And tomorrow night, she didn’t intend to let any negative or unsettling concerns interfere with what boded to be an unforgettable evening.

In the interim, however, the fraud-related murders would remain top of mind. And she didn’t have to wait for Russ’s approval to pursue answers.

Maybe her theory was totally off base. Maybe every test they ran would come back benign. Maybe the murderer had, indeed, devised the perfect homicide.

But she wasn’t about to cede victory to BK until every stone had been overturned.

The sooner the better.

23

KIMBERLY WAS HOME.

Stomach clenching, Dave closed the lid on his laptop as the front door opened, then shut. He’d offered to run her to and from work for her Saturday morning shift at the library, but she’d called a friend instead. Perhaps an omen of the new, independent life she seemed intent on creating.

A life that wasn’t likely to include him.

The fact she’d agreed to let him stay in the house after he’d explained why that was important to law enforcement didn’t mean she was anywhere close to letting him back into her heart. That would take forgiveness.

And while their minister had hopefully offered counseling based on the tenets of their faith during her meeting with him last night, forgiveness could be a long way down the road.

The tap of her cane on the hardwood floor in the hallway signaled her approach.

She stopped in his office doorway. “Do you have a few minutes?”

Pulse lurching, he straightened up. She must be ready to talk. “Yes.” Somehow he choked out the assent.

“Let’s go out to the screened porch.” Without waiting for him to respond, she retreated.

Steeling himself for bad news, he followed her down the hall, through the family room, and into the bright space that overlooked her back garden. The sweet scent of honeysuckle wafted through the air, borne by a gentle breeze on this unusually temperate July afternoon, and he filled his lungs. But the pleasant fragrance didn’t mitigate the sour taste of fear on his tongue.

She turned on the ceiling fan and sat on the settee.

“Can I get you a glass of lemonade?” He stopped in the doorway.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“I made you a turkey sandwich for lunch. It’s in the fridge. Would you like that?”

“Maybe later. After we talk.”

The churning in his stomach increased. She’d come to a decision he probably didn’t want to hear.

But there was no sense delaying the inevitable.

He crossed to the chair on the other side of the coffee table from the settee and lowered himself onto the cushion as his legs gave out.

“Reverend Patterson and I had a long . . . talk last night.” Kimberly picked at a loose chip of paint on the wicker, brow knitted. “I didn’t tell him anything about . . . the blackmail or fraud. Just . . . the affair.”

The ugly word sickened him, and bile rose in his throat.