What We May Be: An MMF Romantic Mystery

by Layla Reyne

  Sean playfully batted down his hand, caught it, and held it between them. “No, you’re not, and I deserved them.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “I meant what I said to both of you.” The fingers around his tightened, and Trevor’s emotions warred again—stay mad or stay close. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  “And yet you always do.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Sure, Sean.” Fighting the good fight, staying strong for himself and Charlie, Trevor withdrew his hand and turned for the door. “I’ll ask around campus, discreetly, and get back to you.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” He was halfway to the door when Sean called after him. “Hey, Trevor, what could—”

  Trevor didn’t want to hear the end of that question. Didn’t want the dozen more it would plant inside his head. He blocked out the words and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Chapter Five

  Charlie turned into the station parking lot and almost dropped her thermos. Parked between a police cruiser and her uncle’s Jeep were Trevor’s monster truck and a sweet-ass Harley. Recalling Sean’s boots from yesterday and the roar of a bike cruising past the beach house last night, her mind raced and her hand trembled as she lowered the thermos and parked. No one in Hanover had a bike that nice. Vintage, mint condition, expensive. It had to have been Sean who’d driven by the house, taking a trip down memory lane. Unable to sleep after the day’s roller coaster, she’d done the same, finishing the leftover bottle of Ardbeg and drowning in mental snapshots of their night together.

  And now the bike was at the station. Sean was at the station. In the same place as Trevor. Fuck. She’d hoped the inevitable explosion between those two would’ve happened last night, after Trevor had left Annie’s house. Or maybe Trevor and Sean were at the station because the explosion had been that bad. Which one had been arrested? Both of them? Why hadn’t anyone called her? In any event, she didn’t relish tiptoeing through an emotional minefield as she tried to solve a case.

  Her apprehension grew with each step, increasing exponentially when she reached the main floor. A group was gathered in the large conference room on the other side of the bullpen. Sean and Trevor stood side by side, their backs to her, as the former pointed to something on the conference room table. Jaylen, Abel, and Diego stood on the other side of the table, similarly engrossed in whatever was laid out before them.

  Taking a deep breath to calm her tumbling stomach, Charlie crossed the bullpen floor, wrapped her hand around the conference room doorknob, and said a silent prayer. She pushed open the door, and five sets of eyes swung her way. Hers went straight to Trevor’s hazel ones. “What are you doing here?”

  Trevor opened his mouth to answer, but Sean beat him to it. “Trevor stopped by to see me last night.”

  Her gaze darted between them, noting Sean’s bruised jaw and Trevor’s swollen knuckles. They’d fought, yet now they stood side by side, relatively calm. She sensed an undercurrent of tension, but at least they weren’t still tearing each other apart. What had transpired to warrant a ceasefire?

  Before she could ask, Sean explained, “Trevor identified the quote from the crime scene.”

  “‘A plague upon you, murderers, traitors, all,’” she recited.

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Trevor said. “From King Lear.”

  Sean pushed the photo of Jefferson Marshall hanging from the barn rafters her direction. “Lear says it when he finds his daughter, Cordelia, hung in a barn.”

  She picked up the photo and studied it anew. There were some similarities, but from what she recalled, it was a young princess in the play versus an older professor in their crime scene. She needed more. “Why?” she asked Trevor.

  “Why Jeff, or why Cordelia?”

  “Either. Both.” She shrugged and tossed the photo on the table. “You both know I was a math major, not English lit. Someone enlighten me.” She walked to the rounded end of the conference table and braced her palms on the tabletop, tapping her nails on the wood. When no explanation was offered, she glanced at Sean, recognizing a detective’s morbid glint in his eyes. “You’ve obviously got a theory, so out with it.”

  He grinned wide, so much like that morning he’d proposed to her and Trevor, a secret he couldn’t wait to share, that Charlie slammed her eyes shut against the suddenly spinning room. She clutched the edge of the table and fought the two-fisted attack of vertigo and nausea.

