“Then why is this killer stalking me? I have nothing in common with someone so prosaic. Obviously she and Dr. Keyes were shagging, so maybe he’s the murderer?” Abigail snapped.

“We have a long suspect list, and Dr. Keyes is interesting to me,” Laurel murmured.

Abigail cleared her throat. “Speaking of interesting, Captain Rivers, I was hoping you’d join me for a drink this coming weekend. I owe you one for being so tardy in returning your message. I’ve been busy.”

Had she just asked him out? Though the woman was beautiful, he’d been a Fish and Wildlife officer long enough to recognize a predator when one smiled at him. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m busy with this case,” he said smoothly. “No time for drinks.”

“Well, then. Why don’t you find this killer so your datebook opens up?” Her chuckle was throaty and charming, yet it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Talk to you both soon.” She clicked off.

Laurel reached for the knob near the dash and turned up the heat as if chilled. “She won’t relent.”

“I know,” Huck said. He didn’t have time to worry about Abigail Caine right now. Even so. “Does she know that we, ah, that we—”

“Yes. I didn’t tell her, but she’s remarkably insightful,” Laurel said, her brow furrowing. “I admire that in her and in you. I don’t have the ability to read people.”

Yet Laurel was probably smarter than any of them. The last place in the entire world he wanted to find himself was caught between those two incredibly brilliant women. Maybe it was a good thing Laurel was freezing him out.

Damn it.

* * *

Agent Walter Smudgeon hitched his belt up over his belly, wishing he’d worn a different suit this morning. Or that he’d had a clean and pressed suit to wear. His head still ached from his cold, and acid rolled up his esophagus from the burrito he’d eaten for breakfast. One that had tons of fats and bad shit in it. The stuff his doctor told him he had to avoid if he wanted to live another ten years.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure he did.

But as he stood near the doorway of Dr. Christine Franklin’s surprisingly comfortable home in the ritzy subdivision, he wondered. The place smelled like her. Like fancy, but subtle, perfume. The kind from Paris that was spendy and made with organic ingredients.

She made her way efficiently through the home, turning off appliances and organizing as she went. Now she was in her bedroom packing her things. What was her bedroom like?