Page 103 of Indigo Ridge (The Edens 1)

“Did you look through the wallet?” I asked.

“No, I, um . . . I was going to. Then I sort of forgot about it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “After the fire.”

“The purse is in good condition.” I pointed to the handbag. “It doesn’t look like it’s been outside long.”

“Probably hasn’t. Leather like that would be ruined in a spring rainstorm.”

Either he’d had it longer than he’d claimed. Or someone had put that purse on the mountain along with the wallet. Yes, both could be Lily’s. But even then, she’d died early last month. We’d had rain showers since her death. That purse and the wallet should be in worse condition if they’d been outside since June.

There was a chance they’d been sheltered from the worst of the elements, maybe shaded under a tree. Assuming the purse was Lily’s. Assuming she had taken the wrong trail. Assuming that she’d tossed the purse and wallet aside before going to the cliff.

Too many assumptions.

“Have you seen anyone hiking in that area lately?”

Briggs shook his head. “It’s private property. Only person who regularly goes there is me.”

“You’re sure?”

He locked his eyes with mine and understanding crept into his gaze.

If there was evidence of anything sinister, he’d be my primary suspect. He had the means. The opportunity. The only solid element missing—the key element—was motive.

Trespassing was weak but a possibility. Maybe he’d seen someone on his ranch and he’d gone into a rage.

It was thin.

I hated thin. It usually meant I was missing something.

The uneasy noise in my head was beginning to scream so loud I wanted to plug my ears.

What the fuck was going on? If Lily really had committed suicide, someone might have been with her that night. She’d had sex with someone.

Briggs?

That would explain why none of her friends had noticed a boyfriend. Maybe she’d been sneaking up to the mountains for an affair with a much older man.

Maybe . . .

There were too many maybes. But if he’d had her boots up there, it made sense why her feet hadn’t been shredded. She’d been wearing them until, what? He’d pushed her? He’d tossed her over the edge?

“Can you tell me where you were the night of June first?” I asked, hating the way his shoulders slumped.

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“As far as I remember.”

“Were you doing anything? Reading? Texting? Movies?”

He met my eyes and there was so

much embarrassment in his face that my heart twisted. “I don’t do much these days. I’m, uh . . . I’m sure I was home. But I don’t remember exactly what I was doing.”

“Fair enough.” I gave him a sad smile. “It’s hard to remember specifics that long ago.”

He dropped his gaze to his lap.