she pulled into the parking area of Corky’s Gas and Go, the very station where her son worked off and on, and wheeled into an empty parking space. “Let’s do this,” she said, and she and Alvarez climbed from the vehicle.
Inside, a girl in her early twenties with huge eyes rimmed thickly in mascara was manning the cash register. The detectives flashed their badges, introduced themselves, showed a picture of Troy Ryder, and asked if she’d seen him.
“Oh, yeah,” the clerk said, nodding her head so rapidly the twist of hair that had been pinned on her crown threatened to slide off. “He came in last week, I think it was, bought a few things, gas and beer, maybe. He saw the Help Wanted sign in the window and was, like, asking about a job.”
