by Zoe Dawson
“It’s a freaking cesspool.”
“I’m not leaving here until I find the man responsible for the deaths of my family and stealing all of their treasures. I want everything restored to the rightful owners,” she said, her hands clasping into fists.
As if sensing exactly what she needed, right when she needed it the most, he patted his chest.
“Come here, sugar,” he murmured.
His low, coaxing voice drew her, and the tenderness in his gaze made her heart ache for things she’d denied herself for so long. But now, she didn’t want to refuse the simple luxury of being held, of feeling safe and secure in Scarecrow’s embrace and to know that she wasn’t alone as she’d been for years. By choice.
She stretched out by his side, and he gathered her close so that her head was resting on the solid warmth of his chest and their legs were entwined. She breathed in his scent and could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. So rhythmic. So comforting. So real.
Closing her eyes, she relaxed and let the burden of her painful memories drift away as his fingers threaded through her hair and massaged her scalp and his other hand stroked along her side and over her hip. Their embrace was intimate, but not sexual, and it was so nice just to be held, without expectations of anything more.
Content and strangely fulfilled with his arms around her, she relaxed for what seemed the first time in her life.
Oh, that so wasn’t good, she thought with a groan, and buried her face in his throat, wishing that the action could make her forget the fact that she’d given Scarecrow so much of herself—not only now, but last night. The tears that had showed him just how vulnerable she was beneath her normal I-don’t-give-a-damn-façade. And the trust she’d never given to any other man she’d ever met.
But worse than that, she feared she’d given him something she’d never be able to reclaim as her own—a huge piece of her heart. And that notion scared her more than anything she had ever faced, because it set her up for heartache, for loss and failure, and for the kind of pain she’d spent a lifetime making certain she’d never experience again.
“How about you come home with me and we can talk to my mom. I have an attic full of stuff, including photos. She might have some insight into the families in the area. She’s lived here longer than twenty years. I have to get up there anyway, clean it out. I can’t leave her here alone. She has to come back to San Diego with me.”
She felt bad for his mum, but the fact that she was losing her memory made it difficult for Scarecrow to do anything else. She took a breath, determined to make sure he knew everything, even this last ugly piece. “Before we go any further, I want you to know my intention for The Butcher when I find him.” Admitting this to Scarecrow hurt, especially after all the comfort he’d given her. But she was determined to follow through on what she had planned. She wasn’t going to let anyone stop her.
“What is that?”
“I am going to kill him.”
11
He rose to a sitting position on the chaise with her in his arms. “Are you serious?”
She faced him, her eyes bleak, her look stark, none of the seductive woman left, only the MI-6 operative.
“Yes.”
He got up and offered her his hand. He would be a freaking hypocrite if he told her not to do it. He took her hand in his and started for the kitchen, snagging their empty bowls and cups. He’d gone after Abram Golovkin to make sure Blue and Charlie weren’t going to have to look over their shoulders. How was Scarlett’s vendetta any different?
“What are you thinking?”
“That I can’t say anything about what you want to do. My hands aren’t clean of blood.” She got the French door open and they entered the cool house.
“None of it innocent, I bet.” She closed the door behind them as he headed to the kitchen.
“Some of it is, Scarlett. I’m not infallible. We work to make sure no non-combatants are injured or hurt, but things happen in the heat of battle.” He stopped in front of the sink and set the dishes down. He turned on the water while she opened the dishwasher.
“So, you’re saying you’re still going to help me find him?”
He set everything inside and she closed the door. “Yes. I’m going to help you. I know how many people he killed that night, including many women and children. This is your decision.”
She nodded, not at all fazed by his agreement to help her. This time she took his hand and they left the house by the front door. She closed and locked it before they walked down the wooden steps. Several trucks were already parked in front of the rows. Her workers had already started on the day’s orders.
They kicked up dust as they walked down the driveway toward his house.
He squeezed her hand. “We can dispose of the body in the bayou where there are plenty of crocs.”
She stopped walking and turned toward him. His heart slammed in his chest as she gripped his shoulders. Then she kissed him, not with the hot fire and passion of before, but slow and infinitely more cherishing. It was seeking, a soft probe, and Scarecrow moaned, gripping her waist. Her mouth was supple and slow-moving, drawing everything inside him like a ribbon pulling at his soul. She framed his face with her small, delicate hands, her attention only on the kiss, on telling him what she couldn’t say.
When she pulled away, he said softly, “Let’s not tell my mom any of this.”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, we won’t tell your mum. You are full of surprises.”
He winked. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
“You’ve decided then to sell the house?”
“I have to. It’s my responsibility to make sure she’s safe. I can’t leave her here with Hank. You’re right. She’s afraid of him.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, but I’m going to ask her once she’s settled down. She’s still upset about moving. Insists that she won’t go.”
They reached his front porch and he went up the stairs. Opening the screen door, they went inside.
“Arlo? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom.” He followed her voice into the kitchen.
