OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 Read Free Page B

the reasons escaped him. “Why not answer the letter, tell her you won’t be sending any more money? Suggest she move on. Sounds simple enough to me.”
    “Because I don’t want trouble. And I don’t want negative press. We all know how these do-gooder types are, crying ‘poor me’ to the media when they don’t get what they want, making a public fuss. In the end I’d be the big bad wolf—or worse.” She shook her head. “No. I want you to take a firsthand look, assess the woman. If it looks as though she’ll be difficult, tell her I’ll buy her out. That way she can set up shop somewhere else. I don’t want to, but I’ll pay over market for the house if I must.”
    “Generous,” he said. “And not normally the way you do business.”
    “I have my reasons.”
    “Yeah, you usually do.” He finished off his drink, again glanced at his watch.
    Dinah’s expression hardened. “I want Mayday House closed. Boarded up. Or better yet, reduced to rubble. And I want it done as soon as possible.”
    She held the letter out to him. “Use your charm, your guile, or that intimidating scowl of yours to scare the woman to death. I don’t care. You’re the chameleon, Gus. Hell, you’ve made it an art. Just be who and what you need to be to get the job done— and get the Farrell woman out of there.”
    He looked at the letter in her hand—knew it represented a link between Dinah and himself he’d rather avoid. He also knew his reluctance was obvious.
    Dinah, impatient now, waved the letter in front of him. “I’m entitled to a last request, Gus, considering how long you’ve been in my—Let me see, what would be the right word?” She tapped an index finger on her chin. “Service? Yes, that’s it. My very personal service.”
    It was exactly the right word.
    When he still didn’t take the letter, she added, in a tone that was Oscar-award-winning sweet, “What was it you said, darling, about ‘owing me’?”
    “You might not make the grade as a kitten, Dinah, but you’ve got the bitch thing nailed.”
    “I certainly hope so. God knows, I try.” She laughed.
    Gus took the letter.
     
    Keeley slumped into a kitchen chair and opened the bottled water she’d taken from the fridge. She drank deeply, set the bottle on the table, and rubbed her hands over her face.
    A glance at the clock told her it was five minutes short of two A.M., which meant she’d been scrubbing and scouring since midnight. She felt like elephant droppings, beyond tired and into the realm of the living dead. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep, that if she went to bed she’d see them coming across the flat, dry earth. Hear the gunfire, the screams.
    When her hands started to shake, she flattened her palms on the tabletop and forced the memory into the black hole it came from. Bad enough it haunted her when she tried to sleep; she didn’t need it when she was trying to stay awake.
    A limp smile turned up her mouth. She was definitely in a no-win situation—or at least a no-sleep situation.
    Picking up the mop she’d propped against the table, she walked back to the bucket of hot soapy water. If nothing else, insomnia was productive. She’d done more in the last two hours than Bridget had accomplished in the last week. The girl made a snail look like a turbo-charged roadrunner, but Keeley knew depression dogged her, pulled her down. Losing a baby so close to term took a terrible emotional toll.
    What now seemed like a thousand years of nursing and religion had taught her that much.
    The phone rang, clattered into the room like dropped china, rattling her heart and sending a chill through her chest. Who would call at such an hour?
    She went to the old phone leashed to the wall near the kitchen door. “If this is a wrong number, you’re in trouble,” she said, in no mood to dispense a cheery hello.
    A man’s voice curled into the room. “Am I talking to Keeley Farrell?”
    “Yes, a very irritated Keeley Farrell.”
    “You’re up