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Loran took a deep breath and reined in her emotions. “I wasn’t going to, trust me.”
“Are you seeing him tonight?”
“Maybe.” If he calls. If he doesn’t see me as a one night stand. If he wants me as much as I want him.
“I knew it,” Olive said again, her cocky smile creeping back. “You and Mac!”
Loran tried to be realistic. “It’s too soon to know if there’s anything here. We’ll see where it goes.”
“I have confidence, even if you don’t.”
“Want some tea?” Loran asked, heading toward the back room. “While there’s a lull, I could use a cup. I think I have some stale cookies, too.”
“Sure,” Olive called out. “I have a free hour before I have to be at the dance studio. No stale cookies for me, though. Ugh. I’m going to call Anna and see if she can run over a couple of sandwiches. I need sustenance, and you definitely need to keep your strength up.”
A friend. A man. A home. Could she have it all?
* * *
Loran had told him to call. That was a good sign. He preferred to text, but face to face would be even better.
Mac parked his patrol car in a lot at the end of the street and walked. He took just a few steps before he spotted the man who stood in front of the rundown house next door to Loran’s studio. That eyesore had been available for rent for months, but no one wanted it, not when there were other retail spaces available. The stranger stood in front of the vacant rental, but his eyes were on the pink house.
He seemed to be alone — was currently on his own, at least — and didn’t have the walk, the curiosity, of a tourist in town to explore. No, he just stood there and stared at Loran’s studio. There was something about the man that made the hair on the back of Mac’s neck stand up.
He paused on the sidewalk to watch the stranger for a long minute, or two. The man’s focus was entirely on the quaint pink house.
He didn’t like it.
Mac walked around the man and planted himself between the stranger and Loran’s studio. Between the stranger and Loran. “Can I help you? You seem to be lost.”
The watcher was startled; he actually jumped a little. He’d been lost in thought, or maybe on drugs or pills that had his brain in a foggy state. It was hard to tell the difference.
“Oh, no, no. I’m just in town hoping to find… an old friend.”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“I’m Chief of Police, and I like to know who I’m talking to.”
“Henry,” the man said, glancing away from Mac as he studied the area. “Henry Stanton.”
Mac looked Henry up and down. He was a smallish guy, good-looking enough, probably mid-thirties. What the hell did he want with Loran? “I know pretty much everyone in town. Who are you looking for?”
Henry hesitated a long second, or two. He looked uncertain, almost skittish. “Loran Raine, though when I knew her she used the name Loran Teller. I found an article online and you know, what are the odds? Loran is an odd name, and she’s an artist. The paintings looked like some of her work so it seemed like at least a possibility.”
“Why not just walk inside and ask?”
There was that uncertain expression again. “If she is here I don’t know what to say, what to do next. It’s been a long time since I had any hope of finding her. I’d given up. Besides… she’s dangerous, Sheriff.”
“Chief,” Mac corrected. “If she’s dangerous, maybe you should tell me all about her.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Henry said. “I guess you’re the man I should be talking to, instead of standing here trying to find the courage to walk inside and see for myself. Loran Teller, Loran Raine if that’s who she is now, killed my mother.”
Mac felt as if his heart jumped out of his chest and dropped to the sidewalk. Had he done it again? Moved too fast, believed what he was told, looked at a beautiful woman through rose colored glasses, ignoring reality. Had he once again fallen for…
No. Couldn’t be. Loran wasn’t capable of murder, he knew it in his usually reliable gut. This had to have something to do with the paintings of dead people.
