Within Range. Janice Kay Johnson

He had a flat, guarded look that might be normal for a cop on the job.

      “When is the last time you saw Andrea Sloan?”

      She shook her head. “You’re looking for some connection that doesn’t exist. But let me think...” Grocery store? No, there’d been once since then. “I was jogging. Mostly, I take Jacob in his stroller, but that day Iris kept him. Andrea runs, too. I’d forgotten that. We came face-to-face, jogged in place for a minute to exchange pleasantries, then went our separate ways. It was...I don’t know, six weeks ago? Two months?”

      “Did you know she jogged?”

      Helen shook her head. “Not until then.”

      “Were you dressed alike?”

      She didn’t like the way he’d fixated on their resemblance. “No, she wore a brand name, formfitting running set and, I’m sure, top-of-the-line running shoes. Me, I wear a T-shirt and sweats or shorts depending on the season and weather.” She remembered inwardly cringing that day at what Andrea probably thought of her outfit.

      “Pleasantries?” he asked.

      “Chilly, but at least it’s not raining. House is still working out great. Nice to see you.”

      A smile showed in his eyes, she’d swear it did.

      “No calls since then?”

      “No.”

      “Can you think of any reason at all she would have wanted to speak to you?”

      “No! It doesn’t make sense. If this weren’t such a small town, I’d have probably never run into her again after I signed the rental agreement. You can see yourself that I haven’t trashed the place—”

      As if she’d crashed into a plate-glass window, a horrifying thought struck her. What if Richard had called or stopped by the real estate office, asking questions about her? Could Andrea have come by to warn her? If Richard or his hired hand had made her nervous enough, she might have let herself into the house to be less visible.

      Yes, but if he’d actually seen Andrea, how could he have made the mistake?

      But he might not have, Helen reminded herself. Andrea’s assistant might have told her that a man was hunting for Helen, or Richard might have called rather than showing up in person.

      Helen jumped up. “I have to check on Jacob.” She found him asleep, thumb slipping out of his mouth.

      With the remote, she turned off the movie and TV, then gently picked him up. She straightened, to see that, once again, Renner had followed. “Naptime,” she murmured.

      He nodded.

      At least he didn’t follow her. Jacob never opened his eyes as she laid him down and tucked him in, then pulled his door almost closed.

      Renner didn’t return to his seat at the kitchen table until she did.

      “You thought of something, didn’t you?”

      Her heart picked up tempo. “Something?”

      “About Ms. Sloan.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said flatly.

      He studied her speculatively. “Oh, I think you do.”

      “I had nothing to do with a woman I hardly know getting murdered in my kitchen.” That sounded almost panicky. What did it matter? But she had to get rid of him. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore without a lawyer.”

      * * *

      WHATEVER SHE’D THOUGHT had scared the life out of her, and, man, Seth wanted to know what it was. Almost forty-eight hours had passed since Andrea Sloan had died, and he had no more idea why she’d been killed now than he had at the beginning. The one and only person he’d spoken to during this investigation who was acting squirrely was this woman. And he wanted to know why.

      “I haven’t accused you of anything,” he said mildly. “I don’t believe you killed Ms. Sloan.” Which was true. But she knew something, he’d bet on it.

      She crossed her arms, as if holding herself together. “Is your name Seth?”

      “What?”

      “I’m sorry—” Hot spots of color appeared on her cheekbones.

      “Don’t be sorry.”

      “It’s not like I’d use—I mean, I’ll still call you Detective—I just...” She shook her head, unable or unwilling to explain.

      He could hope she would be less intimidated if she thought of him by his first name—except that he needed her running a little scared of him.

      And, yeah, he hated that.

      “Where did you live before you rented this place?” he asked abruptly.

      Any color had drained from her face. “Los Angeles. North Hollywood, to be exact.”

      Truth, he thought. “Why did you move?”

      “I wanted to raise Jacob someplace where we could get to know our neighbors, where he could safely ride a bike when he gets old enough. I spotted a listing for my current job online, researched the area and applied.”

      That sounded reasonable, although he wondered. “Does Jacob’s father see him?”

      Her back stiffened. “He didn’t want children and has no interest in Jacob.”

      Now there, Seth thought, was a lie. “Where does he live?”

      “LA.”

      “His name?”

      “Richard—” Anger flared in her eyes. “It’s none of your business. You can’t contact him!”

      Her alarm was very real, but Seth reminded himself that there could be a lot of reasons for her sensitivity with the subject that had absolutely nothing to do with the murder he was investigating. If she’d been an abused woman, for example, he didn’t want to draw the abuser’s attention to her, or the boy. On the other hand, what if she didn’t have legal custody? That would explain some of what he was seeing, and it wasn’t something he could ignore as an officer of the law. One thing he did know: Jacob was her son. Their resemblance was unmistakable.

      Right now, he’d lose her if he kept pushing.

      “You color your hair,” he heard himself say.

      She jerked back and lifted a hand to her head. “What makes you say that?” Her lips thinned as she realized she’d given herself away. “That really isn’t any of your business.”

      No, it wasn’t, but he’d been intrigued by her creamy skin from their first meeting. She had a redhead’s complexion, freckles and a redheaded son.

      “That was intrusive,” he agreed. “I apologize. You have beautiful skin, and it made me think—” Damn, he was stepping in it here.

      Helen Boyd studied him from those gold-flecked caramel eyes that were every bit as pretty as her skin. Then she sighed. “Yes, I color my hair. I always hated being a redhead.”

      “What about your eyebrows?” His mouth was running away from him.

      “I...sometimes touch them up.” She blushed, something she must do easily with that skin.

      For a minute that stretched too long, they stared at each other. He drank in the rare sight of her sitting absolutely still, her lips parted as if she’d been on the verge of speaking. Her chin, he couldn’t help noticing, was a little on the square, stubborn side.

      She was the first to wrench her gaze away. “Are you done with your questions?”

      “Yes.” Seth had to clear his throat. “For now.”

      What had he been thinking? Coming on to a person of