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out to be untrustworthy, as she’d come to believe most men were. She’d been through enough men with her mother, seen what they were capable of, especially the handsome ones full of charm. Nope, she had already decided she’d eventually get a cat, but there would never be a man in the small house where she lived.
    Of course, that didn’t mean she would never have sex again. Like Jackson, if she did she’d just have to make it clear to her partner that she was a one-night stand—not a forever—kind of woman.
    She snapped her attention back to realize Jackson had left the kitchen. It was easy to follow the sound of his heavy footsteps down the hallway to the bedrooms.
    Focus on the job, she reprimanded herself, irritated that Jackson had somehow managed to throw her off her normal game, and she’d been working with him less than two hours this morning.
    It took them only minutes to check out the bedrooms and return to the living room. “There doesn’t appear to be anything here to tie into whatever happened at Cole’s house in Mystic Lake,” he said. “I think it’s time we go talk to John Merriweather.”
    “He lives less than two blocks away.” She checked her watch. It was a quarter after nine. Max would have already left for school and John would be waiting for them.
    Within minutes they pulled into the driveway of John Merriweather’s neat ranch house. Although John was a respected artist whose work was both expensive and in constant demand, he had remained in the house where he and Amberly had lived as a married couple over five years ago.
    “John and Amberly lived here together when they were married,” she explained to Jackson. “When they divorced, Amberly bought her house close by so that Max could stay near his father.”
    “Do they have a court-ordered child custody agreement?” Jackson asked.
    “Not that I know of. I think they just winged it and it worked for them.”
    “We’ll see if it was really working out that well, especially when a new man entered the picture,” Jackson replied as he got out of the car. “I’ll do the interview with him,” he said in a clipped tone she hadn’t heard before.
    She hurried after him, wondering when she’d lost control as lead investigator. She’d allow Jackson to have his moment now, but then she would remind him that this was her case, and he’d simply been invited in to help.
    John answered on the first knock. He was a handsome man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. At the moment he wore a pair of jeans, an old T-shirt and a simmering panic that shone bright from his eyes.
    Jackson took care of the introductions, and John sighed in relief. “Have you found them?” he asked as he allowed them entry into the house.
    “No, and that’s why we’re here. We’d like to ask you some questions.” Although the Southern accent remained, there was nothing of the lazy charmer in Jackson’s demeanor. His eyes were an ice-blue as they gazed at John.
    “Ask me questions about what?” John sank down to the sofa as if unable to stay on his feet beneath the intensity of Jackson’s gaze.
    Jackson remained standing, as did Marjorie, her gaze darting around the room with professional interest. Nice furniture, although the space had a lived-in look with a newspaper spread across the top of the coffee table and several matchbox cars on a highway built of paper on the floor.
    The walls were filled with Merriweather’s artistic genius, framed canvases of paintings in bright colors, including several of Amberly.
    “How did you feel when your ex-wife married Cole Caldwell?” Jackson asked.
    “I was happy for her...happy for them. All I ever wanted for Amberly was her happiness. What’s this all about? Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with whatever has happened to them.” John’s voice held a hint of outrage.
    “Were you worried that your son might start to think of Cole as his daddy, cutting you out of his life?” Jackson’s tone held