  “Charlotte,” her uncle called, his shout muted by the blood whooshing in her ears. “Sugar,” he said a beat later, closer, his big hand on her arm.

  Warmth spread across her lower back from the other side, and the familiar scent of Old Spice wafted around her. The rushing noise faded, the nausea receded, and the world steadied. She opened her eyes to Trevor by her side, right where he always was whenever her life was thrown into chaos.

  “Hey there,” he said. “You okay?”

  She took a deep breath, released her death grip on the table, and straightened.

  He dipped his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Good to know you find Shakespeare so swoonworthy.”

  She smiled at his teasing words. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” He winked, then dropped a kiss on her temple, an extra shot of calm, before returning to his place beside Sean, who was stretched over the table, pointing something out to Diego and Jaylen.

  To her left, Abel remained close, his dark eyes full of concern. “All good?”

  “Good,” she assured him.

  Sean’s discerning gaze snapped to hers. He cocked his head, silently asking for the all-clear.

  “Talk to me about this theory of yours,” she said.

  As if sensing what had set her off before, he didn’t smile as he began again. “Two things. First”—he held up his index finger—“Trevor reminded me Cordelia was hung in a barn, falsely accused of treason.”

  “Treason? Professor Marshall?” Charlie scanned the crime scene photos again. “Guilty or falsely accused?”

  “We’re looking into it,” Jaylen answered.

  “Does make murder seem more likely than suicide,” Diego added, then glanced at Sean. “If it is murder, I don’t think he’s a victim of convenience.”

  Charlie’s gaze followed her detective’s. “You thought he might be?” she asked Sean.

  “It has to be considered,” he said. “The stables are owned by HU, close to campus, and Jeff was dressed for lecture.”

  “But?”

  “He was well connected, and his son, a fed, thought the least of him.”

  “Guilty, then?” Jaylen said. “Of treason of some sort?”

  “I’d stake my Harley on it.”

  “That bike is a thing of beauty,” Abel said. “But even I wouldn’t take that bet.”

  “You always were a smart gambler.” Charlie smirked, then began assigning tasks. “Dig deeper into Professor Marshall,” she ordered Diego and Jaylen. “The crime scene didn’t give us much, so let’s focus on the victim. Friends, enemies, debts, the full work-up. Psych too. While I agree murder seems more likely, we can’t rule out suicide yet.”

  “We’re on it,” Jaylen replied.

  She turned to Trevor. “Can you ask around campus?”

  “Already on it, and he”—Trevor jutted a thumb at Sean—“already gave me the ‘be discreet’ lecture. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “You said there were two things, Agent Hale,” Jaylen prompted.

  “Yeah.” Sean’s face took on a decidedly darker expression. “We should prepare for the possibility of more victims.”

  Charlie had worried about the same, another thing that had kept her up last night. “The number written next to the quote,” she said. “You think we could be dealing with a serial?”

  Sean nodded. “If it is in fact murder.”

  “Diego, Jaylen,” Charlie said, “double-time it on Professor Marshall’s background. Give Abel all the financial results.”

  Her uncle
was HPD’s best forensic investigator. His sister, Charlie’s mother, had been a high school math teacher. Charlie could have gone the same route had the station not called more loudly. Math genes ran in the family.

  “If you run into any roadblocks, let me know,” Sean told Abel. “Marsh can clear the way for you.”

  “Obliged,” Abel said, then followed Diego and Jaylen out.

  Charlie returned her attention to Trevor. “Will you make it to Annie’s in time for dinner tonight?”

  Growing up, their mother had insisted on Sunday family dinners. They’d carried on the tradition with barely any misses, save for the month following their dad’s and brother’s deaths. Now, though, they were back on schedule, with dinners moved to Annie’s since the beach house was packed up and Charlie was as terrible at cooking as she was at sports.

