Scene of the Crime: Killer Cove. Carla Cassidy

       She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her gaze so intent Bo felt as if she were somehow peering inside his soul.

      “So, are you in for a little crime investigation?” The fresh, slightly floral scent of her perfume drifted across the table as her gaze continued to hold him captive. He had arrived at the high school not knowing what his decision was, whether he intended to try to find the real killer or get out of this town as fast as possible.

      The light of her belief in him shone from her eyes. He bathed in it and realised he wanted this … his innocence restored among the people who had once been friends and neighbours.

      “I’m in,” he finally said. He hoped in making that decision he hadn’t just made a mistake he would come to regret. Asking questions, talking to people and stirring up everything from the past also might stir up a killer’s rage.

      Scene of the Crime:

      Killer Cove

      Carla Cassidy

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CARLA CASSIDY is a New York Times bestselling author who has written more than one hundred books for Mills & Boon. Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers.

      Contents

       Cover

       Excerpt

       Title Page

       About the Author

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Bo McBride throttled down, the Harley responding by slowing as he passed the old, faded wooden sign that read Lost Lagoon, Population 705.

      His stomach knotted painfully as the scent of the swamp not only surrounded him but invaded his lungs, making it difficult to breathe around the anxiety and anger the scent of home now brought.

      As far as almost everyone in town was concerned, it had been two years since he’d been back to Lost Lagoon, Mississippi. Only two people knew about his monthly visits back here to his mother’s place, secret visits that had him arriving and leaving under the cover of darkness.

      He wouldn’t be here now if his mother hadn’t passed away unexpectedly two days before. A massive heart attack. His best friend, Jimmy Tambor, who had moved into the house when Bo left town, had given him the grim news.

      It had taken Bo an entire day to process the fact that his mother was gone and another day to make arrangements with his employees to leave. The funeral was to be held tomorrow. After that, he figured it would take a couple of days to put his mother’s things in order and then get the hell away from the town that had robbed him of the last two years of his mother’s life, among other things.

      He’d been on the road for hours, leaving his place in Jackson before dawn that morning. He hadn’t stopped to eat except snacks picked up at gas station pit stops, and now decided before showing up at his childhood home that he’d grab a quick bite to eat at George’s Diner, located just inside the city limits.

      George’s Diner was more glorified hamburger joint than true diner. Although there were a couple of booths inside, most people either drove through or sat at the wooden counter to be served as quickly as possible.

      Bo parked his ride on the side of the building and then pulled off his helmet and hand-combed his thick, shaggy hair. He stretched and headed around the building to the front door, eager to escape the June heat and humidity.

      It was after three and few people were inside. The prevalent scent was of fried onions, hot grease and the gamy odor of swamp fish and gator. There was a pretty blonde woman serving a couple at one of the tables.

      Bo slid onto the first stool at the counter just as George stepped out of the kitchen. George King was a big man, both tall and weighing in at about three hundred pounds of muscle and fat. He was bald, with thick black eyebrows and dark brown eyes that narrowed the instant he saw Bo. He ambled over to Bo as he wiped his hands on his stained white apron.

      “Burger, fries and a sweet tea,” Bo said.

      “Move along, Bo. I don’t serve murderers here,” George replied, his deep voice filled with disgust.

      His words aroused Bo’s anger—the anger of injustice, of things unchanged and memories of the isolation and despair he’d felt when he’d left town two years before.

      He wanted to fight for the simple dignity of being served a burger, but instead he slid off the stool and left the building without saying a word.

      He certainly hadn’t expected to be welcomed back to town with open arms, but he also hadn’t expected the same kind of intense animosity that had ultimately forced him to leave.

      Sitting on his bike, he tried to school his emotions. Jimmy was meeting him at the house and he didn’t want to carry any more anger with him than what already burned in his soul. It had just been a hamburger and fries, after all, and everyone in town knew that George was an ass.

      He pulled on his helmet and was just about to start his motorcycle when he heard somebody call out his name. From around the corner of the diner the curly-haired blonde waitress appeared. He had a quick impression of long, shapely legs, big blue eyes and a warm smile that was as surprising as a gator wearing a straw hat.

      She tossed him a brown paper bag that he caught with his hands. “Burger and fries. I couldn’t do anything about the sweet tea,” she said, and then before he could reply she disappeared back around the corner of the building.

      Bo sat in stunned surprise for several moments. It had been an unexpected gesture of kindness. He opened the bag and ate the food. At the same time he wondered who the woman was and why she had gone to the trouble.

      It was almost four o’clock when he drove slowly down the street that was an outer band. Several blocks over to his left was the business area of Lost Lagoon, and on his right was the swamp side of town with a few small, neat cabins intermixed among weather-faded, neglected shanties. The swamp was an overgrown, tangled bog about twenty feet from the back of these houses and continued until Bo