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What was wrong with her?
She took in deep breaths, switched on the radio, and with one eye on the mirror turned at the next country road and drove into the hills, losing the white car.
If it was really following you.
She glanced at her reflection again. “Don’t do this,” she warned, then saw, in her sideview mirror, the white car turn off of the highway.
CHAPTER 7
Violet is dead?
Oh. God.
“No,” Rachel’s voice squeaked. She stood in the kitchen, her jacket dripping, staring at the messages on her phone. From Cade, from Lila and Mercedes, all saying the same thing, all relaying horror and shock.
No, no, no. It just couldn’t be. She’d seen Violet not long ago at the gas station . . . her car idling, facing the opposite way, while Rachel was tanking up. Violet, a small dog on her shoulder, had managed a thin wave. Rachel had been in a hurry . . . always in a hurry, at that time, late to pick up the kids at school. She didn’t even remember waving back.
And now she was gone?
Rachel slid into one of the kitchen chairs and fired up her computer, but information, so far, was sketchy. Just a report that Violet Sperry had been found dead in her home by her husband early this morning. The police had been called and were making no comments as to the cause of death, only to say it was “unexpected” and “under investigation.” What did that mean? That foul play was suspected? That she’d been the victim of what? Homicide? Suicide? What?
She dialed Cade’s cell, and when he answered on the first ring, she said, “Hey. It’s Rachel. Got your message about . . . about Violet. What happened?”
“I was called to the scene this morning,” he said. “Violet was dead, had been for a few hours. Her husband found her in the house.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“How did she die?”
“We’re still waiting for an autopsy. County jurisdiction, but I’ll be informed.”
“So not natural causes?”
“No.”
“Was it murder?” No reason to beat around the bush.
“It looks like.”
“Jesus, Cade,” she whispered and she felt her blood chill in her veins. “Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Of course. Rachel leaned against the counter. She’d been the daughter of a detective, then the wife of one; she understood. “How . . . how is her husband? Oh, God, I don’t even know him. He’s the furniture guy, right?”
“Leonard Sperry. Yes, works with the family business.” He sighed. “I talked with him. He’s not doing so great. In shock.”
“I bet,” she said. “Aren’t we all?”
A pause. Then, “I wanted you to know so I came by. Earlier. To tell you in person. You weren’t there.” Something in his voice caught her attention.
“Running errands. Actually limping. The Explorer had a flat. Fixed now.”
He hesitated again. What was that all about?
“And ... ?” she encouraged.