  “Might be late.” Trevor slid his hand across her back again, and while the gesture, the casually affectionate nature, was typical Trevor, same as he’d used to comfort her earlier, something about it now sent a tendril of heat unraveling in her belly and weaving along that connection between them. “But I’ll be there in time for dessert.” His hand lingered on her hip before stepping away. “Sean,” he said, clipped but not murderous, on his way out the door.

  “Trevor,” Sean returned, his voice so falsely polite, his frame strung so tight Charlie almost laughed out loud.

  Whatever détente they’d struck was a fragile one. Shaking her head, Charlie turned to the table and gathered the crime scene photos into the case file.

  “I talked to Marsh,” Sean said. “Nothing rang a bell for him as far as treason.”

  “He’d tell you the truth? He is the victim’s son.”

  “I’d know if he were lying.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d know,” he repeated curtly.

  He knew Agent Emmitt Marshall, all right—as more than just a colleague.

  “Fine,” she snapped, then immediately chastised herself. She had no claim on Sean, no right to feel jealous, even if she were still in a relationship with him. They’d talk and figure out how to make it work.

  Make it work.

  Same as she needed to do if she wanted to solve this case. She took a deep breath and reined herself in. “I’ll take your word for it, but I’d still like to go over a few things with him when he arrives.”

  “He’s happy to help.”

  Charlie pushed off the table. “Thank you.”

  Sean, however, made no move to leave. “What time’s your interview with Agent Conder tomorrow?”

  “Ten, at the office in Wilmington.”

  “Congrats on that. Mitch and Cal would have been proud.”

  “Thanks,” she said around the lump in her throat, then repeated the rationalization she was still struggling to accept. “I’d be glad for the opportunity to spare others the pain we had to go through.”

  “It’s good work.” He angled his face away, and if Charlie wasn’t mistaken, he was fighting back emotion as well. He cleared his throat and was all business when he spoke again. “Watch out for Conder. I spoke with him yesterday, and he’s impressed, but he’s so far up the Bureau rulebook’s ass, I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten stuck there.”

  “Not your favorite person?”

  “I was glad to be an ocean away from him.” Sean returned her teasing smile. “Pretty sure if he’d seen more of me, I’d be near the top of his shit list.”

  “Won’t be listing you as a reference, then.”

  He smiled wider. “Probably a good idea.”

  She turned abruptly to the door, needing to get far away from his tempting smile and fast.

  “I’m sorry.” He caught her wrist in a gentle hold. “Just then I said or did something to upset you. And earlier too.”

  She waved him off and avoided his gaze. “It’s nothing.”

  “Charlie.” Sean tightened his fingers around her wrist until she looked him in the eye. “I meant what I told you and Trevor yesterday. I don’t want to interfere with your plans to move on. I mean to keep that promise. I’m only here for a few days to help Marsh with his dad’s case and estate. He needs that closure. I’ll assist HPD as little or as much as you need. It’s your call.” He released her hand and headed for the door. “Abel has my number.”

  She watched him leave, her mind racing again. How was she supposed to respond to that? Tell him the truth? That his mere presence in Hanover was an epic interference. That she and Trevor still needed him—then, now, always—if they were ever going to be as happy as they’d once been. That she was scared to death to make that kind of bet on him again.

  Chapter Six

  Sean made another circle around the dining table covered in crime scene photos, and when no great insights revealed themselves to him, he walked right on past to the bottle of Ardbeg on the coffee table.

  He was an assistant legal attaché for fuck’s sake, not a profiler. He’d been assigned to one serial case his entire time abroad as a legat, and his responsibility on that case had been to broker information sharing between agencies. Serial Killers 101 had been a long time ago in Academy, and most of what he remembered from that class was the fuck-hot professor. And all that conjecture assumed this was a serial case at all. Yes, he’d raised the possibility at the station today, but that may have been premature. There was only one victim so far and a cryptic numbered clue. At this point, based on statistics, it was still as likely a suicide as a murder and an even slimmer chance it was a serial.

