Free No Virgin Island by C. Michele Dorsey Page B

how I would feel in your shoes, especially now that I’m a father. I’m behind you, I just wish I could ease your pain, make this easier for you,” he said.
    “I hope I didn’t ruin everything,” Deirdre said in a voice as small as a child’s.
    “Nope. Don’t even worry about that. I’ve got your back. I already left her a voicemail apologizing if we seemed insensitive when she told us. We were just tired and disappointed after a long trip.”
    Deirdre smiled. “You are brilliant, Professor Leonard. I think that will work just fine. Now if you could just figure out what we should do next.”
    “We move over to Villa Mascarpone as soon as it’s available and take it from there.” Sam kissed Deirdre’s forehead, which got a little less wrinkled with the brush of his lips. He was so good at soothing her.
    “Maybe there’s something we could do before that,” she said and rolled toward him.

Chapter Fourteen
    Sabrina awoke to the familiar sound of a predawn tropical shower. Most mornings, St. John washed its beautiful face with a short rainfall just before sunrise. It was enough to quench the thirsty cisterns that collected rain for the island water supply but not so much to dash the plans of tourists. The sound of the rain was soothing, the green smell of wet vegetation intoxicating. As much as she had loved the challenge of forecasting the ever-changing weather in New England, Sabrina found great comfort in the predictability of the weather on St. John.
    Girlfriend was planted next to her, lying against her butt, on top of the expensive multithread cotton sheets Henry had in his guest room. Sabrina was surprised by how well she had slept, collapsing into bed after a quick shower. She reminded herself about what Neil had said. There was no reason she shouldn’t sleep well. She had done nothing other than to find a dead body. This wasn’t Nantucket.
    Sleep had restored her strong sense of logic. Because she was short on guidance, Sabrina had spent her whole life relying on her ability to think things through. Reclining on the guest bed, which was more comfortable than hers at the cottage, she took inventory of the events from yesterday. First, Carter Johnson had been fatally shot sometime before 10:35 a.m. when she’d arrived to clean the villa. Second, Evan and Lyla had not been home, nor had Mara and the children. Third, Rory Eagan had come out of his home to complain to the police in the afternoon, but how long had he been at home? Where had he been that morning?
    No, this wasn’t Nantucket, Sabrina saw. Neil was right. She didn’t have to become a victim here. She had shot Ben, who was her husband. She had been arrested. Their personal relationship had provided the prosecutor with a motive. But she hadn’t shot Carter, didn’t really know him, and would make sure no one uncovered any information to the contrary.
    Sabrina found her backpack on the chair where she had plopped it the night before and took out a black jersey tank dress, fresh underwear, and black flip-flops. She always kept these essentials packed to change into for her trips to the ferry when she met and greeted guests. Even though St. John was very casual, Henry had reminded her she needed to look the tropical version of professional for their guests. She owned six dresses identical to this one for just that purpose. After being dressed by the chic shops onNewbury Street in Boston for television, Sabrina relished the simplicity of her wardrobe in St. John.
    Her stomach growled, reminding her she had eaten only a handful of onion rings and conch fritters the day before. She found her way to Henry’s sleek, stunning kitchen, which was done in black and white, as was every room in his condo.
    “No more ambiguity or ambivalence for this guy,” he’d told her. “I want to know where I stand. Black or white, no gray.” Poor guy was still scarred by a man who had each foot in a different world and had decided not to join