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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

The next day around noon I considered taking Al and Peg for a walk over to the house I’d found. But I dismissed the idea, as they wouldn’t be thrilled about it, the lazy bums. There’s more than one reason pugs look like old potatoes. Instead, I put on my sneakers, and took comfort in the fact that it was now cool enough during the day to go for a run. By cool enough I mean in the low seventies. By run I mean run, none of this slow lope that people my age are thought to tolerate. And I took the long way, down Golder Ranch and across Cañada del Oro Parkway to Hawser, so if I did see anyone I’d look a little spent.

There were no cars parked out front of the house where Jerry Nolan was living, and the gate in the chain link fence wasn’t locked.

A perfect place for an unsuspecting fingerprint is the latch on a door handle where you press your thumb. I didn’t even have to break inside. I took a roll of packing tape out of my pocket, cut off a thumb-sized piece, and pressed it against the latch where Jerry had entered the night before. That’s when I heard tires on the gravel drive behind me.

I turned around to see a worn-out woman getting out of her car with weary legs. Her jeggings and a peasant blouse untied at the neck made me think of a fifty-year-old flirtatious kitten. As she approached I saw those vertical lines between her eyes that no amount of moisturizer can eliminate. Two more lines setting off her frown. She was a woman whose unhappiness was etched into her skin deeper than a tattoo that said HURT ME. I remembered what I had thought about Jerry being the kind of man who beats his wife.

She came toward me with a question, but I went first.

“I’m Brigid Quinn,” I said. And for now no more. I hated to do this to her, knowing where it would lead, but I had to know what was up. This, too, I regret.

The woman’s eyes shifted to a sign next to the door that said NO SOLICITING. She asked, “What are you doing on my property?”

“I’m actually looking for someone.” I paused because I couldn’t be sure what name he had given this woman. I went with first only. “Do you know Jerry?”

I watched more than weariness play across her face. All the things I’d seen before in my career were there. Suspicion, jealousy, anger, sadness, and fear. Everything could be explained by my presence except the fear. We both knew I meant her no harm, but someone else apparently did.