Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) Rachel Caine (best e book reader for android .txt) 📖

a place where she’s already well known. Vee cannot keep a low profile. And it’s about Melvin. I need to keep them out of that. Completely.”

“I’m thinking it’s not separate, though. Aren’t you?”

I hate that I am, actually. Kez’s case started early Monday morning. I was at the pond before dawn. And just a few hours later, I have Melvin’s letter served on me like a subpoena. That doesn’t feel random. And now Vee’s provided a link—at least a strange and tenuous one—with a credit card that looks like something Sheryl Lansdowne might have had as a new identity. How would MalusNavis—if it’s him—get his hands on Melvin’s letter? From what Sam’s uncovered, he’s hardly likely to be someone Melvin would have attracted as a fan.

Between that, the word from the loathsome Dr. Dave that Monday was when MalusNavis asked for the template, the fake obituary, the letter Vee received on her door, and the posting of flyers at the gun range . . . it all looks very, very bad. Like I’m now in the crosshairs of someone who’s very serious.

But it also looks like a patchwork of coincidence that could fall apart like mist under the spotlight of a real investigation. So I can’t tell. I have a confirmation bias, a thumb on the scale.

We need some real proof, like getting a picture of the person who sent that package. If it’s Sheryl Lansdowne, then there’s something real to chase. If it’s someone else, there’s still a lead to follow, a face, something. But as I well know, Knoxville PD is not going to be helpful. They tolerate me just fine, but they’re certainly not bending any rules on my behalf. Posting Melvin’s letters isn’t a crime. And if the credit card is valid, using it might not have been a crime either. And they’ll just shake their heads at the Lansdowne connection until I have real proof.

No way to get a warrant, or official action. And I can’t put Kez into that position either. No help for it, I think. I’m going to have to be creative.

“Hey, Sam?” I say, and he looks up. “How do you feel about staying here with the kids for a while?”

“Fine, they’re sleeping until noon anyway, at this rate. I’ll take care of whatever needs doing. Why? You going to see Kez?”

“I . . . don’t think I should tell you. That way, if you’re asked, you can truthfully say you have no idea.” I hit print on the document I’ve pulled up. It looks official, but it isn’t. Good fake, though. I don’t intend to leave it behind, just flash it and a fake badge I keep for real emergencies and hope the store clerk isn’t very savvy. I pause in the act of folding it up and look at Sam. “Shit. What’s today?”

“Wednesday,” he says.

“I made an appointment for us with Dr. Marks for this afternoon,” I remind him. “All of us. I can change it if—”

He’s already shaking his head. “No,” he says. “I think we need it. We might need it a lot. And Gwen? I would really rather that neither of us goes to jail right now. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

I sound far more confident than I feel, but Sam gives me the incredible gift of letting me get away with it.

I kiss him, finish my coffee, and head off to shower.

I dress in a black knit pantsuit with a plain white button-down shirt and my nicest pair of flat shoes. My hair’s grown out to shoulder length; I tie it back in a plain, no-nonsense ponytail. No makeup. My shoulder holster goes on under the jacket, and while the tailoring isn’t perfect, it’s pretty decent. I look professional. And a wee bit intimidating.

I don’t dare take either of our cars, so I catch a ride-share to a random location; it drops me about six blocks away from the place where the package originated. In a hidden inner pocket of my pants are my necessary ID cards. I have cash. I have a disposable phone with emergency numbers preprogrammed in my left jacket pocket. I’m as unidentifiable as possible.

In the right pocket, I have the document I printed out, and that costume badge. Neither is perfect, but they look and feel solid. I put on my sunglasses and a black cap as I leave the ride-share and walk for a while, staring in store windows and just generally looking casual.

I make my way to the right block, and stay on the opposite side of the street. I’m watching the door of the mail establishment, counting the number of people entering and leaving. It doesn’t look busy. I see only two people in thirty minutes, and both are in and out in under five minutes each. It’s ten in the morning . . . after the theoretical morning rush, before the lunch hour crowd runs errands. Best guess, the place is empty.

I walk confidently to the door.

My eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, have to adjust to the dimmer light inside. It feels warm, and the smell of old cardboard makes me wrinkle my nose. There’s a long counter on one side, and some smaller standing tables for people to prepare packages.

I was right. Nobody home but the man behind the counter. He’s in his early twenties, tall and thin and gawky. He’s busy sorting out some packages, and says without looking up, “Hi, can I help you?”

I take the paper out and unfold it on the counter, and set the gold badge on top of it. “Detective Karen Fields,” I tell him. “That’s a warrant to view your video.”

That gets his attention. He looks up at me, and I smile. He won’t remember me, more than likely; he’ll remember the template. Black suit, white shirt, businesslike, professional ponytail. Gun visible under the jacket. Badge. But mostly the gun.

“Uh . . .” He stares at the fake warrant. “I should call my manager.”

“Okay,” I say. “But he’ll tell you that you