Not sure whether to be annoyed or sympathetic, she merely stared back at him. He wasn't the kind of man who invoked sympathy. "I still don't understand why you lied to me."
"I've got my reasons," he said after a lengthy silence. "I'd appreciate it if you'd respect my privacy." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, inadvertently opening his parka so that lean, male hips loomed into view.
Addison cursed herself for allowing her eyes to drop, appalled by the unwelcome awareness that rushed through her at the sight of his long, muscular thighs. What was it about this man that had her thinking of everything except what she should be thinking about?
"I don't like being lied to," she said.
He stared at her with such intensity that she wanted to look away. "I won't lie to you again."
She held his gaze a moment longer, wondering what secrets he kept and why, wondering if those secrets had anything to do with the haunted look in his eyes. Needing to get out from under his discerning gaze, she let out a long, pent up breath and headed for the fireplace.
"I was hoping you'd be more interested in my trip to Siloam Springs than a one-on-one interrogation," he said.
She halted, her heart kicking in her chest. How was it that he managed to knock her off balance every time he opened his mouth? Slowly, she turned to face him. "I didn't know you'd gone."
“I took a red-eye. Spent the morning with your buddy Sheriff McEvoy. The afternoon at a little bar called McNinch's with a woman who'd worked with Agnes Beckett. I got back about an hour ago."
"What did you find out?"
Curiosity had her pulse racing as she went to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. She returned to the living room to find Randall lighting the gas logs. She set his cup on the coffee table, then took the armchair opposite the sofa. "I want to know everything."
He sat across from her. "McEvoy wasn't the most cooperative public servant I've had the misfortune of working with, but I managed to get a look at the file. The police report states Agnes Beckett was murdered in the commission of a robbery. I don't buy it."
"Why?" Addison leaned forward, anticipation warring with dread. A small part of her didn't want to hear what he had to say next. The stronger, more logical side of her knew she must if she wanted to get to the bottom of this.
"Whoever killed her was smart enough to make it look like a robbery," he began. "The sheriff's department took an inventory of her place and found some items no petty thief would leave behind."
"Like what?"
"They left a twelve-inch color television in the bedroom. TVs sell like hot cakes at just about any pawn shop. They also found a few pieces of gold jewelry and a mason jar with just under two-hundred dollars in it. The jar was out of sight, but not hidden well enough to keep a robber from finding it."
"What did the thief take?"
"Her purse and what little jewelry she was wearing."
"Whatever was convenient." Visions of the murder scene flashed in the back of her mind. Steeling herself against the images, she forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand. "If the motive wasn't robbery, then what?"
"Whoever went in there that night didn't go in to steal. They went in to kill. A vagrant or local thief isn't going to go to the trouble of cutting the phone line. Not for twenty bucks and a cheap gold necklace. The bolt lock on the front door was either left unlocked or picked by someone who knew what they were doing."
"My god."
He sipped his coffee, watching Addison over the top of the glass. "Her place had been ransacked, yet the intruder left most of the valuables. The entire scenario makes me suspicious as hell."
Addison felt as though she'd stepped out of the safety of her own life, and into someone else's—someone she didn't necessarily know or trust. "But why? Why would someone kill Agnes Beckett? She lived in a mobile home in a small town. She didn't have any valuables."
"From what I've been able to find out about Beckett, she was the kind of woman who kept her door locked."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He grimaced. "You're not going to like it."
Her heart began to pound. "Don't hold out on me just because I might not like what you've got to say."
"I went to the bar where she worked."
"McNinch's." She remembered passing the bar the day she'd driven through town. High, brown grass. Torn canopy. The kind of place she would never venture.
"Agnes Beckett worked there as a waitress and barmaid. I spoke with one of the waitresses she worked with. A woman by the name of Dixie McGriff claimed to have known her pretty well."
Addison braced. "What did she tell you?"
"Up until a few years ago, Agnes Beckett was a prostitute."
*
Randall watched the blood drain from her face. Her eyes filled with denial and shock. She sat quietly, her mouth partially open, staring at him as if she were waiting for him to admit the words were all part of a cruel joke. For her sake he wished he could.