Chapter 3 Chapter 3

“Taylor?” Mom prompted, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I slowly withdrew my hand from the cereal box, whatever I'd been reaching for forgotten somewhere between my fingers and the plastic bag. “Still here.”

“You got awfully quiet,” she pointed out, and I could hear the suspicion creeping into her voice.

“I was observing a moment of silence for my peaceful Christmas,” I explained, dropping my hand into my lap.

“Be nice,” Mom warned.

“I haven't done anything,” I protested, although we both knew that wasn't exactly the reassurance she wanted.

“Yet,” she added.

Leaning back in my chair, I stared toward the ceiling. “Your faith in me is touching.”

“Bedlam isn't that bad,” she reminded me.

My mouth closed around the smart-ass response already forming because no, Bedlam wasn't that bad. That was considerably more inconvenient.

I'd been nineteen when Mom introduced me to the twenty-nine-year-old man who would eventually become my stepbrother, which sounded much worse when I put it that way, except we'd both been adults who hadn't grown up together. We'd never shared a house, fought over a bathroom, tormented each other through childhood or suffered through a single awkward family vacation as teenagers.

I'd simply met a ridiculously attractive man, noticed several things about him I probably would have been better off not noticing, then watched our parents marry each other.

Timing really was a bitch. I'd gotten over the attraction...mostly.

Frowning, I reached for another handful of cereal. Fine, I'd learned not to do anything about it, which should have counted for something, especially since Bedlam had never given me the slightest reason to believe whatever unfortunate defect in my judgment made me notice his shoulders, hands, mouth, ass and several other things a stepsister had absolutely no business cataloging went both ways.

The man wasn't mean to me either, which would have made things considerably easier; mean, I could have worked with. Instead, Bedlam was always polite, controlled and so damn careful around me that I'd stopped pretending I didn't notice. Whenever I walked into a room, sooner or later he found somewhere else he needed to be, and if I sat beside him, he somehow managed to put another six inches between us without making the movement obvious.

The first two times I'd hugged him hello, every muscle in his body had gone so rigid beneath my arms that I'd wondered whether I'd accidentally embraced a telephone pole. There hadn't been a third time. I'd gotten the message.

Bedlam wasn't interested, and whatever remained of that stupid attraction after five years belonged entirely to me.

Christmas should be delightful.

“Taylor?” Mom called again, making me blink at the ceiling.

“Sorry.” Straightening in my chair, I rubbed one hand over my forehead. “What?”

“I asked when you'll get here,” she repeated.

“Probably the twenty-third,” I answered, glancing toward the calendar hanging beside my desk.

“Probably?” she pressed.

Recognizing that tone, I sighed. “I'll be there on the twenty-third.”

“Thank you,” she replied, sounding entirely too pleased with herself.

“Bossy,” I murmured.

“Effective,” she corrected.

A smile pulled at my mouth as I reached for the cereal box again. “Love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” she replied before adding, “and eat something real.”

Looking down at the Fruity Pebbles sitting in my palm, I lifted my eyebrows. “These are real. I can physically touch them.”

“Taylor,” she warned.

“Fine,” I grumbled, tossing them back into the box. “I'll eat something.”

“Call me tomorrow,” she ordered.

“I will,” I answered.

“You said that yesterday,” she protested.

“And eventually I'll be right,” I pointed out.

Mom was still laughing when the call ended.

Setting my phone beside the keyboard, I stared at it for a second before my gaze wandered back toward the frozen audio file on the monitor.

Bedlam was coming for Christmas. Fucking fantastic.

Scooping another handful of cereal from the box, I tossed it into my mouth and turned back toward the recording. Between a possible dead man and spending Christmas trying not to notice my stepbrother's ass, the dead man seemed considerably easier to deal with.

One problem at a time. Possible dead guy won.

My phone vibrated against the desk before I could put the headphones back on, and lowering my hand, I glanced at the screen.

Unknown number.

A message waited beneath it.

Did you listen?

The cereal turned dry against my tongue as I stared at the words, then swallowed hard enough to scrape my throat.

Well, that's not creepy.

Picking up the phone, I typed beneath the message.

Who is this?

The response came almost immediately.

That doesn't matter.

My eyebrows pulled together as I shifted closer to the desk.

It does to me.

Where did you get the recording?

Three dots appeared beneath my message, disappeared, then returned while I sat there watching them.

Finally, my phone vibrated.

Owen Price recorded it the night he died.

My fingers stopped above the screen. Owen Price. The name caught somewhere in my memory, close enough that I knew I'd seen it, and turning toward the folders stacked beside my computer, I reached for the top one before the connection snapped into place.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered, letting my hand fall.

I didn't need the folder. For the past three months, I'd been digging through property records, complaints and enough corporate paperwork to make me question every career decision that had led me here, trying to figure out who was behind a development company buying land near protected areas outside Fort Myers. Residents who refused to sell had started complaining about pressure, official reports weren't matching what people were telling me, and every time I got close enough to identify who actually owned something, another company name seemed to appear.

Owen Price had been one of the surveyors working some of that land near Black Cypress Reserve. Three days ago, I'd read that he'd died there; animal attack.

My gaze slowly shifted toward the headphones lying beside the keyboard. The same headphones I'd just used to listen to something on four feet chase a terrified man through the dark.

Oh, hell.

Looking back at my phone, I typed another message.

How did you get it?

Nothing appeared.

After several seconds, I tried again.

Have you given this to the police?

This answer came quickly.

No.

Frowning, I leaned closer.

Why not?

The three dots appeared again, lingering long enough that my hand drifted away from the cereal box while I waited.

Finally, the phone vibrated.

Because some of them already know.

I sat back slowly, rereading the message.

Know what?

My thumbs moved across the screen.

What do they know?

The answer appeared almost immediately.

The official story is a lie.

Another message followed before I'd finished reading the first.

Owen wasn't killed by an animal.