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“I’m still working on that.” Kane glanced at Paige and she looked pointedly at the television where an old rerun of a comedy her father had enjoyed years ago was playing. “I thought you two could help me.”
“Bah. I’ve already said what I had to say a long time ago. You think my story has changed?”
“No, but I thought you might shed some light on who would want him killed.” Kane had a theory, one that he’d been working on. He knew that Tessa had hit Harley over the head, that she in essence had delivered the blow that had taken his life, but there were still some pieces to the puzzle that were missing. The gun in the water didn’t make sense. Harley drowned, the blow to his head hard, but not severe enough to have necessarily caused him to black out. So why hadn’t he tried to save himself?
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
Paige could barely breathe. This was getting too close.
“He had women trouble. Worse than Weston did. Couldn’t choose between Claire Holland and Kendall Forsythe, who’s now Weston’s wife.” He snorted as if there were no choice involved. Kane visibly bristled, but Neal didn’t seem to notice. “Kendall came from a good family, loved that boy, she did, but he was all twisted up over the Holland girl, the middle one. She had him twisted around her finger so bad that Harley
thought he was going to marry her.” He snorted, then tossed back his drink. “If you ask me, she probably did it. Harley must’ve called off the engagement . . . and she freaked out.”
All the muscles in Kane’s shoulders bunched. His smile had long ago disappeared. “I don’t think so. According to Claire, she broke off the engagement.”
“Yeah, right.” He acted as if no one would be that stupid. “I always told the police she was the one. Harley didn’t just fall over the side of the boat and hit his head and drown.”
“Not like Jack Songbird?” Kane threw out.
“What’re you saying, that the same person killed them both?”
“And Hunter Riley.”
“For the love of Christ, you are writing fiction, aren’t you?”
“All I want to know is who would most benefit from Harley’s death.”
Paige swallowed hard as her father glared at Kane over the rim of his glass. “Well, that’s pretty simple to figure out, isn’t it? But believe me, Weston didn’t kill his brother.”
Kane’s eyes narrowed and Paige saw a spark in his eyes. As if he’d been waiting for Neal to say just those words. “Why didn’t he?”
“Because he was far away from there. Not even in town.”
“You’re certain?”
There was a moment’s hesitation and in that split second Paige knew her father was lying. Had been for sixteen years. Just as she had been. “I said he was with me, didn’t I?”
“For most of the night. Some of the rest he was with Kendall, but there are still some holes.”
Kendall? Had she and Weston lied to protect each other? That didn’t make any sense.
“You’re fishin’, Moran. Without any bait.” The old man laughed as if he’d pulled one over on Moran, but Paige knew differently and she realized that tonight, she’d have to tell the truth. She’d borne the lies long enough. Been loyal to Kendall for all the wrong reasons. She’d tried to protect the only friend she’d thought she’d had and to what end? It was all unraveling anyway and Weston was losing it. It was only a matter of time before he would completely snap and then everyone, she herself and Kendall included would be in danger.
“I don’t like it . . .” Claire rubbed her arms and stared into the damp, foggy night. Sean had been missing for four hours, not long enough to file a missing person’s report but enough hours had passed to move her from worried, past edgy, and into frantic. For the first time since he’d first brought it up, she wished she’d broken down and bought him a cell phone or a pager so that there was some way to communicate with him. Already she’d waited, then gone looking and now, like it or not, she reached for the telephone and dialed Kane on his cell.
He picked up on the second ring. “Moran.”
She sagged against the edge of the kitchen counter. Just the sound of his voice was steadying, yet made her want to cry. “It’s Claire.” Her voice caught.
“You okay?”
“No . . . not really. It’s Sean. He’s missing.”
A swift intake of breath. “How long?”
“Over four hours.”
