Free Where Angels Rest by Kate Brady Page A

bull, but continued to work on Justin’s case on the side.
    Nick switched to the file Valeria had tagged for him. It was from the Florida Attorney General’s office: a citation of a court-ordered stay of execution and a request for Nick to confirm the identity of one Jack Calloway.
    He tipped his chair onto two legs, closing his eyes on an ache that swelled in his brain. Jack was a town leader,a prominent businessman, and a loyal churchgoer. His work to renovate the rundown Hilltop property into an historic bed-and-breakfast had been a boon to the area, and between the inn and his wife’s artwork, Hopewell had become somewhat of a tourist trap. Margaret Calloway was a little bit famous. She taught art classes, hosted sculpting
Elderhostels
, and mined her own clay right here at Weaver’s. Nick knew she’d been featured in at least one trade magazine and had a handful of pieces in museums. With the help of her nephew, Rodney—whom she and Jack had raised from childhood—and a couple of employees, they kept Hilltop House in peak condition. And if Jack and Margaret had come to Hopewell to escape something from the past, well, Nick could hardly blame them.
    He’d done it, too.
    Until now. Now, there was some media-hungry rabble-rouser from Miami handing Nick the very things he’d gone two thousand miles to avoid. Murder, drugs, illicit affairs, rumors. Christ, he didn’t want Hopewell to face that kind of shit, but by now the whole town had probably heard the accusations against Jack. The local media were probably having a field day.
    His hands fisted and he looked at Erin Sims. No one knew better than Nick what destructive sensationalism could do to a man. No one had worked harder than he to create a refuge from that sort of destruction.
    And no one—no matter how pretty and sad-eyed—was gonna come into his haven and fuck it up.

CHAPTER
9
    W HAT A FUCK-UP .
    The Angelmaker slid into the front entrance of Hilltop House, inched the door shut, and held still for the space of several seconds. Listened.
    The inn was asleep. No one to notice the truck missing, no one to question being out so late.
    Except the angels.
They keep watch. They see the truth.
    Fucking angels. Always watching. Well, not anymore. Not all of them, anyway. The first seven had been neutralized. They were harmless now—deaf, dumb, and blind. After twelve years, only three angels remained. Rebecca, the eighth, was next. Soon she’d join the others.
    But she was being difficult. Bitch.
    Tonight’s failure rolled in on a wave of anger. Rebecca had been inches from pulling up to the truck, seconds from falling into the trap meant for her in the first place. Then, for no reason at all, she’d slammed on her brakes, wheeled around, and rushed off into the distance at about seventy miles an hour.
    She
saw
.
    The Angelmaker took a deep breath, nerves dancing. Rebecca couldn’t become like the last one—Shelly Quinn. Shelly had proved herself as an angel and then disappeared. Kept watching, watching until it wasn’t possible to
breathe
without feeling her eyes. The months waiting to kill her had been a nightmare, and when she was finally dead, the weight of the universe had lifted.
    No way would the Angelmaker let Rebecca’s destruction drag out like that. She had to die, before she became dangerous.
    Still, there was no room for panic. Panic caused mistakes; just ask Justin Sims—or his sister. For a moment, not for the first time, the Angelmaker wondered if Erin Sims would emerge as an angel. She was brazen enough, but in all these years, she’d never seen the truth. There was no reason to think she would now.
    Unless Nick Mann climbed onto her bandwagon.
    The Angelmaker drew a breath, thinking about that. Nick was more blind than anyone. Blind and pigheaded and so protective of his good citizens in his good town that he’d never believe anything damning about the Calloway family. Nick wouldn’t be an issue, unless Erin Sims worked her way under