Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,1

known him for the monster he was?

Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she looked up. Despite the recent cleaning, dust motes floated on the air, scattered, slowly drifting toward her. For too many months, she’d been like them, scattered and drifting. She’d been weak, vulnerable. Fragile, the doctors had called her.

Her chest tightened, making each breath harder to take. She imagined the dust particles flowing in with the air, carrying the faint scent of Mark’s cologne into her lungs, and with a sudden shudder, she pivoted toward the French doors that opened from the family room onto the patio.

In all her years in the house, the backyard was the one place she’d felt truly comfortable. It had been her space, her choices, her retreat. The stone patio gave way to lush grass, to the shimmer of the pool and the gardens and beds that spread everywhere.

She could breathe out here.

The only request she’d made of Brent, who’d handled her affairs for the past eighteen months, had been that he hire Bo Larkin to take care of the garden, and he’d done it. Bless his heart, he would have done anything to help her get better.

She walked across the grass, satisfied to see that Bo had been as meticulous in her work as Macy was herself. How had Bo felt, though, caring for a garden that no one saw besides her and the lawn service guys? All that time and effort...

As she neared the corner of the house, a snuffle outside the privacy fence caught her attention. It was followed by rustling, grunting and slithering, and for an instant the hairs on her neck stood on end. Swallowing hard, Macy took the last few steps that blocked her view of the narrow side yard...and saw a big yellow dog happily trampling the daylilies that grew in the corner of the bed. A hollowed-out area under the gate explained the noise.

“Hey,” she said sharply, and he looked up at her, tongue lolling from his mouth, before laying his head on his paws.

“Scoo-ter!”

The shout came from the street, a man’s voice, and the dog’s ears pricked before he hunkered in a little more.

“You’ve run away, haven’t you?”

Big brown eyes watched her.

“Scoo-ter!”

The Lab managed to make himself a little flatter, closing his eyes, for a moment appearing as if he were asleep. Then he opened one to a slit to peek at her. She stopped her smile before it could form and moved past him to the gate.

“Scooter, dang it, you know you’ve got to take your medicine,” the voice muttered. “Do I have to chase you all over the neighborhood every time?”

Macy glanced at the dog, still pretending to sleep, then unlatched the gate. At least someone in the world was apparently having a normal day, even if it did mean chasing down his recalcitrant dog. She wondered if he knew how much to appreciate that. She would give up every dime of her fortune to learn what “normal” was supposed to be now.

When she tugged the heavy gate open, Scooter’s owner was nearing her driveway. He was tall, lanky, wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt and glasses, with his brown hair standing on end, as if he’d combed his fingers through it in frustration. A red leash was draped around his neck.

He was a stranger to her, luckily. She really would have hated for the first person she saw to be someone she knew, someone like her friend Sophy’s mother, Rae Marchand, who lived three houses down, or Louise Wetherby from the end of the block. Either woman could put any gaggle of teenage girls to shame with their gossiping skills. Rae was pretty harmless about it, but Louise liked to leave her victims bleeding from the sharpness of her tongue. Macy intended to avoid both women during her stay.

“Hey,” she called. “Would Scooter, by chance, be a yellow Lab with a fondness for making his bed in my daylilies?”

Switching directions, the man grimaced. “I’m sorry. He’s on meds right now, and he knows I give them at noon, so he’s started making his escape about ten minutes before.”

Automatically, Macy checked her watch. It was 12:05. “You think your dog can tell time?”

Her dry tone quirked one of his brows. “You think it’s coincidence he’s taken off at the same time every day for a week?” Without waiting for a response, he went on. “If he’s damaged the flowers, tell me where I can replace them or send me a bill