by Robin Caroll
Layla's gut clenched, and she snatched Bob's contract. Please, no. Don't let it be. But her niggling fear was there in black and white.
Bob had utilized three people from Second Chances.
Coincidence? She didn't believe in them. But Gavin hadn't been at the retreat yet. Still, what were the odds?
"What?" Alana studied her.
"Bob was the contracted plumber."
"So?"
"He used three people from the retreat."
Confusion then understanding then worry crossed over her sister's face. "You like Bob. Trust him. You talked to him yesterday. You said he was outraged at the prospect of drugs being on his site." Alana smoothed down her hair.
"I did. And he was. Someone could be involved in drugs without his knowledge." Layla touched her sister's arm. "You know how addicts hide things."
"There are signs. Physical deterioration. Loss of—"
"I know." Didn't they both know it all too well? Too intimately? How her sister could stand to be around addicts all day after what they'd lived through was beyond her.
"I'm just saying surely someone would have noticed a change."
"Maybe. Unless he didn't know them well."
Alana's eyes narrowed. "Just because three of mine were used, doesn't mean they're involved."
"I didn't say that, Al—"
"Anybody could be involved. You know this program works. You've supported it. Fred and I make sure the psychiatrist says they're ready to work before we consider letting them enter the work-release program."
"I do support it." Layla shook her head. "There might not even be any connection between Bob and whatever crew he used and the murder. I'm just trying to be proactive. Knowledge is power."
"By insinuating the retreat's residents could be involved?" Alana crossed her arms over her chest. "And don't quote Dadaisms to me."
"I'm not saying that. Not even implying it. I'm just trying to get a handle on everything."
"It's not even your job."
Layla swallowed hard, forcing herself not to react to her sister's hostility. It was only the fear talking. "I know. But the police will ask, and we'll already have the information prepared."
Alana cocked her head but her stare pierced Layla. "And you need to know."
"I do." She held her breath as her sister chewed her bottom lip.
Finally, Alana sighed. "I do too. If someone from the retreat is even remotely involved, I need to know. If I'm not careful, I could lose funding." She shook her head. "If it's proven the retreat is involved, it could even close me down."
Layla nodded. "So we need to do everything we can to find out the truth. To protect both of us."
FOUR
"A man of courage is also full of faith."
—MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO
ONLY ONE LEFT. JUST one.
He slammed the folder shut. He'd shredded Dennis's files as he took care of the evidence trail. He'd come so far in the past nine months . . . covering up every single lead that could come back to him. Nothing that would draw the attention of the authorities. Nothing that would link them so anyone would get suspicious.
And now he just had one building that could be tracked back to him. But that one was a doozy. He'd have to finesse his way through the last one.
What would be the best way to get rid of it? Not another burning. Couldn't do that right on the heels of this morning.
But with the bids under review and the casino jobs about to be awarded, he'd have to accelerate his schedule.
His phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. "Hello."
"You're late with my check. Again." Andrea's voice grated against his ear. "I'm sick of this. Don't make me take you back to court. I will, you know."
Yeah, he knew all about his ex-wife's fascination with the legal system. "Sorry, Andy. I'll get the check in the mail Monday."
"I've told you not to call me that."
Right. After their divorce had become final, she'd decided to go by her full name. Not the pet name he'd given her back when they were dating. How easily someone could change.
Like warping from a sweet girl with the softest eyes into a greedy, image-freak woman. Heartless.
"I'd better have it by Wednesday or I'm calling my attorney."
When had her voice turned into a whine? "I'll mail it Monday, just like I said. I don't have control over the postal service."
"Then maybe you should have mailed it sooner. Like when it was actually due."
How could he have loved her so much once? Had he really been that blind?
"And the kids won't be able to spend the weekend with you."
He curled his free hand into a fist. "But it's my weekend," he ground out between clenched teeth.
"Deena and Ellie have a slumber party. They've been looking forward to it for weeks now."
"Then why didn't you offer to switch off with me this weekend?"
"Don't be difficult. They really want to go. Would you begrudge them that just to get back at me?"
She never understood. He loved his kids . . . wanted to spend time with them. He never wanted to be an absentee father. "Okay. Then it'll just be Eddie and me. We can go hunting or have a guy's night." That sounded good. It'd been a long time since he and his son hung out alone together.
Andrea sighed into the phone. "He has a date."
"A date?" His son was dating? Wasn't that something he should've been told? "He's only fifteen. He can't even drive yet."
"I'm taking his date and him to the school dance."
Over his dead body. She'd embarrass Eddie. "I'll take them." If Eddie was dating, it was time for him to have that conversation with his son.
"He asked me to drive them."
"I'll be happy to do it." But he knew she would keep this from him if she could. "If the girls are at a slumber party and I take Eddie, then you'll still have the weekend free for you." Hadn't she complained about his long hours at work, whining that she had no time for herself? She'd griped at him to make more money, then hollered at him for never being home. No pleasing the woman.
"This is important to Eddie. I'm fine with taking him." She sighed again, a long, heavy sigh. "You can get them all weekend after next. No sense messing up our schedule."
