Buried Secrets. Margaret Daley

turned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

      “Where?”

      “I’m taking you home. There isn’t anything more we can do tonight.”

      “What about the diary? I thought you wanted it.”

      He whipped around to confront her, his expression no longer blank but full of fury, all directed at her. “What do you suggest I do? Break into the bank to get it?”

      “No.”

      He walked back to her. “Do you want me to applaud you for being such a good liar? I actually believed they had the journal.”

      The full force of his rage bombarded her—although his voice had never risen above a whisper—as he came to a halt in front of her. She released her grip on the arm of the couch and craned her neck upward until their gazes clashed. “I didn’t lie,” she said. “The diary wasn’t at my grandfather’s.”

      “Oh, I see. You like to play word games.” He invaded her space completely, hovering over her. “What other games do you like to play?”