Frame-Up. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

feet.

      “I’ll take this to bed with me.” She raised the mug. “Thanks for making the snack, but I guess I really don’t feel like eating. Enjoy your cozy fire.”

      The flatly spoken words hung in the air as her graceful stride carried her from the room. David’s gaze followed her retreat—empty protests, explanations, reassurances locked behind his tongue.

      Good thing he’d never aspired to an acting career. He stunk at it. Laurel’s body language communicated that she didn’t believe he’d told her the truth. Well, he had; just not the whole truth. Before he grabbed the wood, he went out to her car first and verified his glimpse of that tattoo on the body. The tat was there, all right. His memory hadn’t played him false.

      He picked up the blanket and settled onto the sofa next to his sandwich and cocoa. Frowning, he sipped at his hot beverage, then ran stiff fingers through his hair. The thick mop needed cutting, but a trim hadn’t seemed important before he went on a solo retreat to the mountains. Who could have predicted so many complications to a simple plan?

      David set his mug on a side table, leaned forward— elbows on his knees—and gazed into the blossoming fire. What was the meaning behind the nearly identical tattoos on jet-setting Alicia and this middle school biology teacher? Was there a real connection between the dead women, or were the tattoos a coincidence? The questions seared his mind, demanding answers. Where did he start looking for them?

      Maybe he should hire another private investigator. This would be his fourth. The notion left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d had nothing but empty promises and bills from every P.I. he’d hired to look into Alicia’s murder. Call him paranoid, but he’d had the sense that even the P.I.s on his payroll had figured him as the culprit. Had they looked very hard to find another explanation? Why would they take him seriously this time? No, he wasn’t going to go that route again.

      He could point out the similar tattoos to the police once they arrived and let them follow the lead. His insides shriveled. What was he thinking? Major bad idea. If the police caught wind of the tattoo connection on another dead body in his vicinity, they were as likely to try to pin this second murder on him as to look further for answers.

      Before he went to the cops with this similarity between the murder victims, he needed to have some idea how the tattoos might point to a different culprit. He knew he hadn’t killed the high school teacher, so if the murders were connected, then this could be proof that he hadn’t killed Alicia either. He sat up stiff.

      Did he dare hope the tats signaled his innocence? Or was he setting himself up for bitter disappointment? At this point, there was no way to tell. He’d have to uncover the significance of the ink markings for himself before he could trust this knowledge to anyone—even the woman who owned the car where the teacher’s body was stowed.

      For all he knew, Laurel or her daughter had a hand in the teacher’s death or knew something about it. Either they were innocent victims of a frame-up, or they were devious and culpable. Either way, innocent or diabolical, he needed to keep an eye on those two until the tattoo business was explained.