"Sorry. I'd say he died violently."
"Yeah," she agreed. Deidre covered her mouth, more confused. Either Gabriel killed him here, or he killed Logan in her apartment.
"When did this happen?" Wynn asked. He opened the door, studying the interior.
"Saturday night," she replied.
"Not possible. It had to be several days ago."
"We got here Thursday afternoon," she said, confused.
"Did you see his body?"
She swallowed hard at the question, panic fluttering through her. At her silence, he straightened to look at her. She nodded.
"Yesterday, around three in the afternoon."
"Was it bloated, or did he look like he was taking a nap?"
"Bloated."
"He'd been dead for at least two days, then, long enough for rigor to set in and the body to start releasing gases," Wynn said. "Which would fit with this mess."
"That's not possible," she said. "Wynn, he was with me Friday and Saturday. I saw him yesterday."
Wynn studied her.
"We had sex Friday night! You can't tell me I didn't see him!" she cried.
"Are you sure it was him?"
No. She wasn't. She hadn't been. He'd been distant and moody, obsessed with security, and much better in bed than normal.
"I take that as a no." Wynn smiled. "Should we have that talk now?"
"No," she said with a groan. "I want to get my stuff and leave."
"Very well. I'll play along. But Deidre, when we get home, you're telling me what happened."
She gazed up at him. He was calm and patient as always, but she wasn't about to piss off her last friend on the planet. If anyone could handle the truth, Wynn could. She nodded at last. With a look at the car, she trailed him to the beach house. She had no idea what this meant. Gabriel knew the body was there; he had to. He'd been standing by it when she first saw him. But if he hadn't killed Logan that night, what was he doing hanging around a dead body? If he killed Logan, why come back to the beach at all?
Worse, who the hell had she slept with Friday night, if not Logan? Who was in her apartment?
They returned to the beach house. Wynn helped her carry her stuff to his vehicle. She didn't know what to do about her car, and he didn't ask. They rode back to Atlanta in silence, hers distraught, his pensive. He carried her things inside without hesitation, lugging everything to her new room. Deidre followed with a second load.
"Freshen up. We'll have dinner on the veranda," he said. "You have any aversion to pasta?"