“No, no kidnapping. This time it’s murder, and this new crime scene has ties to Ms. Michaels.”
“What kind of ties?”
“I’ll send you the picture I found. I’ll let you decide if you want to take a closer look.”
My phone dinged, and I glanced at the photo sent via text. It was a picture of Stella. Only she was lying on a couch in nothing more than a man’s button-down shirt, holding out her hand as if she were reaching for the person taking the photo.
“Send me the address. I’m on my way,” I growled into the phone.
“Ash?” Stella stood on the stairs, staring down at me. “Everything okay?”
I frowned, biting back my disappointment. “Get dressed. There’s another crime scene.”
“Was it one of my paintings?” she hesitantly asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” I answered.
“Oh, then if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just wait here until you get back,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I need to go to the gallery.”
I jogged up the stairs and rested my hands on her cheeks. The scent of her shampoo tickled my nose. Her face was flushed, and her skin was soft beneath my fingers—God, how I’d missed her. “Get dressed, Stella. I’m not leaving you here. Not now.”
Her brows pinched, and she locked her fingers with mine and lowered them from her face. “What’s wrong?”
There was no way to shield her from the truth. The more she understood the danger she was in, the more vigilant she’d be about her surroundings.
“There was a picture of you found at this new crime scene.”
“Who died? Was it one of my friends?” she asked in horror.
He pulled up the picture and turned it for her to see. “I don’t know. How many friends have this picture of you?”
The blood drained from her face. “Oh God.”
She dropped my hold and hurried into her bedroom, where she grabbed a pair of jeans and shoved them on.
“You know who it is, don’t you?”
“Marcus Anderson,” she was quick to answer. “He’s the only one that would have that specific picture.”
Anger like that of an overprotective boyfriend shot through me. The unusual feeling turned my gut. “You let a lot of men take pictures of you like this?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “No, and it’s not like that.”
“You say that a lot, Stella.”
She shook her head as she shoved her feet into her tennis shoes and hopped across the room, pulling one of them over her heel. “Let’s go.”
I caught her before she fell. “You need a shirt.”
She glanced down at her tank top and frowned before walking into the closet. I’m not sure she even looked at the one she picked. She yanked one off the hanger and was shoving her arms into it as she walked.
“I’m sure my tank top would have been just fine,” she grumbled.
“Not if the cop from earlier is there and he undresses you in his thoughts again. I might have to punch the guy.”
“You’re jealous?” she asked, grabbing her bag from the dresser.
“Yeah, well, if he’s seen that picture of you half-naked from the crime scene, he won’t need to fantasize anymore. He’ll have a clear visual,” I said, stepping past her out of the room and heading down the stairs.