Typical Andrea, keeping their kids' important things from him.
"I'd rather have them my weekend. Not wanting to mess up our schedule and all."
"Don't get smart with me. Technically, you're so far behind on child support I really shouldn't even let you see the kids until you're current."
She held all the cards. What else was new?
But maybe . . . once he got the big bucks from the casino job, he'd hire a top-notch lawyer and take Andrea back to court. Get that absurd child support amount lowered. Or better yet, get joint custody and do away with this every-other-weekend gig.
"The check had better be here by Wednesday. And it'd better not bounce again." She didn't bother to say good-bye before hanging up.
One time. Only once did his check bounce, but she wouldn't let him forget it. Typical Andrea, always focusing on the negative.
He replaced the receiver to its base. The folder sitting on his desk mocked him.
He had one more building to take care of, then it was smooth sailing. He'd be in the clear. He'd have the money to put Andrea in her place. Maybe he'd go for full custody. See how she liked being told when and where she could see the kids.
Still annoyed and disappointed, he glanced at the calendar. Next weekend would actually be perfect to take care of this last detail. He had no plans because he'd expected to have the kids. Everyone in his circle thought he'd have the kids too. Could work in his favor.
He slammed the folder closed. Yes, indeed, fate seemed to smile at destiny and shine on him.
"MAN, THIS IS WHERE she's living?" Maddox stared at the government-subsidized temporary housing unit. The shotgun-style house looked to be in desperate need of repair. Paint peeling, loose boards, and tape covering br
eaks in the window.
Houston shut off the unmarked cruiser's engine. "This is where records show Ms. Sally Caldwell and her kids living for the time being."
"No wonder she got approved for Hope for Homes." Maddox opened the door and stood on the cracked sidewalk.
Maddox fell into step beside Houston and made his way up the rickety stairs. The handrail wobbled under his grip. The place should be condemned.
Houston took a breath, then rapped on the front door. The splintered wood vibrated in the hinges.
Shuffling sounded from the other side of the hollow door. "Who is it?" a hesitant female asked.
"Sheriff's department. We need to speak to Sally Caldwell."
A dead bolt clicked, then the door creaked open. A woman's face peered in the crack. "I'm Sally Caldwell. Can I see a badge, please?"
While Houston pulled his out, Maddox inventoried every detail about her appearance. Probably stood about five foot even. Couldn't tell about her build because she used the door as a shield. Wrinkles had etched deep into her face, belying the fact that he knew she was only twenty-six years old. Her eyes were the color of warm chocolate, at least two shades darker than her creamy cocoa skin tone.
She narrowed her eyes to study Houston's badge, then opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and shut the door behind her. "What's this about?" She hugged herself.
Against the chill . . . or them?
Houston's smile seeped into his voice. "We understand you're set to move into a new Hope-for-Homes site soon."
She nodded. "In thirteen days." When she smiled, a mouthful of snow white teeth flashed in the midday sun. "We're excited. The kids made a countdown calendar."
Something in Maddox's chest tightened. Poor woman. Didn't know yet that her kids' and her dreams had burned to the ground early this morning. He cleared his throat. "Ms. Caldwell, we're sorry to have to tell you, but there was a fire at the site this morning."
Her expressive eyes widened. "What happened? Was there much damage?"
Houston laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ms. Caldwell. The house is a total loss."
Tears pooled in her eyes. She sucked in air and grabbed the doorjamb. "All our work . . ."
Maddox glanced back to the cruiser. He'd never been able to handle a crying woman. Suspects he could take—their tears were normally as false as their statements. But a woman crying in pain . . . he didn't know how to process that.
"I'm so sorry." Houston was so much better at handling women. Probably learned a lot from being married for nearly three decades.
She sniffed. "What happened?"
Maddox met her painful stare. "Arson."
She blinked rapidly, seeming to take in the information. Then her chin jutted out and she made eye contact again. "Well, praise God we hadn't already moved in or we'd have lost everything."
Was she kidding? She'd just been told her new house had been burned down—deliberately—and she was praising God? She couldn't be serious. These religious nuts had no sense at all.
"Was anyone hurt?"
His partner caught his eye before focusing back on her. "Actually, Ms. Caldwell, there was a body found in the house."
Her tears returned. "Oh, dear Lord, someone died in the fire? Who?"
"That's what we're trying to find out." Maddox waited until she faced him again before he continued. "Do you have any idea who might've been in the house?" No sense giving her too many details. As sweet as she seemed, she could still be involved. It was, after all, her house.
And she knew it was vacant at the moment. A perfect setting for murder.
She shook her head, fingers pressed to her mouth.
Houston leaned in closer and withdrew his notebook from his pocket. "You can't think of anyone who would be in the house?"
"Not a single soul. We'd finished almost everything. The only one who was still going by and doing little things was the electrician, because he wanted to change out the dimmer switch in the living room to match the wallpaper better."
"We?" Maddox cocked his head.
Ms. Caldwell nodded. "Part of the deal with Hope for Homes is the new owners have to work a certain number of hours. I was there nearly every day."
