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“How do you know?”
“I grew up with her.”
“What do you mean you grew up with her?”
“Are you even listening?” Her eyes narrow as she places her hands on her hips. “Are you dense?”
She’s speaking as though I’m a mind reader. She’s not making any sense. No woman wants to hear that, so rather than argue I simply say, “I’ve been accused a time or two.”
“Ali Brown is my stepsister.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ethan
Isuspect Ali killed Donovan Roberts. And I think I understand why. I invite Ali for dinner, not sure what to expect. I am going to confront her over the fact that I believe she killed her stepfather. What I don’t understand is why she killed the other men, and I want to know. I really, really do.
The scene is set. The food has been ordered and delivered. Italian. I take great care in setting everything out, using plates and dishes that make it appear that I cooked it myself. I place candles on the table because I know Ali appreciates that kind of thing.
I spent all day tidying the house and mowing the lawn. The last thing left to do is shower and throw on something decent. I’ll admit, while my goal is to corner her into a confession, I wouldn’t turn down sex should it come to that. And judging by the lewd text messages she sent this afternoon, I have a feeling it might.
After I’ve showered and shaved, I light the candles, only to realize I’ve forgotten the wine. I’d meant to pick some up on the way home, but I was distracted by Ali’s nude selfies. Since I wasn’t planning on drinking, wine wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. Payday was.
I like Ali.
But I like my career more.
It’s nice to have electricity.
Feeding your children and health insurance aren’t bad either.
I now realize that the wine is imperative. We all know what happens when inhibitions are lowered, and when Ali mentioned having a rough week, I told her I’d have some ready and waiting. I want her to pour her little heart out. So I leave a note on the door and dash out, hitting up the corner store. Admittedly, they don’t have the best selection, but something is better than nothing, and it’s not like I’ll be drinking it anyway.
When I get home, Ali is sitting on my front porch. “You changed the locks.”
I smile. She’s wearing a short skirt and thin top that hangs off her bare shoulder. She stands and smooths her skirt. “It’s good to see you too.”
I invite her inside. My demeanor is a little cold on purpose. I want her to work for my affection and I have a feeling that if I play my cards right, she will.
We move toward the kitchen where I unwrap the bottle of wine, fish around for the bottle opener in a drawer, and then use it to remove the cork. I pour two glasses and hand her one. Then I raise mine. “A toast,” I say.
She eyes me suspiciously. Ali is not stupid. “What are we toasting to?”
“Your marriage.”
Her face loses a little color, but she recovers quickly. “To my marriage.” She touches her glass to mine and takes a long gulp.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But I never said I wasn’t married.”
“You never said you were.”
“You didn’t ask.”
I corner her against the wall. “Where’s the gun?”
“Easy, Rambo.” She pushes against my chest. “I came straight from the airport. It’s at home.”
