Horse of a Different Killer Read Free Page B

wood door exactly like the one I’d left. “I’ll tell Boyle we’ll learn more if we let you two talk.”
    â€œBecause you’ll be listening?”
    He gave me a what-do-you-think? look before unlocking the door and swinging it open.
    Emma sat at the table on the far side of the tiny, gray room. Not a hair out of place, not a smudge in her lightly applied makeup, she looked like she always did—polished and elegant. At least she would have if she hadn’t been sporting an ill-fitting muddy green shirt with the word
INMATE
printed over the left pocket. The corner of her lips quirked up into a wry half smile when she saw my face.
    â€œI know.” She cast a disparaging glance at the shirt. “This is not my color.”
    Her flippant comment made me want to sigh with a mixture of relief and exasperation. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve done if I’d walked in to find her crying and terrified.
    Blithe, irreverent Emma I can handle. Scared, helpless Emma is not something I processed well.
    A flash of memory hit me again: my sister’s bruised and battered face, tears leaking from the corners of her swollen eyes as she recounted what Ortega had done to her.
    And, again, I was glad the man was dead.
    â€œYou’re worried about your clothes?” I asked, lowering into the plastic chair across from her.
    â€œNot really. Though they did take my favorite pair of Gucci boots . . . which I sincerely hope to get back unscathed.” She directed the last comment to the camera bubble over our heads.
    â€œEmma—”
    â€œI’m kidding. They’re my second-favorite pair of Gucci boots.” She grinned.
    Only Emma.
    â€œWhere’s Wes?” I asked, referring to our friend and attorney Wes Roberts.
    â€œOn his way and ready to spit nails.”
    â€œGood.” Wes lived in Savannah now but still practiced in Florida. He was a great lawyer. I felt a wave of optimism wash over my worry. The sensation lasted about half a second.
    â€œListen,” she said, her face growing serious, “there’s something I need you to do for me.”
    I had a feeling I knew what she was going to ask.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll call Mom and Dad,” I told her with as much stoic nonchalance as I could muster.
    She shook her head. “It’s not that. You wouldn’t get through to them, remember?”
    Relief hit me hard enough to force a grateful breath from my lungs. I slumped back in the chair. “Right. They’re in Big Bend.”
    Our parents had called when they’d reached the national park the day before to say they’d be out of cell range for a few days. They’d been traveling the country in their RV, having a ball. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. Nor did I want to unleash our mother on the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office.
    Mom’s an ex-teacher. She has that “teacher’s voice” thing, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
    â€œBy the time they’re back to civilization this will all be handled,” Emma said. “But that’s not what I need to talk to you about.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œYou have to promise that you’ll do it.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œEven though Wes is on his way, I’m going to be stuck her a while, so I need you to take care of a party tonight.”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œIt won’t be a big deal.”
    â€œBut—” Nothing about handling social situations was easy for me. My sister, on the other hand, was an events coordinator and a very good one.
    That didn’t change the obvious, which I felt obligated to point out.
    Straightening, I leaned forward and said, “Em, don’t you think you should be more worried about being arrested for murder than a party?”
    â€œMurder? Is that what they told you?”
    â€œYes. They said a witness saw you at the crime scene lurking over