Free Dirty Secrets by Karen Rose Page B

old notebooks. “Can I see the book Darrell Roberts was working in before this one?” he asked, ignoring Ian’s question.
    Annoyed, Ian pulled out Darrell’s last finished notebook. “This is it.”
    “Put it on the table,” Harris directed, then put Darrell’s unfinished notebook beside it. He flipped through the older book, then opened the newer one.
    Tanya made a distressed sound. “That’s not Darrell’s notebook.”
    Harris raised a brow. “I know. But why did you say so?”
    Tanya bit her lip. “Darrell was halfway through his book. That one only has a few pages. And the handwriting’s sloppy. Darrell was never sloppy.”
    Harris looked at Christopher. “Our lab checked this book out. It’s Roberts’s handwriting, but it’s shaky. And all the pages were written at the same time, even though they’re dated days apart.”
    Christopher slowly examined both books. “And there are gaps in the dates themselves from book to book,” he said heavily. He hadn’t really believed Darrell had been murdered until this moment. “Whoever killed him, took his latest notebook with him, because it wasn’t here when I found him. Why? These are just soil samples.” His throat thickened as the enormity of the situation struck him hard. “It’s just dirt.”
    “Somebody didn’t want him testing their dirt, Professor,” Ian said quietly.
    “This isn’t possible,” Nate protested weakly. “It’s . . . too fantastic.”
    Christopher could not tear his eyes away from the fake notebook. It was Darrell’s handwriting, but Tanya was quite right. It was sloppy and that was something Darrell had never been. “Whatever was in that book is gone.”
    “No, it’s not,” Tanya whispered and all eyes were suddenly on her pale face.
    “What do you mean, Miss Meyer?” Harris asked sharply.
    She licked her lips nervously. “After Darrell lost all his samples in the break-in last month, he got hypercompulsive about losing his data. He started scanning his notebook pages every night before he went home.” She looked over to the computer in the corner. “The files are on the hard drive.”
    Christopher shook his head. “I don’t understand, Tanya. If he was so worried, why didn’t he say anything?”
    Tanya sighed. “He thought it was too fantastic himself and he didn’t want you to think he was losing it. He said he knew he had to be wrong.” Her lips trembled and she pursed them hard. “He said it was just dirt.”
    There was silence until Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll need access to the files that he scanned from his missing book,” Harris said and Christopher nodded, numbly.
    “Right away.”
    “I appreciate it.” Harris backed out the door, taking off his goggles. “And if you’re planning to work after hours, make sure you’re not alone.” He gave each of them a hard look before walking away.
    Christopher waited until he heard the outer door slam. “Make sure you burn a copy of those files for me as well,” he said tersely. “I’ll be in my office.”
    * * *
    Cincinnati, Sunday, February 28, 1:00 p.m.
    Emma put down the last page from Christopher’s envelope and carefully smoothed the worn page with a trembling hand. The envelope had been filled with letters. The yearbook letter and dozens of others. Some were love letters, but most were ordinary “here’s what happened to me today” kind of letters. All ended “All my love, Christopher.” All were letters he’d never sent, dating from their freshman year of high school until his sophomore year of college when they stopped. Abruptly.
    That would have been the year he met and married Mona.
    Dear Lord, she thought. All those years.
He was in love with me all that time.
    But on top of the stack had been a letter he’d penned last night after dropping her off at the hotel. She read it again, her cheeks on fire. It was by turns sweet . . . and hot. Filled with longing, both emotional and most definitely physical, Christopher