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What have you been hiding?
He looked at every social media site, looking for familiar faces in the back of a photograph, particularly those Jim was tagged in. But Lachlan knew he wouldn’t make a careless mistake. Jim was smarter than that.
He looked through Diana’s photographs, and then through their children’s photographs. It was the first time he’d seen these photographs and they were so grown up now. He’d been a terrible uncle—he’d bailed when their aunt was murdered, and he wondered how much they knew and how they’d dealt with it.
The self-loathing kicked in like a poison spreading through his veins, but he inhaled deeply, turning it off. The past was done, and all he could do now was find the truth.
His eyes began to burn and he realized he’d been looking at his screen for hours. The afternoon sun was shining through his windows, and he remembered the day he’d walked into this house and how light it had felt. He’d bought the house purely for that reason. Although he hadn’t intended to spend much time in it—because he was always working—the light was a direct contrast to the darkness that had filled his house in Tennessee.
He still owned the Tennessee house, but he hadn’t been there in years and he hadn’t given the keys to anyone. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to go through Eden’s belongings, so everything had remained untouched. He didn’t even know if there was still crime scene tape inside the house. The bloody sheets had been taken by forensics and the mattress had been destroyed, but that was all he’d managed to organize.
He made himself a promise to go home to the house once this case was done and sort it out. He felt like a coward, letting it sit there. He should’ve properly packed Eden’s belongings for safe keeping and donating what he didn’t want to keep. He felt like he owed her that, as silly as that might seem. Instead, he’d abandoned everything—including her.
“Never again,” he whispered, although he didn’t know if he was talking to himself, God, or Eden.
Movement outside the kitchen window caught his attention and his eyes snapped up in time to see a shadow pass the window.
He stilled.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, so if the officers were patrolling his property, they would be along the fence line. They wouldn’t be this close to the house.
He paused, wondering if he’d imagined it—it had been a long, emotional day.
Lachlan’s stomach churned and he shook his head. He hadn’t imagined it; he had a sense for things like this.
Someone had been looking in his window.
LACHLAN
His stool squealed and crashed to the floor as he stood up abruptly, moving toward the window. He opened the blinds, craning his neck, but he couldn’t see any movement. He checked the door to the backyard that was right by the kitchen counter, but it was locked.
Lachlan grabbed his iPad and checked the security cameras as his pulse quickened. He loaded the footage, replaying each camera view.
His eyes narrowed as he replayed the footage of his backyard. In the corner of the screen was a slither of black.
Was it a shadow?
Or was it a person?
Lachlan’s first thought was to reach for his pistol, but that had been confiscated. Without thinking, he strode toward the kitchen drawer and pulled out a knife. He took a step toward the door when the realization of what he was doing hit him.
His fingerprints were on a knife being used for murder, and now he was going to step into his backyard with a replica of the knife used to kill Jessica and Kiera in his hand.
He threw it on the island bench like it was on fire and grabbed the door. He knew he would be too late now anyway—anyone watching him would’ve disappeared in the time it had taken him to fumble around.
Carefully, slowly, he unlocked the door and stepped outside like he was going for a walk in his backyard to enjoy the afternoon sun.
It was a simple backyard: a lawn and fence. It was low maintenance—which he appreciated—but he’d also removed every plant and shrub for this exact reason: there was nothing to hide behind. You could take a spy out of the CIA, but you could never take a spy out of the person. Too many years of training meant he’d live with these habits and fears for the rest of his life. He’d never stop questioning if what he saw looked right. He listened, but heard nothing except the slight rustle of the neighbor’s trees from the gentle westerly breeze.
He looked to his left, past the kitchen window. No sign of anyone trespassing.
He walked to the fence, looking over into the neighbor’s yard. He looked down at the flower bed that ran along the fence line.
No footprints.
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his tired face, swearing under his breath.
Maybe he had imagined it.
