A Secret Life

“Good,” she retorted.

“After L.A.,” he qualified.

Like it or not, she needed him in L.A. Charlie Long was the big time. She needed his advice, and she needed his protection. They had a ten-year relationship, and he couldn’t turn his instincts off like tap water.

“You are no longer on the payroll,” she declared.

“I’m still coming to L.A.”

“You are not going to change my mind.”

“I never thought I would.”

“Suit yourself.” She flounced toward the door. “But after that, we are done.”

“Your choice,” he said, schooling his features, pretending there wasn’t a hot knife slicing its way through his guts.

“Joanie?” came Heather’s cheerful voice, her running footsteps sounding on the staircase.

Joan took a deep breath and carefully evened out her features. “Up here, Heather.” Her voice was unnervingly composed.

Heather appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Samuel.

“That was fast,” said Anthony, suppressing his own emotions and checking out Samuel’s stark white sling. The man was obviously one tough bastard.

Samuel shrugged his good shoulder. “I told them if I wasn’t bleeding to death, I wasn’t staying. Nobody tried to stop me.”

Anthony guessed not.

Heather strode into the room, either oblivious to or ignoring the undercurrents between Joan and Anthony. She perched on his unmade bed. “Samuel has a theory.”

“What kind of a theory?” asked Joan. You’d never know from her tone that their relationship had just crumbled into a thousand pieces.

Samuel leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze seeking out Anthony. “I think we may still be dealing with a fan.”

“I’m listening,” said Anthony, struggling to focus on Samuel.

She’d fired him. Fired him.

“When I first read the book,” said Samuel, “I thought a lot of it was true.”

Heather stood up and paced across the room in her miniskirt and high heels. “Which got us thinking-”

Samuel jumped back in. “Maybe somebody else thought all of it was true.”

“I’m not following,” said Joan.

“The money.” Anthony couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet. “In your story, there’s money stashed in the walls of Samuel’s cottage. Somebody thinks it’s really there.”

Heather snapped her fingers and pointed at Anthony. “Give the man a gold star.”

“But I made that up,” Joan argued.

“They don’t know that,” said Samuel. “And I bet they broke into your house first looking for clues.”

“They did steal my research notes,” Joan conceded.

“Have you talked to Alain?” asked Anthony.

Samuel shook his head. “Thought I’d run it by you first.”

Anthony had to admit there was merit to the theory. And if it was true, Joan was in no danger from the shooter. “So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, parroting Alain’s words from last night. His faith in the chief was restored.

“I don’t think the guy wanted me dead,” Samuel suggested. “It was a panic reaction. I caught him in the act, and he was armed.”

“Have you been inside your cottage?” Anthony asked. If any of the wall panels were torn down, they’d know the theory was bang on. Just like in Bayou Betrayal.

“Not yet,” Samuel told him.

Heather took a small half step in Samuel’s direction. “If we can avoid the reporters, we’re going over there to look around.”

“You want to come with us?” Samuel asked Anthony.

“Yeah,” Anthony replied with a nod. “But then we have to head for L.A.”

Heather looked at Joan and raised her eyebrows in a question.

“I promised to do Charlie Long Live,” Joan explained, carefully avoiding looking at Anthony.

Heather’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”

“I know,” said Joan. “It’s not what-”

“We never called Mom.” Heather darted for the bedroom door, and Samuel quickly stepped out of her way. “She’ll have sent the jet to St. Martinville.”

Joan swore as she followed her sister out. Anthony still couldn’t get used to hearing that word come out of Joan’s mouth.

JOAN’S STOMACH cramped as she followed Heather and the men, slinking past the garage to the back door of Samuel’s cottage.

She’d fired Anthony.

She was making a point when she did that, an important point about him undermining her wishes. But she’d half expected him to fight for her. Completely expected him to fight for her. Desperately wanted him to fight for her.

But he hadn’t.

And now he was fired.

And she couldn’t take that back.

She started up the stairs and realized the others had come to a halt in front of her.

She craned her neck. “What?”

Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.

Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.

Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.

Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.

Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.

If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surroundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.

The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.

Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.

“It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.

Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.

Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.

“I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.