“Oh, Scarlett, honey. I didn’t know you were with my son.” She gave him a censuring look. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. But I do need something.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve lived here for a long time. Do you know of a lone man who came here over twenty or so years ago?”
Her eyes widened. “Why do you need to know that?”
“I need to ask him some questions. I’m a history buff and I figure I could get some information about immigrants and why they came here.”
She waved her hand. “I can barely remember that far back. I came here before that, about five years or so.”
“You don’t remember? That’s too bad. The records were destroyed.”
“They were. That was a nasty fire, but at least no one was hurt.”
“There are some old photo albums and newspapers up in the attic,” he said. “We’re going to have a look.”
“Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes,” his mom snapped.
“What wool?”
“You know. You want to ship me off to San Diego. Assisted living. You’re going to clean out the attic and sell the house. I don’t want to go. I don’t want you up there messing around in my stuff.”
His voice gentled. He hated what this was doing to her, but it was necessary. If he said that enough, it might ease the pain. “Mom, we discussed this, and it’s the way it has to be.”
She looked at him, and her fear was suddenly very real. He put his arm around her and hugged her, his own voice quiet. “Listen, this is a big change. I know it, but you can handle just about anything thrown at you.” His mom was stubborn, but resilient. But her welfare had to come first. “It will be a bit rough, but you’re tough. It’ll be a new adventure, and you’ll make new friends.” Scarecrow hugged her again, then
grasped her shoulders and looked at her, trying to make her understand this was for her own good. “What’s important is that we’ll be together. I can visit you so much more.”
She blinked a couple of times, then said, a smile wreathing her face, “I’m so glad you’re here, Arlo. Your dad so wanted to see you. Where did he get off to?”
Alarmed, he looked at Scarlett.
“Oh, dear, would you like some lemonade? You might have to hightail it out of here when Mason comes home. You know how much you upset him.” She patted Scarlett’s arm. “Don’t let it bother you.”
“Ah, Mom, why don’t you take a rest? We can get some lemonade.”
“I am tired. A nap sounds like a good idea. Would you let your dad know we’re having chicken and dumplings tonight? It’s his favorite.”
He closed his eyes, knew in his gut he was doing the right thing, but it hurt to know that she would feel displaced, uprooted and lost in California.
He simply had no choice.
Scarlett was worried about Rosemary being so out of it. She couldn’t remember her husband was dead. Scarecrow motioned that he was going to take her upstairs, and she went out into the living room to wait.
Could she take what his mum said as the truth? Why would she lie?
Trust no one, use everyone.
She’d lived by that for a long time. Everyone was a potential asset; everyone could be used or bribed into helping her in her mission. Yet, this small town had posed a challenge. They were open and friendly but closemouthed about details. Of course, it would make sense they wouldn’t trust her. That’s why she grew chilis and had tried to make friends with the local growers, to blend, fit in and get answers.
This whole Scarlett cover was just part of the lure. The distraction. A pair of tits and ass for the good of her country. Now she could use it to her own advantage. Get the men to feel comfortable, important enough to want to talk.
But her tits and ass weren’t going to get her anywhere with his mum.
God, was she losing her mind thinking this sweet old lady was hiding something? What? She had a Navy SEAL for a son.
But damn, the way he’d been there for her did put to shame. He had such a charming, easy way about him.
Because Mason Porter always went into a tizzy when he saw her, she hadn’t had the opportunity to spend much time in Rosemary’s house. But now that she was involved with Scarecrow, she was infinitely interested in his family.
She walked over to a wall of pictures. There were a number of people in old frames, the pictures weathered and yellowed. Must be Scarecrow’s ancestors. Most of them were taken in front of the house. It was fascinating to see how the structure had grown and changed over the years. It looked like it had been expanded. The attic must be huge, running the length of the house. She was itching to get up there.
She moved on to another set of photos and stopped. There was something about the background that caught her eye, something that seemed familiar. But the people pulled her attention away. There was a woman standing next to a man, and she wasn’t thrilled about the position. She stood apart from him, her body language telling Scarlett that she loathed him. She held a baby in her arms.
The man’s features were blurry, but there was a cruelness around his eyes. His hands were big, as was his stocky, muscular body. This must be Scarecrow’s aunt and uncle, and the baby had to be Hank.
Scarecrow came halfway down the stairs and motioned her to him. He put his finger to his lips, whispering, “She’s sleeping.”
“Did you call the doctor?”
“Yeah, I made an appointment for this afternoon.”
It was clear he was worried about her, and Scarlett touched his forearm and squeezed. He gave her a wan smile. They came to a door, and Scarecrow opened it, revealing a set of stairs. The treads were clear of dust, but a couple dead moths lay beneath a light. Scarecrow reached up and pulled a chain, but the light illuminated only partway up; the rest of the stairs led up into shadows.
“There’s another light at the top. Give me a minute.”
