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on the manager’s desk. The blade of the steak knife pierced the paper brick from cover to cover. Black ink and ferocious cuts had erased the author’s name. Large capitals spelled the word liar across the front cover.
    Deb pointed at the title. “That’s—”
    “ The Storm Watcher . My second RS novel.”
    Deb gazed at Marcus. He stared at the massacred volume with a pensive frown.
    Behind them, more and more people cast curious glances through the open door.
    “I’d like to access my room, and assess the damages for myself,” Deb said.
    The manager made a face. “I fear this is not possible, Miss Stone. The police declared the room off limits. They barely agreed that we relocate your belongings into one of the golf’s guesthouses. That was the least we could do under the circumstances…”
    The man trailed off, obviously pleased with Deb’s awed stare. Marcus put one hand on her shoulder. “That’s unacceptable. We’ll take the penthouse suite.”
    Deb glared at him then smiled at the manager. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter, you’re very kind. I’ll take it.” The guesthouses were luxurious chalets scattered like an oasis on the golf grounds. They offered all the hotel commodities, plus a private terrace and small pool. Marcus detached her fingers from his wrist. “There’s basically no security there, Deb.”
    “A guard makes regular rounds, sir. The padlock is linked to our main system, and—”
    “No offense, Mr. Baxter,” Marcus growled, “But Sybil Reiner was murdered last night right under your nose, and today, both our rooms were destroyed.” Deb held his glare without batting a lash. “We can’t go there. It’s not safe.”
    “I haven’t invited you to share, if I recall.”
    The dark-gray stare attached to her face turned to hematite. The manager chose to ignore the danger and interfered. The fool.
    “Arizona Paradise Hotel is a high-class resort, Mr. Turner. We have very strict policies regarding our guests’ well-being.”
    “So we all saw.”
    The tempest grew into a full gale. “Since the police are here, I’ll discuss the matter with Sheriff Pooley myself. Deborah, would you mind advising Rachel that we are leaving?” He punctuated the declaration with a light kiss on her hand. Deb pulled away abruptly.
    “Yes, I do mind. I told you, I’m taking the cottage.”
    This time, Baxter took his cue. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll check with my clerk to see if we can fulfill your request for the penthouse, Mr. Turner.”
    The middle-aged man exited his own office like an indignant peacock.
    Deb sighed. “He’s going to take it out on the staff.”
    “If he does, he’s an even bigger imbecile than he struck me to be.”
    “You can’t accuse the man of defending his hotel’s reputation.”
    The dim gray stare gleamed like steel. “I wasn’t… Look, there are things I need to do before we leave. I want you to stay in the lobby or the jazz bar, and wait for me.”
    He unshouldered his bag. “Here. Use my computer to write your article or something.”
    Deb snapped her mouth shut, for only a second. “You’re unbelievable. Read my lips: I’m coming with you.”
    “I’m not in the mood, Deb. Don’t argue, and do as I say, for once.” His thumb caressed her knuckles, though his grip nearly crushed her fingers.
    “The hell I will.” She yanked her hand free. “I’m not your puppet, or your toy. You go on as you please, screw the rest of the world, and me. Do I ask something not to your liking? You ignore the question. Do I suggest something you don’t deem interesting? You just dismiss it. You’re… I can’t even find the proper word to describe your attitude. It’s … it’s so wrong ! You don’t always know best, Marcus.”
    He stayed obstinately mute. She wished he retorted something, fought back, instead of staring with that impossible steely gleam in his eyes, the only indication that her words were sinking in.
    In a single moment of clarity,