He surely smelled the fear on her, too. She kept moving, forcing him to follow. “Your repetitiveness is getting boring.”
The louvered shutters were closed, and along with the overcast skies outside, left the room in darkness. Entering behind her, Bud did not flip on any lights. She crossed the thick carpet, her feet sinking into it like quicksand, pushed the ottoman—Bud’s heel prints in its softened leather seeming a permanent stamp—out of the way, and sat on the end of the brown leather sofa. Bud’s spot, she knew, right in front of the big screen TV. She chose it for the best view. He took the middle, sitting close to her, rather than the opposite end. She’d known he’d take that position. To fight him on it would once again tip the power balance in his direction.
Soap, shampoo, and cologne rose to her nostrils. She refused to let his nearness overwhelm her.
“The disk is in, Max. Why don’t you do the honors since you know where everything is?”
For just a moment, she was terrified that Witt’s dimple would suddenly pop up on the screen. She pushed the irrational fear aside, reminding herself that the dream ended with Lance crushing the undone tape, and refused to rise to Bud’s bait. Yes, she had broken into his house that night a few weeks ago, touched his machines, stolen another disk, and attempted to use it against him. And he’d discovered her. He hadn’t, however, called the cops. Now, there wasn’t a thing he could do to her, at least not through the police. She grabbed the universal remote from the side table, then stopped when she saw the silver-framed picture. The crack Cameron had put in the glass that night glinted in the dim light. Though Max still didn’t understand how he’d managed it in his ghostly form, Cameron had knocked over the photograph, fracturing the glass.
Bud reached around her and turned the lamp on, his chest against her back. She scooted forward slowly, in control. He chuckled at her nape.
“Who’s the woman in the picture?” Cameron had told her the night he broke it; Max wanted confirmation.
“My wife, Max.” Bud sat back.
Perched as she was on the edge of the sofa, Max looked over her shoulder at him. “Where is she now, did you kill her?” She asked so fast it became one sentence.
“Wendy’s mother died in childbirth.” He raised a brow. “I suppose, Max, you might say Wendy was the one who killed her own mother. Such a burden for a child to bear.”
“I suppose you reminded her of that every day.”
He smiled. Of course he had, another sin to add to the list.
She picked up the photo, fingered the broken line flowing through the glass. “Why haven’t you bought a new frame?”
“When I know how it got cracked, Max, I will.”
A challenge? Bud would, of course, have figured out it was damaged the night she and Cameron had broken in. Not a big leap to say she had something to do with the breakage. She didn’t say huh, what the hell are you talking about, like any normal person would. The conclusion he’d drawn was obvious; she knew the cause. What she didn’t know was why. Cameron had toppled it, but he’d never explained himself.
She set down the photo, pointed the remote, and turned on first the TV, then the DVD player. She didn’t own one, hadn’t since the one she and Cameron had used went defunct, but working the remote was second nature.
“I’d almost think you’d done this here before, Max.”
Her turn to smile.
With all ready, she pushed play, and held her breath until the picture filled the forty-eight inch screen.
A hotel room, king-size bed, nondescript prints on the wall, all washed out beiges and browns through the jaded eye of the camera mounted high in a corner of the room. Off-screen laughter, female. Angela did a walk on, turning to face the hidden camera and pushed her hair back, the color of which paled through the lens. Throwing her purse on the edge of the bed, she slipped her red jacket off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor.
Angela. With another man. It would anger Lance since he wanted exclusivity. But Max still couldn’t see how it would lead to his murder.
A second actor entered. The back of a woman’s head filled the camera’s eye. Max sucked in a breath. Behind her, Bud sighed. With pleasure.
No, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be.
“Take off your coat,” Angela purred, though her voice lost some of its seductive quality through the mechanical device. She reached for her client, touching, pushing and pulling, until the material plopped against the carpet.
“Turn around,” Max whispered to the faceless woman.
“Oh, she will,” Bud whispered, trailing a finger down Max’s arm. She shook him off without looking, like an annoying bug.
A voice, distorted by its husky quality. “I’ve missed you.”
So it wasn’t the first time. Probably not the last either.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Angela murmured, leaning in to engage in a lengthy kiss. Max grimaced.
“Don’t you like it, Max?”