Hayes’s face turned into a scowl. “No.”
“A reliable source quoted you as saying you weren’t convinced that she took her own life.”
“No comment.”
“But, Detective Hayes,” the reporter insisted, chasing after the much taller man as he strode toward a parking lot of cars. “Is it possible that her death was a homicide?”
Hayes’s broad shoulders, under the expensive weave of his jacket, visibly stiffened. He turned slowly, pinning the reporter beneath his shaded glare. Very slowly he said, “As with all investigations, Shelly Bonaventure’s case will remain open until all the facts are in.”
“So there’s a chance of foul play?” the reporter replied, pushing.
Unlocking his car door remotely, Hayes shrugged. “Isn’t there always ‘a chance’?” he asked rhetorically, then slid behind the wheel of his vehicle.
The final frame was of taillights as his SUV blended into the thick Southern California traffic, and the screen returned to the hosts of the show.
“So I guess nothing’s conclusive,” the blond anchor said. “You know, Shelly was found much like Marilyn Monroe was half a century ago. The similarities in their deaths are really bizarre.” With that the camera panned to a large black-and-white head shot of Marilyn Monroe, which morphed into a montage of pictures of the iconic blonde and ended with an interior black-and-white shot of the death scene, her bedroom within her Brentwood bungalow.
“Trash TV,” Kacey muttered because of the exploitive edge to the segment.
And yet, possibly because of the morbidity of the report, she experienced a chill crawling up her spine, and she glanced to the window and the darkness outside.
She remembered the depths of her own despair, the fear in those frightening moments when her own life had been threatened, when she was certain she would die, when she stared into the face of evil.
For a split second, she remembered those horrid last words spoken by the man who had meant to run a knife through her heart. She shuddered, his last words, which had been snarled as he staggered away, reverberating through her mind. It’s not over. . . . You’re one of them.
His vile prediction had meant nothing, the ramblings of a deranged man whose psychosis and deadly intentions had somehow been trained on her. Don’t go there.... It’s over!
Shaking off the memory, she forced her attention to the television screen.
The hostess of the show, a blonde who appeared to be a human version of a Barbie doll, mentioned Shelly’s acting credits, rumored lovers, and reiterated the fact that though her death was ruled a suicide, detectives at the LAPD “hadn’t ruled out the possibility of foul play.”
Wide-eyed, glossy lipstick perfect, the hostess went on to the possibility of a conspiracy with her cohost, a younger, hipper man in a dark suit, with spiked hair.
Kacey clicked off the television.
On her way to the bathroom for a quick shower, she started peeling off her workout clothes and was naked once she reached the small room. Inside, she turned on the water and hit the play button on her radio before stepping into the old claw-foot tub and drawing the curtain closed.
Hot water pulsed against her skin, and she felt the tension of the day start to ease from her muscles. Lathering, she washed, humming to a song by Katy Perry and forcing her mind away from Trace O’Halleran, where it had wandered whenever she had a free minute to herself, which, today, in the midst of flu season and appointments all day, hadn’t happened often.
In those few minutes, though, she’d found herself wondering about him, about Eli’s mother, and the unknown Miss Wallis, his “girlfriend” according to his son.
“Forget it,” she said aloud, twisting off the tap. He wasn’t even her type. She’d never been one to go for the backwoods, rugged alpha male in battered jeans, a beat-up jacket, who lacked a razor.
Yeah? And what good did that do you? Remember polished, sophisticated Jeffrey Charles Lambert, the heart surgeon whom you fell for? Was he your type? That didn’t turn out so well, now, did it? Face it, Acacia, your track record when it comes to men is pretty dismal.
“Oh, stop!” she muttered under her breath, disgusted with the turn of her thoughts. Maybe she spent too many hours with her own thoughts when she was alone. It could just be time to rethink the issue of owning a dog.
So O’Halleran was the most handsome cowboy she’d met. So he seemed dedicated to his child. So her own biological clock was ticking like crazy, so loudly that she avoided the maternity wing in the hospital. So what?
The old pipes groaned. She heard over the DJ’s chatter on the radio a noise that didn’t seem to belong in the house. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it around her as she stepped out of the tub, listening hard.
Nothing.
Was someone in the house?
Or was the sound only her imagination?
Still dripping, her heart pounding a little, s