  Why had Marsh thought he could help? Yes, he could assist with the estate matters—he’d handled enough of that himself lately—and he could be a friend, which was the least Marsh deserved, but the case itself… Marsh could probably hack more clues than Sean could find. Another mystery, why had Sean practically leapt at the chance to intercede? Especially knowing one, this wasn’t his area of expertise, and two, the pain and heartache it would stir up.

  No mystery, not really. He couldn’t resist seeing Charlie and Trevor again, despite all his better instincts, despite his promise to Trevor, despite the fact he was due to turn in his badge next month, despite the fact he was expected at Paxton Industries after that, and despite the fact he’d made a different promise to a dead man a decade ago. If it had been a bad time to bring attention to the Henby family then, it was an even worse one now, and yet, here he was. Again. But he had convinced himself he needed to know Trevor and Charlie were happy in order to move on. Selfish Bastard 101. He could teach that course.

  Scotch in hand, he opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the small cement patio. He dragged one of the plastic chairs to the edge, dropped into it, and dug his toes into the sand. It wasn’t home—home was five miles down the road with a For Sale sign still in the yard—but the sand between his toes and the salty sea breeze reminded him of the comfortable years he’d spent here, the most comfortable he’d spent anywhere.

  He lifted a hand to the charms on the necklaces around his neck—both of them—and let the memories crash into him like waves on the shore.

  Falling into Charlie, literally, his first day on campus as he barged into his, Trevor’s, and Cal’s dorm room carrying an unwieldy stack of boxes.

  Being hauled up and off the stunning girl in jean shorts, a tank top, and an oversized baseball jersey by an equally stunning boy, his skin tan, his hair long, and his hazel eyes sparkling with interest. The owner of the jersey.

  Stripping Trevor out of that jersey after a game one early spring night when Cal had been off campus and the tension between him and Trevor had finally boiled over.

  Admitting to Trevor later that spring that he was attracted to Charlie too, and for the first time in his life, someone fucking getting it. Not judging him for it.

  Watching the friendship between Trevor and Charlie bloom into something more over that summer. Being there for their first kiss that began with a tentative brush of the lips and exploded into a moment of such hunger and relief that Sean considered hims
elf the luckiest man alive to witness it.

  Lying sweaty, panting, and tangled in the bedsheets with them after they’d made love, then… and a mere month ago.

  He took another swig of the scotch, the alcohol nowhere near as searing as the memories. And nowhere near enough to numb the burn.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he was grateful for the distraction, until he saw the name onscreen. He owed her a call. It was Sunday night, and the number of Sunday night calls were ticking down, but fuck, the last thing he wanted to do was think about what was next, about what had drawn him away from Hanover in the first place. The ringing stopped, then started right back up. Not a good sign, and not a call he could risk putting off.

  He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey, Aunt Marie.”

  She wasn’t really—both of his parents had been only children—but Marie and Saul Paxton had been their best friends, and when Sean’s parents had died in a plane crash, Saul and Marie hadn’t hesitated to take in their ten-year-old son, even though they were forty-two and had never planned on having kids. And even though Saul had just started his own company. A company that had thrived beyond their wildest dreams. Dreams that took a nightmarish turn when strapping and seemingly healthy Saul was diagnosed with cancer at fifty-five. He’d beaten it twice, prolonging Sean’s stint with the feds, but this latest bout had been too much for his worn-out body to beat. “How is he?”

  Marie sniffled. “The doctors say any day now.”

  “Do you need me to—”

  “No, dear,” she said. “You saw him last week, thankfully. He’s so pumped full of drugs now, he’s no longer lucid.”

  “Better than the pain.” The cancer had gotten into his bones, and despite Saul’s effort to hide it, Sean had seen the grimace every time his adoptive father moved. Just squeezing Sean’s hand had made him nauseous and dizzy.

  “Stay and finish your work,” Marie said. “I’ll need you more after.”

  “If that changes—”

  “I’ll let you know. You should get to enjoy the last few weeks of the job you love before you have to give it up.”