“I looked through the window and saw you.”

Carley’s eyes widened considerably. “What—you’re a Peeping Tom?”

“I’m not. I was looking for my father,” Sloan calmly answered.

And he’d looked at Carley, too. In fact, she’d distracted him that night. Why? Because for the first time he’d noticed that she was no longer the gangly girl two grades behind him in school. Among other things, he’d noticed that she had breasts. But it was her mouth that had really caught his attention. The heart shape. The full bottom lip. Her mouth was sultry then. And it was sultry now.

Something Sloan wished he hadn’t remembered.

“I saw you that night, too.” Her voice was low and whispery, as if this wasn’t something she wanted to admit. However, her voice didn’t have to be loud to grab his attention.

“Where? When?” Sloan asked.

“I heard something and looked out the window. You were walking on Main Street, headed in the direction of your house.” She cleared her throat. “That was about an hour and a half before the murder.”

She turned and started inside, but Sloan caught onto her arm. “I get the feeling there’s more that you’re not telling me.”

Carley didn’t jump to her defense and she didn’t huff at his accusation. “I’ve told you everything that’s pertinent to the murder and to this investigation.”

Sloan really didn’t care for the way she’d phrased that. “Does that mean there are other nonpertinent things you haven’t told me?”

She didn’t answer. Which in itself was probably an answer—yes, she was withholding something. Carley eased out of his grip and she walked back into the building.

Sloan didn’t want to dwell on it. After all, Carley wasn’t the type to withhold vital information that would affect the outcome of the case.

So what secrets did she have?

The question settled hard and raw in his stomach. Because it made Sloan search his own memory. It made him recall things about that night. Specifically something that had haunted him for the past sixteen years.

It haunted him now.

Carley Matheson wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

Does that mean there are other nonpertinent things you haven’t told me?

Carley frowned.

Sloan’s question kept flashing like a neon sign in her head. Either she was missing the gene that could supply her with a poker face or Sloan was psychic. Because there was indeed something “nonpertinent” that she hadn’t told him. Nor would she. It was just one of those totally embarrassing events that a woman didn’t want to have to recount aloud.

Especially since Sloan was that nonpertinent detail.

Yes, she’d seen him that night, but seeing him wasn’t all she’d done. She’d stepped out the side door of the inn and watched him, well, walk down the street. She’d even followed him for a few minutes. At the time, she’d blamed the voyeurism on boredom, the sweltering summer heat and her leftover lusting brought on by that magazine picture of Johnny Depp.

But she had to blame it on Sloan, as well.

That night, she’d finally figured out what the other girls had meant about his bedroom eyes. Oh, yes. He’d stirred things in her that even Johnny Depp hadn’t managed to stir, and that was something Carley planned on taking to her grave. Sloan was already cocky enough without learning he’d had that kind of effect on her. She wasn’t about to be labeled a Sloan McKinney groupie.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Sloan commented.

Sitting at her desk, she glanced up at him. He was in the doorway, his hands bracketed on either side of the frame, and he was staring at her. Specifically he was staring at her mouth. Probably waiting for her to explain herself.

Uh-oh.

It was time to get this conversation back on something it should be on—the case.

“I’ll have one of the deputies start the gun roundup for the .38s,” she informed him. “Then the crime lab can do the ballistics tests and compare that bullet lodged in the brick to the guns from the town.”

Sloan pushed himself away from the door and stepped toward her. He reached over and ejected the surveillance disk from the computer. “And I’ll send this to the crime lab, as well. They might be able to enhance the image so we can figure out who fired those shots.”

“Yeah,” Carley mumbled, recalling both the image and the shots. “It’ll be nice to know who wants me dead.”

Their eyes met before he leaned back away from her. “I’m sure it’s not personal.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.” Carley decided it was a good time to sign the time sheets centered on her desk. It was a necessary task and it would prevent any more eye contact with Sloan. “And you’re wrong. It is personal. Very personal. In all probability, someone I’ve known my entire life is out to murder me.”

“Something that neither of us will let happen,” Sloan assured her. “Now that we know what we’re up against, we can take precautions.”

That got her attention off the time sheets. Heck. Eye contact again. “What precautions?”

“Well, for starters, you shouldn’t be working late here alone. Not that you’d have time for that anyway. The case should keep us both busy.” He motioned in the general direction of the lodged bullet. “In addition to the ballistics and reinterviewing Donna and Leland Hendricks, there are those papers that Sarah brought with her to Justice.”

Since that sounded like a prelude to something, Carley sipped her now-cold cappuccino and waited. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Carley, if we’re going to work together on this case, it means we’re going to be together. As in physically together. A lot.”

She took the safe approach and tossed out a hopefully confident-sounding, “So?”

“So, can you handle that? I mean, it’s obvious you can’t stand the sight of me.”

Well, she apparently had a poker face after all. “I don’t have to like you to do my job.”

“Does that mean our past isn’t going to get in the way?” he asked.

“Oh, it’ll probably get in the way,” Carley readily admitted. “But above all else, we’re lawmen. Focused lawmen. Solving this case is as important to you as it to me.” She drank more coffee. “And speaking of doing our jobs, you mentioned those papers that Sarah Wallace brought to town. Where are those exactly?”

“I have copies of them.”

That was it. I have copies of them, and no offer to share them with her.

“And?” she prompted.

“There’s a problem with what Sarah had with her when she was murdered.” He sat on the corner of her desk. “Basically the papers are a collection of notes and copies of notes that implicate both Leland and Donna.”

Carley shrugged. “That doesn’t sound like much of a problem to me. If they’re guilty, we just arrest them both.”

“The notes don’t prove murder—even though that’s obviously what Sarah believed or she wouldn’t have tried to get them to her sister. At worst, the notes and copies are gossip and innuendo. At best, they point fingers at Leland and Donna for some dirty dealings and shady behavior.”

That improved her mood. “Anything we can arrest them for?”

Sloan shook his head. “Time’s run out to prosecute them on those accounts.”

The improved mood didn’t last long. “So what’s in Sarah’s copies that we can use?”

“I guess the papers are good for painting a picture of what was going on in the Hendricks household about that time. Lou Ann’s copying and hiding habits weren’t limited to Leland. There are receipts for prescription painkillers and booze that the nanny, Rosa Ramirez, bought for Donna. God knows where Lou Ann found those.”

Carley frowned. “Why would the nanny be buying those things for Donna?”

“My guess? Donna wanted to keep up the appearance of a clean and sober socialite. Her father was still alive back then. You remember how he was.”

Yes, she did. And Donna’s old-money dad definitely wouldn’t have approved of a drugged-out, drunk daughter who might tarnish the family name. “Anything else in Sarah’s stash of info?”