Read Online Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) by Colleen Connally - Free Book Online
Authors: Colleen Connally
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talking about and don’t care.”
“You don’t? You forget I know you too well,” Walter whispered in quiet fury. He turned to Kincaid, who edged toward him. Walter eyed him from head to toe with contempt. “What? Are you her bodyguard now?” he mocked with a forced laugh. “I can assure you she doesn’t need you. She’s a barracuda…she’ll eat you alive.”
“Enough!” Kincaid demanded. “Unless you have something specific to talk to Riley about in a civil tone, I suggest you leave.”
Riley wished Kincaid had remained silent. She could handle Walter. He attacked because it was what he did, giving little thought to anyone but himself. Completely narcissistic.
Fists clenched in frustration, Walter swallowed hard. “The package. You received a package from Helen. Where is it?”
For the first time, he had her attention. She asked, “How did you know?”
Slowly, she closed her mouth, thought better of it, and sealed her lips. Walter stared at her, eyes dark and emotionless, like a shark’s. He was baiting her. She reprimanded herself. She knew better than to take the bait.
Kincaid appeared surprised. His brilliant blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think the question is more why it is so important to you?”
Riley glanced over at Kincaid. She had almost forgotten he was a reporter this morning, but not now. The fact resonated within the room, along with the knowledge he had done his research on the family.
Totally unaware of the spectacle he was making of himself, Walter ignored Kincaid and continued to press Riley. “You received a parcel from Helen last week.”
A faint smile emerged on her face. “As a matter of fact, I did. What is it to you?”
“I want to see it. Now! The FBI found evidence that her fool son was trying to blackmail the family. Were you in on it?” His voice snarled. “Is that what you have resorted to?”
“You really should cut down on your caffeine, Walter,” she advised.
She walked briskly into her bedroom and came back with a large manila envelope. She dumped the contents out on the couch. Pictures littered the cushions. Pictures of when she was younger…with her father. The home of her youth. Beach days.
Walter snatched up the envelope and looked into it. He turned it upside down and lit into Riley, “Nothing else?”
Pointing to the return address, Helen Barlow, 1744 Old Oak Street, Roslindale, MA, she asked, “Is this what you wanted to know?”
Instead of answering, Walter shuttled through the pictures. Not finding what he was looking for, he threw them up in disgust.
In contrast to his edgy manner, she kept her voice deliberately calm. “You know, I find it awfully suspicious that it is you interrogating me and not the FBI, if what you say is true. It makes me think it is more the private investigators you hired who had questions.” She shook her head. “You’re too old for such games. All you had to do was ask.”
Walter’s eyes bored into hers. “I believe it would be better served to ask what your game is, Riley. Why did Helen send you these pictures? Have you been in contact? Did she send you anything else?”
“What’s with all these questions? We talked yesterday.”
“But you didn’t mention that Helen sent you an envelope. What did you expect me to think, especially with the police trying to figure out who murdered the poor woman?”
Sighing heavily, she made no attempt to hide her irritation; her patience was spent. “For God’s sakes! Mrs. Barlow called me a couple of weeks ago. Said she was going through some of her old boxes and found some pictures she thought I would like to have. They are of Daddy and me…there is even one of Momma.”
Realizing they were getting nowhere, she concluded, “If it makes you feel better, I will show the police what Mrs. Barlow sent me. But honestly, do you really believe she was killed over my old pictures?”
“No,” Walter acknowledged. “But I’m warning you, Riley. Don’t cross
“You don’t? You forget I know you too well,” Walter whispered in quiet fury. He turned to Kincaid, who edged toward him. Walter eyed him from head to toe with contempt. “What? Are you her bodyguard now?” he mocked with a forced laugh. “I can assure you she doesn’t need you. She’s a barracuda…she’ll eat you alive.”
“Enough!” Kincaid demanded. “Unless you have something specific to talk to Riley about in a civil tone, I suggest you leave.”
Riley wished Kincaid had remained silent. She could handle Walter. He attacked because it was what he did, giving little thought to anyone but himself. Completely narcissistic.
Fists clenched in frustration, Walter swallowed hard. “The package. You received a package from Helen. Where is it?”
For the first time, he had her attention. She asked, “How did you know?”
Slowly, she closed her mouth, thought better of it, and sealed her lips. Walter stared at her, eyes dark and emotionless, like a shark’s. He was baiting her. She reprimanded herself. She knew better than to take the bait.
Kincaid appeared surprised. His brilliant blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think the question is more why it is so important to you?”
Riley glanced over at Kincaid. She had almost forgotten he was a reporter this morning, but not now. The fact resonated within the room, along with the knowledge he had done his research on the family.
Totally unaware of the spectacle he was making of himself, Walter ignored Kincaid and continued to press Riley. “You received a parcel from Helen last week.”
A faint smile emerged on her face. “As a matter of fact, I did. What is it to you?”
“I want to see it. Now! The FBI found evidence that her fool son was trying to blackmail the family. Were you in on it?” His voice snarled. “Is that what you have resorted to?”
“You really should cut down on your caffeine, Walter,” she advised.
She walked briskly into her bedroom and came back with a large manila envelope. She dumped the contents out on the couch. Pictures littered the cushions. Pictures of when she was younger…with her father. The home of her youth. Beach days.
Walter snatched up the envelope and looked into it. He turned it upside down and lit into Riley, “Nothing else?”
Pointing to the return address, Helen Barlow, 1744 Old Oak Street, Roslindale, MA, she asked, “Is this what you wanted to know?”
Instead of answering, Walter shuttled through the pictures. Not finding what he was looking for, he threw them up in disgust.
In contrast to his edgy manner, she kept her voice deliberately calm. “You know, I find it awfully suspicious that it is you interrogating me and not the FBI, if what you say is true. It makes me think it is more the private investigators you hired who had questions.” She shook her head. “You’re too old for such games. All you had to do was ask.”
Walter’s eyes bored into hers. “I believe it would be better served to ask what your game is, Riley. Why did Helen send you these pictures? Have you been in contact? Did she send you anything else?”
“What’s with all these questions? We talked yesterday.”
“But you didn’t mention that Helen sent you an envelope. What did you expect me to think, especially with the police trying to figure out who murdered the poor woman?”
Sighing heavily, she made no attempt to hide her irritation; her patience was spent. “For God’s sakes! Mrs. Barlow called me a couple of weeks ago. Said she was going through some of her old boxes and found some pictures she thought I would like to have. They are of Daddy and me…there is even one of Momma.”
Realizing they were getting nowhere, she concluded, “If it makes you feel better, I will show the police what Mrs. Barlow sent me. But honestly, do you really believe she was killed over my old pictures?”
“No,” Walter acknowledged. “But I’m warning you, Riley. Don’t cross
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