Season of Secrets. Marta Perry

“Where did you get it?”

      “It was shoved in the mailbox sometime today. Luckily I found it, not Court.”

      “In the mailbox—not mailed?”

      “No.” His expression became grimmer, if that was possible. “That means the author of that missive was on my veranda today. If I overreacted when you thought someone was in the house, I had good reason.”

      “I guess I would have, too. But people who write anonymous notes don’t usually act on them.”

      “Is that the police consultant speaking?” He shook his head, taking the paper back and tucking it into his pocket. “Sorry. I know you mean well. I know what you say is true. But it’s not easy to be rational when—”

      She knew what he was going to say. “When someone you love has been killed in this house.”

      He gave her a baffled, angry look. “Exactly. Irrational or not, that’s what I felt. And maybe it’s not so irrational. The person who killed Annabel is still out there, remember?”

      “I’m not likely to forget. But if he has any brains at all, he’ll stay as far away from you as possible.”

      “Maybe so. Still, I’m not taking any chances. So tomorrow I’ll put a new lock on the back door. And tonight I’ll walk you home.”

      There was more that she wanted to say, but she didn’t think he was in the mood to hear it. So she went ahead of him to the front door, stepping out onto the piazza where she’d fled so precipitously earlier, listening to him lock the door carefully.

      The air was chilly, and she stuffed her hands into her pockets. A full moon rode low in the sky, sending spidery shadows across the walk. She heard Marc’s footsteps behind her, and he reached out to push the gate open when she reached it.

      She paused on the walk. “You could just watch me to my door, you know.”

      “I could. But I’m not going to.” He slid his hand into the crook of her arm.

      The street was still and deserted. She glanced up at him as they crossed. “Are you sure you want to stay, after all this?”

      “Court would never agree to leave now. And I keep my promises to my son. Besides—”

      He paused, and she couldn’t make out his expression in the moonlight.

      “Besides?”

      He shrugged. “I told you. Now that I’m here, I know I can’t go back to being content with the status quo.” His fingers tightened on her arm, and she felt his determination through their pressure. “Do you know why I went into a private firm when we moved away?”

      The change of subject bewildered her. “Well, I suppose I thought you wanted a change. Or to make more than you could as a prosecutor.”

      “There’s certainly that.” There was a certain grim humor to his tone. “I’ve done far better financially. But that’s not why. I went into a firm because no prosecutor’s office or state’s attorney’s office would have me. Not with the shadow of my wife’s murder hanging over me.”

      The bitterness in his tone forbade any facile answer. For a moment she couldn’t say anything at all.

      “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I didn’t realize. I should have.” She hesitated, feeling her way. “I guess I’ve continued to look at what happened then as if I were still sixteen.”

      “You’re not sixteen anymore.” They’d reached the gate, and he opened it for her. “Now you can face what happened as an adult.”

      Marc sounded very sure of that, and he didn’t seem to expect a response. That was just as well, because she wasn’t sure she could give one.