He walked up, and after a few moments another light came on. Now that she could see, she started up. When she got to the top of the stairs, another light flickered on. She looked up to see exposed wooden beams with visible wiring, an exhaust fan and a grimy window below it. She raised her chin when she felt the cool breeze. For an attic, this was pretty darn tolerable with the sun rising to almost its apex.
She also noticed how neat and clean it was off to the left, while above her spiderwebs drifted off the beams and straddled an old coat stand. There were shelves of old boxes with contents written on the side, some old furniture coated with dust, a corner filled with old children’s toys and Christmas decorations.
Motes of dust danced in the air as she walked farther into the room. Scarecrow was to her right, rummaging in some boxes next to some old board games, some of them with mildew stains that lent a musty smell to the air.
She sneezed.
“Bless you,” Scarecrow said absently.
She walked over to the stacked furniture, her nose getting stuffy. There was a beautiful rolltop desk, and she noticed that the dust had been blown across the wood. She looked to her left, wondering what could have caused that when there was nothing but big old trunks stacked against the wall.
She lifted the roll top and there were yellowed newspapers. She picked up the top one, the date going back ten years.
“Your dad kept old newspapers?”
“Yeah, mostly when there was something going on like a hurricane or some happening in town.”
“You think there will be one on the fire?”
“Probably. It’s something he would have kept. See what you can find.”
She pulled an old rocker over and wiped it off with the edge of one of the drop cloths. Sitting down, she picked up a stack of papers and started to go through them. They weren’t organized by date, but just seemed to be randomly stacked together.
Turning each one over and looking at the date, she continued until she got to the one about the fire. “Here it is.”
“What does it say?”
“Bellise’s town hall goes up in flames. The town hall was burned down to ashes late last night. Before the fire could be managed by the fire department, it was fully engulfed. All records were lost, including all the building permits and blueprints filed with city hall, along with all immigration documents. No one was treated for injuries except one firefighter who suffered smoke inhalation. There are already talks about constructing a new hall. `Unfortunately, our records are gone. That is a great loss for the town,’ Mayor Roger Brannan said. `But we’ll get a new building up, and it will be business as usual.’ After the investigation, it was discovered that someone left a burning cigarette in one of the back offices that was currently vacant. It’s speculated that maybe it was one of the cleaning crew. No suspects have been identified or arrested.”
She looked up as Scarecrow came over with several photo albums.
“It was an accidental burning?” she asked.
“Yeah, sounds like it. Doesn’t sound deliberate.”
“What if it was? No one was ever caught, right?”
“No. They just moved on and built another hall.”
“What if The Butcher was responsible for the fire and came here to hide twenty-eight years ago?”
“It’s possible. He didn’t write the letter though, right?”
“No, it was typed, and it was written by someone else. Not signed. Why would someone bring me here, knowing that I was looking for a man wanted for war crimes if they weren’t going to give me more information?”
“It is strange. Here are some photos that go back to that time.”
She started to go through them as Scarecrow rose and picked up a toy truck. “I loved this thing. Drove it everywhere.”
She smiled. “You were pretty cute when you were a kid. Get your classmates to whitewash your fence?”
He chuckled and turned to
look at her over his shoulder, his handsome features amused.
“Maybe. Many hands make light work,” he said with a smirk.
She turned a page and stopped. Standing near the town hall was a man who looked a lot like his uncle. “Hey, isn’t this your uncle?” she asked.
He walked over and set the truck on the rolltop desk, pulling the album toward him. He looked closely at the picture. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Did he immigrate? Did your mom?”
“Yeah, they both did.”
“At the same time?”
“I’m not sure. I can ask her.”
When she took the album back and started to turn more pages, she found she had ended up in photos from his dad and mum’s wedding. “Look how pretty she looked. Her dress is stunning. A lot of beautiful lace.”
She studied the church and the faces there. She frowned. “Hey, where is your aunt and uncle. Where’s Hank?”
“He wasn’t born yet. He’s several years younger than I am.”
She turned the page and looked briefly at the next photo. It was of a little girl, her hand clasped in a woman’s as she moved across a town square. The little girl had on a pink coat. She immediately thought about Mr. Porter’s ramblings and the mention of a pink coat. This must be something from his past. She moved past the page.
“Where did your mum come from?”
“France, I think. I’m not really sure. She doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Looks like this might be a dead end. I appreciate you trying to help.”
“We’ll go at it from a different angle. Maybe Kat can help with immigration records for men between forty to forty-five who immigrated twenty-eight years ago from Kirikhanistan.”
“It’s worth a try, but he might have fled the country and hidden himself in another country, bought himself a new identity. There are many variables.”
“But at least you know where he ended up. That should help to narrow it down.”
“That’s true.”
“Why do you think he hasn’t liquidated any of that treasure?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, none of it has shown up at any sales, auctions, or pawns. Not one piece. It was like it disappeared off the face of the earth.”