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picked up a piece of straw and twirled it in his fingers. She had no criminal record, not so much as a parking ticket. No complaints on file from parents or students or the school board, and no history of substance abuse. She had a small circle of friends, most of whom were teachers and most of whom were out of town for the summer, but she had no boyfriends.
    The field, as the saying went, was clear. And he had the ball. Play or pass? She turned a little and he caught her profile, the line of her nose, the fullness of her upper lip.
    Play.
    He twirled the straw in his fingers again, then let it fall to the floor. If she’d had a motive for killing Thomas Heyworth, neither the Port Henry PD nor the Seattle PD had been able to find it. While she couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect, she wasn’t exactly high on the list. In fact, in the weeks since Heyworth’s death, she’d apparently been hounding Detective McKennitt to hurry up and find the old guy’s killer.
    All in all, Evangeline Randall seemed to be exactly what she appeared to be: a nice young schoolteacher who had lov ed her mentor, had a thing for llamas, and seemed to scramble hi s brain whenever she was near.
    He gave himself a mental jab. As nice as she seemed, she absolutely wasn’t his type, so why did his skin feel too tight for his body, his throat constrict, and his palms itch whenever she was around? When he’d pulled her out of that cavern, she looked like a broken toy that had been tossed in the recycle bin, but today, well, she sure cleaned up good. Better than good.
    Crossing her arms over her stomach, she turned back to him.
    “That hole,” she said, giving a slight nod in the direction of the floor. “To hurt me?”
    Without taking his eyes from hers, he nodded. “It’s possible.”
    Her frown deepened and she turned away from him again, leaving Max to consider exactly what the point was of laying a trap for Evie.
    Thomas Heyworth, the rich and famous mystery writer, had been shot to death in his own library, most likely with his own gun. And now an attempt had been made to harm his ward.
    Was there a connection? And if so, what in the hell was it?
     
     
    E vie closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, trying to slow her hammering heart. Thomas was dead, and now somebody had set a tra p for her. To hurt her? To…
    No, not kill her. Surely not to kill her.
    She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. The thought of some body wanting to kill her was ludicrous. That couldn’t be it. Ther e had to be some rational expla nation. Maybe some kids had sneaked onto the island and thought it would be funny to put a hole in the barn floor. Or maybe they were just vandals. Or maybe … Or maybe what? What possible explanation could there be?
    Resting her forehead in her palm, she worked to control her fragile emotions.
    Between the heartbreak of Thomas’s death, the stress of his funeral, the frustration of a police in vestigation going nowhere, then the awkward visit to Barlow’s office, which culminated in the surprise of an impending contest for Thomas’s estate, the trauma of falling through a hole in the floor to near death and then coping with the injuries to her body … And then there was the confusion and asperity she felt over Max Galloway…
    Damn, was she going insane, or did it just feel that way? Insanity might not be such a bad idea. At least they’d lock her away in a safe place where she didn’t have to worry about anything except what color socks she preferred, and whether to use straw or bamboo strips in basket-weaving class.
    Letting her tired mind drift, she remembered back to when she’d first come to Heyworth Island.
    She’d been barely eleven, a little girl. Alone in the world with no family or friends, she’d needed a home and an outlet for her love. Thomas had provided both.
    Over time, she’d discovered what a complex man he was. Kind and generous, selfish and cruel. How he