Best Laid Plans (Lucy Kincaid, #9)

“What?” she interrupted. “Why would you do that?”


“I’m a news junkie. You know that. And because of Karen…” For a second, he hesitated, and she saw the young college boy that he’d once been. Then the producer Ben Lawson was back. “I follow crime. You’re a natural. The camera loves you, even if you’re in the middle of a swamp with gnats swarming your head.”

“You saw that?” She hadn’t thought that feed, when she found three boys dead in a Louisiana swamp, was picked up by any station other than the local Baton Rouge affiliate.

“This is the natural next step for you. Or are you going to be satisfied running around the country solving crimes like Nancy Drew on steroids?”

“Now you’re being insulting.”

“You’re good, dammit! You’re wasting your talent.”

Max stabbed a fork into her salad and stuffed the mix of chicken and lettuce into her mouth before she let loose on Ben. He was right, she was blunt—so much so that she could go for his jugular right now, and just say good-bye to their odd and unnatural friendship.

She didn’t want a television show. She didn’t want a staff, didn’t want to report to anyone or have anyone report to her. She liked her life just the way it was. It was comfortable. She could fly off to Colorado Springs to investigate the disappearance of a college student that may or may not have involved foul play, and not worry that she was going to say or do something that would screw with ratings and cost people their jobs.

She liked being the only one she was responsible for. She liked her freedom. She needed her space. And Ben, of all people, should understand that.

The word “no” was on the tip of her tongue, when Ben said, “Don’t say yes now.”

“I wasn’t going to.” But she smiled. She couldn’t help it. Ben had that way about him, making her crazy one minute and laughing the next.

“Think about it, Max. I’ll email you my proposal, the one I used to sell the idea to Robert and Catherine Crossman, and maybe it’ll explain things better than I have.”

“You explained things well enough,” she said.

“Go on your trip. Read my proposal. And tell me yes when you come back.”

The smile disappeared. “Don’t be cocky. I don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, you do.” He visibly relaxed. “We have ten minutes before you have to leave to catch your plane. Tell me about this trek to Colorado Springs. Who, what, why, when, where, how.”

“College student Scott Sheldon, missing for six months after walking away while on a camping trip with friends.”

“Dead?”

“Probably.”

He stared at her. “You’re going because of Karen.”

“No, I’m not.” But there was some truth to his observation. Karen disappeared while she and Max had gone to Miami for a wild spring break their senior year. She was definitely dead—the police had found evidence of a violent death with an extensive amount of blood—but her body was never found. Max had spent a year of her life searching for answers, and still no one knew what happened beyond a theory that couldn’t be proved. And a killer had walked away.

She swirled her wine in her glass, but didn’t drink. “Scott’s mother wrote to me. She doesn’t know what happened to him. If I can find out—well, she might be able to sleep better.”

Adele Sheldon had said, I need to know what happened to my son. I need the truth.

Max was good at uncovering the truth. Not everyone appreciated it; not everyone was truly strong enough to handle it. But Adele Sheldon was a grieving mother with no body to bury. She accepted that her son was dead, had told Max that if he were alive, she’d know in her heart. I’m in limbo, Ms. Revere. I want to bury his body.

Ben didn’t say anything for a minute. He leaned back, a sad and wistful expression on his handsome face. She wished she had something to say, something cutting or witty, but her mind was blank. They were both thinking about Karen, a girl they’d loved, and Scott Sheldon, a boy they didn’t know. All hostility she’d felt toward Ben for his ridiculous idea to give her a television show dissolved.

“What happened to the kid?” Ben asked.

“I won’t know until I talk to his friends or find his body.”

“You’re searching for his body?”

“That’s the plan.”

He leaned forward. “This would be a great report for your television show.”

“I don’t have a television show,” she said, glaring at him again.

He smiled, picked up her wineglass, and drained it. “Not yet.”





CHAPTER TWO