Sexual power.
It was key to Max’s psychic connection with Wendy. They were sisters in the crimes committed against them by men, sisters in their quest for regaining their own power through the very same method. With sex.
Why had Wendy deserted her now?
“I don’t get it,” Max whispered. Just as quickly, she understood.
Wendy had bared her soul to Nick, then her throat to Remy. Max had finally set her free by telling them all to go to hell. One simple phrase that Wendy had found impossible to say.
She’d freed Wendy and in return, Wendy had left her with certain knowledge. Sex was about power and control.
Making love was something else entirely—that’s what Cameron had tried to tell her.
Witt sat on her porch steps.
“Invite me up for a beer?” He wore faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the word Dodge emblazoned in bold red. The sight gave her a head rush, as if she’d stood up too fast. Perhaps there were pieces of Wendy she might retain forever, her love of color being one of them. But the love of a Dodge Ram was all Max’s.
The shirt wouldn’t get him off the hook. She put her hands on her hips and glared. “You never arrested Nick. You lied. And you used me to get Remy.”
He sighed. “Guess that means no beer.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You put my life in danger.”
“Didn’t expect you to make yourself a sitting duck. Figured it had to be the wife, or Drake would never have confessed.”
“Well, you were wrong.” She yanked the screen door open. “I’ve got Dr. Pepper, no beer.” She’d run out yesterday.
“Dr. Pepper will do.” He followed her up the stairs to her room. “I made a mistake, Max. It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t.” His admission threatened to turn her to mush. Again. She’d certainly had enough of that particular feeling.
Dwarfing her one chair with his big body, he popped the tab on the can she handed him. She sat on the edge of the mattress. At least she’d made the bed, and the studio smelled springtime fresh.
“What’s with you and Drake?”
She didn’t ask if Witt had witnessed the episode by the garage. If he had, he’d drawn his own conclusions. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t admit how badly Wendy had wanted her to say yes. Until Max had said no.
“Nothing,” she answered breezily. “In fact, I think he’s probably gone back to his wife now that he’s figured out she isn’t a murderer.”
That seemed to satisfy him. The cat jumped on Witt’s lap, circled, then settled and started to purr. He stroked the soft fur and guzzled the soda, all the while keeping his gaze on Max.
She tingled. If she closed her eyes, she’d feel his touch. God, she wanted to jump the man, but she wouldn’t. She was afraid he’d demand they make love, and she still wasn’t beyond merely having sex. With a real man, she wasn’t ready for anything other than sex. Certainly not a relationship.
“What’s its name?”
“It’s a he, and his name is Buzzard.”
“Buzzard. An odd name. Just like you, Max.” He didn’t give her a chance to say anything. “Thought you’d want to know Remy confessed to everything. He stole Wendy’s datebook out of her purse, wrote Drake’s flight in there in an attempt to frame Drake. Stole her keys to the store to cover his tracks.”
“He must have left the note there, too,” she said almost to herself.
“What note?”
“The green note on the floor of the car. She threw it away in the airport, he retrieved it, and left it to frame Nick, too.”
“Very odd, indeed,” Witt murmured, his eyes narrowed on her throat. “Wendy told Lilah about Remy’s activities at work—”
“Harassment.”
“So Lilah blackmailed him, and he killed her. He also admitted to stealing Drake’s 4Runner and trying to run you down.”
“Extremely cooperative, wasn’t he?”
“He’ll probably go for the insanity defense. He says Wendy’s ghost has been haunting him.”
“Remy never lies, you know.” That didn’t stop her from asking the next question. “Did he say anything about Bud Traynor?”
“Traynor?” Witt’s blue eyes sparked. “No. Why? What’re you thinking?”
Hoping. Praying. “Forget it.”
“You’ve piqued my curiosity. Can’t pull out now.”
Oh God. Her prurient thoughts, just as Cameron claimed, worked overtime on that double entendre, whether or not it was intentional on Witt’s part. He didn’t move a muscle. She wondered if he even got it.
“I just don’t like the guy,” she said, and the words felt far too mild.
He snorted. “Traynor asked me when he and his son-in-law could have Wendy’s car back. Company car, you know, owned by the law firm. I told him he’d never get the smell out of the upholstery. Didn’t even phase him. Man’s pure slime.”