She’d smiled and yawned and demurred and headed home.

She had her own copy of the murder book—everyone had a copy, things were done in triplicate.

She poured a glass of wine. Heated up some dinner: a simple piccata sauce over mahi-mahi with shrimp and roasted vegetables. She was a good cook. She didn’t cook for many people, she had performance anxiety about it not being perfect, but she knew what she liked, and dinner was ready quickly.

She took it and her wine into the living room. Put on a movie. Ate slowly. Watched and laughed. And when she was done, she cleaned up, took a shower, and got in bed with the murder book.

She’d practically memorized it. Memorized them. Memorized him.

She ran her fingers over a photo of Ethan Montclair. It was his author photo, printed off his website. He was impossibly handsome, younger, not marked by the ravages of life and time. She imagined he looked about like this when he’d met Sutton Healy.

Floppy hair, penetrating light blue eyes—had they been Photoshopped? She thought back to her interviews with him—no, they were that blue, like a late-summer lake, clear and deep. He hadn’t shaved, there was just a bit of scruff. His shirt was a crisp white, his jacket deep blue, offsetting his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, or rather, he was, but it was a charming half grin. A smug smirk, Moreno had called it, but Holly could almost feel the amusement coming off Montclair. She could hear him in her mind: I have to sit here and look serious now. This is my author face. Good God, take the shot already.

Is it possible for passwords to be changed remotely?

Everything—everything—pointed directly at him. So why was she lying in bed, a hand inching down, staring at his picture like he was a model in a magazine and not her prime suspect?

Because you’re an idiot, Holly Graham. Go to sleep.

She closed the book and turned out the light. But sleep was long in coming.

Live From a Crime Scene

LIVE FROM A CRIME SCENE

A phone, ringing. A long tunnel, harsh white light, burning her eyes.

Holly was disoriented for a moment. Where was she? What was ringing? Who was lying next to her?

Then the pieces fell: the person next to her in bed was Ethan Montclair.

She was naked. She was sore. They’d done it for hours.

And she was dreaming.

A delightful dream, indeed, a bit embarrassing, actually, considering he was a double murder suspect, but it had been a good one, the echoes lingering in her flesh, and she felt sated in a way she hadn’t in months. She’d clearly been alone too long.

The dream faded. She felt a hot rush of embarrassment—yes, Montclair was handsome, but he was a killer. What was her subconscious thinking?