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“Well, if I need a hideout, it would be nice to have the address,” she teased.
He pulled out the notepad, wrote it down inside. “Just in case.”
“Overkill.”
“It’s never overkill to be prepared for every contingency.”
“Who else knows this is here?”
He looked at her and shook his head. “No one. Not even Lex. Just you and me.”
Colton had trusted her. And now she felt sick. Because if she was right, he had hurt her more than he could possibly know.
“I grieved for you,” she whispered and picked up the keys.
The cash was still there in the box, along with the notepad. She pulled out the notepad and looked at the address he’d written years ago. The ink had faded. She flipped through the notepad and saw in Colton’s small scrawling handwriting several other addresses, all local, but no indication why he wrote them down. They were all written on three pages in what appeared to be the same pen—and not the black pen that was in the box.
She pocketed the notepad, left the money sealed in the box and spun the numbers. She put it back and took the keys to the back door.
She listened, blocking out the freeway traffic, the sound of nearby music. Listened to the sounds of the house. Silent, except for the hum of the refrigerator.
“Dammit,” she muttered. “Just do it.”
She sent Matt a text message.
I’m going in.
As silently as possible, she unlocked the door—both the dead bolt and the regular lock.
She closed the door behind her, listened again, using all her senses. Smelled something...hamburger? Yep. A distinct greasy fast-food scent.
The skylights above provided some ambient light in the house, so it wasn’t pitch-black. She was in the kitchen. The new refrigerator Colton had bought when his old one croaked hummed. The ’50s-era tile counters that were original to the house were wiped clean and in near-perfect condition. The retro kitchen table with red top and red vinyl seats and silver legs stood in the corner where it had been since the first time Kara came here. Colton had always been a neat person, never left dishes in the sink, never left garbage that needed to be taken out. She smelled a hint of garbage.
She opened the door under the kitchen sink. A wrapper from In-N-Out Burger, which was only three blocks away and open until 1 a.m. As quietly as possible, she retrieved the bag and looked at the receipt.
Last night, 9:47 p.m.
Her heart skipped a beat. She closed the door and walked down the hall to Colton’s bedroom.
A figure lay in the bed.
Dark blond hair. Female. Certainly not Colton.
Violet Halliday was a blonde.
For a split second, Kara considered that maybe—maybe—Will Lattimer was using Colton’s house, that he had put Violet here to protect her, that Colton wasn’t alive and she hadn’t grieved for nothing.
There was a gun on the nightstand. A mighty snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .357. Colton had the exact same gun that he usually kept in the kitchen drawer.
Kara walked over, picked it up. It was a heavy gun, but one of the best for self-defense. Easy to shoot, as long as you expected the kick from what Colton called his “hand cannon.”
She put the gun in one of her tactical pockets, then stepped away from the bed in case Violet had another weapon.
Using the door as a partial shield, Kara said quietly but firmly, “Violet, wake up.”
The woman bolted awake, eyes wide and terrified as they adjusted.
“Colton?” she said, scared and groggy.
