The Hidden

They never would have treated her like this if Diego was there, she thought.

And it was true. He would have stopped them cold.

She had told Lieutenant Gray as much. He hadn’t been impressed.

“The guy divorced you, huh?” he’d said at one point, his tone implying that whoever her husband had been, he’d been smart to separate from her.

She felt like a little kid, desperately hoping that someone bigger and tougher really would come to defend her.

And he would come, wouldn’t he? She’d made him her first phone call, and miraculously, he’d answered. He’d certainly sounded as if he intended to get here as soon as possible.

By morning, she hoped.

“Mrs. McCullough?” Gray repeated. “Pay attention. Tell me about your day again.”

“I woke up. I showered. I made tea. I had a bowl of cereal. I checked my email,” Scarlet said. “I went downstairs and spent the morning cataloging a display case of Civil War weapons. I inspected each for its condition, which I noted in the records. I went through the old display cards to find out when each piece was received by the museum. At noon I went back upstairs to my apartment and ate a tuna fish sandwich. No, wait, it was closer to twelve thirty, I think. But the sandwich was definitely tuna,” she said, trying very hard to maintain her temper. “At one o’clock I was back downstairs. I’ve been making notes on the different mannequins, their composition, the year they were donated to or commissioned by the museum or, before the museum’s funding, by the current owner of the Conway Ranch during the years when it was only a private collection. I began working on that project soon after I got here, about two months ago.”

“How late did you work?” he asked her.

“At four thirty I decided it was time to quit for the day. I went back upstairs and got my camera—I purchased it at the airport in Miami when I was coming out here. I have the receipt somewhere in the apartment. Wait—no,” she added, furrowing her brows. “I think it was more like four forty-five. And I didn’t go outside right away. I checked my email again first. Then I went out to take pictures. I saw a bull elk, who was practically posing for me. After that I went back to the ranch, where I talked to Ben Kendall. On the way I saw Angus Fillmore, Terry Ballantree and the Bartons down by the stables. Oh, and...”

“And?” he prompted.

“Horses,” she said gravely. “There were horses at the stables.”

He sat back. “I don’t think you understand the trouble you’re in,” he said severely.

She shook her head. “Why? Over pictures that don’t exist? That we thought we saw hours before the murders probably took place?”

She didn’t know that for a fact, but it had to be true. There certainly hadn’t been any bodies there when she’d taken the pictures.

He pointed a finger at her. “Ben Kendall saw those pictures. They existed—and you erased them as soon as you realized what you’d shown him.”

“Do you want me to tell you about the rest of my day again?” she asked.

“Go on—but we might be where we need to be already.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“I went back to the museum. I went upstairs. I heard a thump. I called Ben, wondering if he’d given the key to someone so they could look around the museum. He said he hadn’t. Then he came over and we looked around together. We saw that the statue of Nathan Kendall had fallen over, so we picked it up. He talked about putting in an alarm system, then went back to the house. I got my things and went into town for dinner. I can give you a list of the places I went and the people I talked to.”

He shoved a pad and pencil toward her. “I’ll take it,” he said grimly.