"And this electrician . . . he's the only one you know of who still had business at the property?" Houston scribbled in his notebook.
"Maybe Layla. She kept a careful watch on every stage of the house's progress."
"Layla?" Houston hovered his pencil over the page.
"Layla Taylor, the contractor."
Maddox almost shook his head. A woman contractor? And with a name like Layla? Brought up images of blonde and flighty.
"Or maybe her sister."
Now Maddox was thoroughly confused. "Her sister? Why would the contractor's sister be at the house?"
"Because some of the workers were from Second Chances."
The work-release group. But it still didn't correlate. "I don't understand what that has to do with being the contractor's sister or being at the house."
Sally smiled. "Because Layla's sister, Alana, oversees Second Chances. Could be she went by to check on the workers or something."
"Was that common? I mean, for this Alana to drop by the site?"
"No. I only met her once. She came by the house to talk with her sister about something."
He'd just bet. Sounded fishy. Maddox clenched his jaw. These sisters, Alana and Layla, were about to get a visit.
And they'd better be prepared with some answers.
THE TINKLING OF THE bell over the main entrance to Second Chances drew Alana and Layla's attention.
Alana sighed. "Let me go see who that is. If it's Gavin's probation officer . . ."
Layla allowed a smile to creep to her face since Alana had already left the room. Her sister's determination always amused her. She shook her head, then lifted the paper again, studying it. Fred had pulled all the information for Alana and her, and now they were knee deep in reviewing it.
The three men Bob had used on the Hope-for-Homes site were Darren Watkins, Sam Roberson, and Kenny Lindsay. All three had been into at least their twelfth week at Second Chances, and all hadn't had a single incident since entering the retreat. Only one had a previous history of violence—Darren. He'd physically abused his girlfriend before his arrest. Beating two men with a baseball bat during a mugging had landed him four months' incarceration prior to giving him the opportunity to attend Second Chances.
Did Darren have any connection to the site?
Layla opened her mouth to ask Alana, then realized her sister had never returned. No probation officer would've shown up on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe Fred had come back. Layla shoved the chair back from the desk and stood. If Alana had gotten sidetracked with something minor about the retreat when this was so important, Layla just might scream.
She walked down the short hall to the front area. Voices reached her before she rounded the corner. Male voices that didn't sound too friendly.
Layla fisted her hands stiffly and strode into the room.
Alana stood on the welcome rug, worrying her bottom lip. Clearly uncomfortable. The hair on the back of Layla's neck jumped to full attention as she took in the two men looking down at her sister.
One man had to be pushing fifty, with thin gray hair. He wore an outlandish print shirt over well-worn khaki slacks. The other man was taller and younger, probably closer to Layla's own age of twenty-nine. He had dark, dark brown hair worn in a crew cut. His shoulders were wide enough for him to play for the Louisiana State University Tigers, and he looked like he was solid muscle in the jeans and long-sleeved pullover he wore very well.
"Alana?"
Her sister and the two men simultaneously faced her.
She continued her approach, taking in both men's silent appraisal of her. She squared her shoulders and moved beside her sister. "What's up?"
Alana licked her bottom lip. "These are Detectives Wallace and Bishop. Gentlemen, this is my sister, Layla."
The older man extended his hand. "Detective Houston Wallace, Ms. . . ."
She shook his hand. "Layla Taylor."
She turned to the younger man, then trapped her gasp before it escaped her throat. He had the truest blue eyes, framed by the darkest, longest lashes she'd ever seen on a man. But it was the expressiveness of them that snatched her breath and held it hostage.
Suspicion hung in the blue irises with rings of accusation surrounding.
He said nothing, just stood there, staring at her with a stare so penetrating, the urge to squirm nearly strangled her. Tall and dark-haired . . . just like Randy. Layla swallowed, refusing to see any further similarities.
Detective Wallace cleared his throat. "That's my partner, Maddox Bishop."
"Maddox?"
He narrowed those blue eyes at her.
Had she asked his name aloud? She pinched her lips together. She hadn't meant to speak. It was just that his name was so unusual.
"Yeah, my name's Maddox. Why?" His voice was as masculine as his appearance.
"It's nice. Odd. I like it." Oh, splinters! She stammered like a kid.
He kept his eyes narrowed. "Layla, huh? Sounds like a song."
Heat spread across her face. "Like I haven't heard that before."
"So," his partner interrupted, "your sister was just telling us about Second Chances. Sounds like this is a really good program."
Funny, she didn't believe him. But she also didn't look away from Maddox. The unspoken line had been drawn. No way would she break eye contact first. Childish? Perhaps. But she wouldn't drop her gaze.
Silence hung heavy over the room, as tangible and cold as the wind whipping outside.
"Layla, they're here about the Hope-for-Homes house that burned down."
"I figured," she replied, still not dropping her stare.
"Is there a place we can sit down and talk?"
"Certainly, Detective Wallace. Let's go to the reception room. It's this way." Alana's voice cracked, but her footfalls moved toward the hall.
His two steps squeaked behind Alana's, then he halted. "Bishop?"
