Waterford Point. Alana Matthews

      “I told you not to bother coming, dearie. We’re not taking in guests for a while.”

      “What? Why?”

      The woman was about to respond when her gaze shifted to a spot behind the counter. “There they are!”

      She reached forward and brought out a pair of sharp sewing shears.

      “I didn’t get any message,” Rachel said. “And I need a place to stay.”

      The woman was holding the shears just below the handle now, her fingers wrapped around it as if it were a dagger. She made several practice stabbing motions in the air, her eyes fixed on the blades. She seemed to have forgotten about Rachel altogether.

      “Hello?”

      The woman looked up sharply. “I know you came a long way,” she said, sounding only slightly apologetic, “but if you had any sense in you, you’d turn around right now and go back home.”

      “Why?”

      She lowered the scissors and leaned forward, gesturing for Rachel to come close.

      Rachel hesitated, not sure the woman was all there. Then she did as she was asked and the woman whispered, “It’s for your own good, my dear. This place isn’t safe. She won’t rest until we’re all dead.”

      Rachel was confused. “She?”

      The woman straightened again, forgetting all about the apparent need to whisper. “You haven’t heard about her?”

      “Who?”

      “Weeping Willow, that’s—”

      “All right, Maddie, enough.”

      Rachel turned to find a guy in jeans and a work shirt coming down the stairs. He was about thirty-three and darkly handsome, with what looked like several drops of Native American blood in his veins. He was a good six foot two with broad shoulders, workingman’s hands and startling brown eyes that, despite her better instincts, made Rachel’s heart stutter.

      Down, girl.

      “Quit scaring the guests,” he said to Maddie. “How do you expect to make a living, chasing people away all the time?”

      “She needs to know what’s going on around here.”

      “There’s nothing going on that a little tried-and-true police work won’t fix.” He held out a hand for Rachel to shake. “I’m Nick Chavaree, the local sheriff. I’m staying here while my house is being…” He paused, frowned, withdrew the hand. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you?”

      Rachel was pretty sure that if she’d seen him before she’d remember. He was that good-looking. “No, I don’t think so.”

      “Wait,” he said, then crossed to the bookshelves. He searched for a moment, then pulled down a worn paperback that Rachel knew all too well.

      A Dangerous Mind.

      Her first bestseller.

      Flipping the book over, Chavaree studied the photo on the back—an old one that needed to be updated—then looked at Rachel. “Tell me this isn’t you.”

      “Sometimes I wish I could.”

      Even after three books in the top ten, she still wasn’t used to being recognized. Most writers remain anonymous their entire lives. But she’d spent enough time on the cable networks and the morning talk shows to become something of a celebrity.

      She half expected Chavaree to ask her to sign the book, but his demeanor abruptly shifted from friendly to hostile. “You’re here about the murders, aren’t you?”

      “Murders?”

      “Don’t be coy.” He moved toward her now. “That’s why you picked this place to stay. You thought you could get some inside information from me.”

      She had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but had a feeling it explained a lot. These murders obviously had something to do with the so-called “commotion”—and probably the looks she’d gotten outside—but she wasn’t interested in finding out.

      “I’m just here for a little rest and relaxation,” she said. “Nothing more.”

      “Uh-huh.” Not bothering to hide his skepticism, Chavaree tossed the book on the counter, then took a jacket out of the closet. “I admire your talent, Ms. Hudson. Your books are always compelling. But I’m gonna say this just once, okay?”

      Rachel frowned. “Okay…”

      “You’re not wanted here. I’ve got enough problems to handle without you sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

      “I just told you, I’m here for a vaca—”

      “Don’t even bother,” he said, then yanked his jacket on and went outside.

       Chapter Two

      People were often surprised when they found out what Rachel did for a living. There were dozens of successful crime writers in the world, but, with a few notable exceptions, most of them were men.

      Rachel was one of those exceptions.

      She had begun her career fresh out of college, after realizing that she was no longer interested in following in her father’s footsteps. Despite all the courses she’d taken in criminology and forensics, working for the LAPD didn’t really appeal to her.

      Her passion lay in writing about crime. She was fascinated by the motives that lay behind the violence, the emotional histories, the family stories, the sometimes petty insecurities that led people to strike out against their fellow human beings.

      All of these things factored into any good homicide investigation, but in the end, the work her father did came down to a simple who-did-what-to-whom, and Rachel knew that filing a few police reports would not lead her to a fulfilling life. Neither would walking a beat for several years just to get her detective’s shield.

      So, much to her father’s disappointment, she worked as a crime reporter for a small daily newspaper in the Valley. Thanks to her college coursework and her father’s willingness to teach her the ins and outs of homicide investigation, she had adapted to the job quickly, soon moving on to the Los Angeles Tribune, then to the world of true crime books.

      Her stories of murder and mayhem and family connections gone wrong now lined the shelves of libraries and bookstores around the world.

      The only drawback was immersing herself in the darkest side of human nature. She heard stories told by cold, heartless men and women that would send chills up the spines of most people, and had been forced to find a way to distance herself from the horror. In the process she’d become desensitized to the violence. She was sure that this had contributed to her failures with Dan.

      How could it not?

      But Rachel hadn’t come to Waterford Point in search of a story. In fact, it was just the opposite; she had too many things weighing on her brain right now to be concerned with a couple of small-town murders.

      After Chavaree left, she stewed for a moment, thinking she’d like to chase after him and give him a piece of her mind for being so rudely presumptuous. But when she thought about it, she really couldn’t blame him. She probably wouldn’t have believed her, either.

      Instead, she spent the next several minutes trying to convince Maddie to give her a room.

      “I paid a deposit,” she said. “I made a reservation. In my world that’s a contract.”

      Maddie took the book from the countertop and looked it over. “In your world, huh? Out there in Hollywood?”

      “And right here in Waterford Point, too. Murders or no murders.”

      Maddie squinted at her. “Were you telling Nick the truth? Are you really here