Free Just Cause by Susan Page Davis

out there wants something you have.”
    She pounded her knee in frustration. “But I don’t have anything.”
    “Obviously there are people out there who think differently. The way I see it, these criminals felt it was important enough to kill your husband over. There’s either something that will implicate them, or something that will exonerate you. They don’t want either of those things to happen.”
    “But why now? If there were evidence like that, you’d think they’d have tried to find it before.”
    “No one searched your belongings in Maine?”
    “Well…” She was quiet for a long moment. “While I was in jail, Bob’s and my house was stripped.”
    “By thieves?”
    “You could say that. His parents emptied the house and sold it.”
    “How could they do that?” Dan asked.
    “They paid for the house. They said it was theirs.”
    “But your furniture?”
    “Sold. No explanation except that some of the things had belonged to Bob’s grandparents.”
    “That’s terrible. How did you come up with bail?”
    “My lawyer arranged it after the trial. He’s filed a civil suit to try to recoup the value of my belongings from the Hatchers, but it’s still hanging—probably until after the criminal trial.”
    Dan crinkled his forehead. “What about the rest of your personal things?”
    “They had my clothing and a few other things boxed up and put in storage while I was in jail. I got those, but that’s it. I think they even took a few of my paintings, but why they would do that if they hate me so much is beyond me.”
    “You mean, paintings you did yourself?” He remembered the art supplies he’d seen in her apartment after the first break-in.
    “Yes.”
    “Were they worth anything?” he inquired.
    She looked away with a tiny shrug. “I sold a few pieces for between three and five hundred dollars each, and I won a prize at the Waterville Arts Fest the summer before. But I wasn’t well-known, and now I’m less than nothing in the art world.”
    “Maybe not. Think about it. A painting by a convicted murderer might be worth something, especially if it’s good.”
    She shuddered. “That’s despicable.”
    “I’d like to see your art.”
    She said nothing.
    “What about your husband’s things? Clothes, books, sporting equipment?”
    “Gone.”
    He pressed on. “Photos?”
    “I have a few. Those and my paints.”
    Dan ruminated on that as he turned into the church parking lot. “Your computer.”
    “It’s new. I took a risk and bought it when I got here. But I almost ran out of money before I got my job because of it. So there wouldn’t be anything on the hard drive the killers would find useful.” The intruder probably knew that, Dan reasoned. Otherwise the computer would have been stolen.
    “The second trial is imminent, and there’s something the killers are afraid will come out this time. So they traced you, hoping to find whatever it is that could incriminate them,” Dan suggested.
    “I can’t believe I ever had anything like that without knowing it.”
    Dan parked the truck and sat still for a moment. “What other explanation is there?”
    Laurel’s brow furrowed. “Renee. What about her? She was definitely in my apartment. The message, the blouse…”
    “True.”
    “And Renee had nothing to do with Bob’s death. She was in jail on another charge when it happened.”
    “Renee is incidental. But however she found you, Bob’s killers took the same route. They both learned you were here, and they came after you for different reasons.”
    “You must be right. I’ve got two sets of enemies after me.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    The anxious frown between her eyebrows deepened. “Dan, I’m frightened.”
    He touched her cheek. She was telling him the truth. He could feel it. “I’m in this with you now, Laurel.”
    She bit her lip and nodded. “Thank you. I’d try to talk you out of it, but I don’t think I’d succeed.”
    “You’re right. I don’t know what