CROSS HER HEART

by Leigh, Melinda

  “The diner?” he suggested.

  “Too public.”

  “Are you OK to drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then follow me.” Matt turned and opened the rear door of his Suburban. Brody jumped into the vehicle. Then Matt slid behind the wheel. His house was ten minutes from the station. He drove with one eye on the rearview mirror, making sure her Honda stayed behind him.

  He lived in a restored farmhouse on twenty-five acres. He pulled into his driveway and parked. Behind his house, barking sounded from the kennels. Matt and Brody climbed out of the SUV and walked to the front door. Bree parked next to his vehicle and followed. She kept her distance. Inside the house, Matt led her back to the kitchen and sent Brody to his crate.

  Brody trotted across the tile and disappeared into the bedroom.

  “You don’t have to cage your dog,” she said.

  “It’s fine. Brody doesn’t mind his crate. It’s his den, not a punishment.” Though Matt hadn’t used it often since the dog retired, but he sensed the dog made her nervous.

  She walked a circle around his kitchen.

  Matt started a pot of coffee. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’m not hungry, but I’d appreciate some coffee.” She stripped off her wool coat and hung it on the back of a chair, along with a slim purse. Standing at the french doors that overlooked the backyard, with its kennel and dog runs, she rubbed her arms. “How many dogs do you have?”

  “There are six in the kennel, but only Brody belongs to me.” Matt came to stand beside her. “When I built the kennels, my goal was to train K-9s. Before I could get the business going, my sister filled the kennel. She runs a dog rescue organization.” He handed her a mug.

  She wrapped both hands around it. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t like dogs?” he asked, glancing sideways.

  Her brows drew together.

  “I was bitten as a child.” She clamped her mouth shut as if embarrassed by the admission, but he could tell there was more to the story. She stared down at her coffee. “The deputy said you found my sister.”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded, a short choke sounding deep in her throat. She swallowed. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “I was supposed to drive Justin to his NA meeting. He didn’t answer the door, so I went in. I found her on the bedroom floor.” Matt didn’t give details. She’d ask when she was ready to hear them.

  She shuddered and closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, she’d composed herself. “But Justin wasn’t there?”

  “No,” Matt said. Did she think he’d helped Justin get away?

  “Why was Erin at his house? And where is Justin?”

  “I don’t know.” Matt pictured the scene.

  Bree’s eyes narrowed. “That makes no sense.”

  He shrugged.

  She was quiet for a few minutes. “You’re no longer with the sheriff’s department?”

  “No. Brody and I were shot three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “What do you do now?”

  “It was friendly fire, so there was a settlement. We won’t starve.” Matt flexed his hand. The pink scar in the center of his palm stretched as he opened his fist. He’d taken a bullet in the back too. Ironically, that one hadn’t hit anything vital. The nerve damage in his hand was permanent. “I can’t shoot with my right at all. Unfortunately, it’s my dominant hand. No more law enforcement for me.”

  Overshare.

  He cleared his throat. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  She shook her head. “I called the ME’s office. They’ll call me when I can see Erin.” Her voice faltered. She looked away, her eyes troubled.

  “Let me go with you,” he offered. “No one should have to do that alone.”

  She glanced up at him. For a minute, he thought she was going to turn him down.

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” She took a long, shaky breath. “I haven’t seen the kids yet. I don’t know what to say to them.”

  “All you can do is be there,” he said.

  “On that note, I should go.” She turned and set her mug on the kitchen island. Pivoting to face him again, she said, “What’s going on with the sheriff’s department and this chief deputy?”

  “They haven’t had a sheriff for some time. The previous one was corrupt and committed suicide. Since then, the department has lost half its deputies.”

  “Chief Deputy Harvey didn’t run for office?”

  “No,” Matt said. “He doesn’t want the job. So far, neither does anyone else. The whole department needs to be rebuilt.”

  “Do you have any faith in his ability to solve my sister’s murder?”

  Matt was honest. “I don’t know. I think he’ll try, but he doesn’t have much investigative experience.”

  She met his eyes. “Do you think Justin did it?”

  “No,” Matt said with no hesitation. “He isn’t the violent or abusive type.”

  “Addicts can be unpredictable.”

  “Justin took all the responsibility for their separation. He was determined to stay sober and win Erin back.” Matt paused. “He still loved her.”

  “The evidence against him is strong.”

  “I know.”

  Bree pressed a knuckle to her mouth for a moment. Lowering her hand, she straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to find the truth, with or without the chief deputy.”

  “I want to find Justin. I don’t think he killed Erin.” Matt could think of no scenario in which Justin would harm his wife—or anyone else. Justin’s nature was not violent.

  “The significant other is always the primary suspect. Statistically, there’s a good chance he’s guilty,” she challenged. “My father killed my mother.”

  “I know,” Matt agreed. “But Justin isn’t your father, and Erin wasn’t your mother.”

  “You’re right.” She lifted her coat from the back of the kitchen chair. “But the facts remain the same, and Justin looks damned guilty.”

  He blocked her path to the door.

  Irritation crossed her face and one eyebrow arched.

  “Do you want him to be guilty?” he asked.

  She exhaled and met his gaze. The thing he’d liked best about her was her no-bullshit attitude. She did not play games.

  “No,” she said. “The kids already lost their mom. Knowing their stepdad killed her would make matters even worse for them.”

  He’d expected her to be honest and direct, but her answer surprised him. “I’m not sure the chief deputy will look for other suspects.”

  “He won’t find what he isn’t looking for,” Bree finished.

  “I think we should work together.” He held up a hand. “Let me explain. You would put Justin at the top of your suspect list. I’d put him at the bottom. We both want to solve your sister’s murder. You know your sister and your family. I’ve known Justin since grade school, and I have the local connections.”

  Plus, he had absolutely no doubt Bree would be working the case, and he didn’t like the idea of her chasing a killer alone. She could be the best homicide detective in the world, but she needed someone to watch her back. As did Matt. She was also smart and, he suspected, very good at her job.

  She squinted at him. “You want to find Justin before the sheriff’s department does. Are you afraid they’ll shoot him?”

  They shot me, so yeah.

  But he chose his words carefully. “I want to know the truth.”

  Her lips pursed. “So, our goal is the same, but our motivations conflict.”

  “Yes. We balance each other, and our chances of success are better if we put our heads together.”

  She snorted. “That makes sense in a weird way.”

  “So, you’ll work with me?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Fair enough,” Matt said. “Take my number.”

  Bree pulled he
r phone from her pocket and entered the numbers as Matt gave them to her. A second later, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the screen. She’d sent him a text.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to go to the ME’s office,” he said.

  Her eyes misted. “I will.”

  Their eyes met for a few seconds. Was she thinking that the ME was probably conducting an autopsy on her sister at that moment? As a detective, she knew what all that procedure entailed.

  Her chin came up, and she blinked to clear her eyes of any unshed tears. No. Matt knew she wouldn’t allow herself to wallow in the negative. She’d focus on finding who had killed her sister.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bree didn’t remember the drive to her brother’s place. Her mind was on her discussion with Matt. But suddenly her Honda was bouncing down the dirt road that led to the converted barn Adam had lived in ever since he’d barely graduated high school. He was one of the smartest people she knew, but his intelligence wasn’t conventional, and he’d despised school. His graduation was one of the rare life events that had pulled Bree back to Grey’s Hollow.

  The barn sat in the middle of a large, snow-covered meadow. Adam’s ancient Ford Bronco was parked out front. The lane had not been plowed, and Bree crossed her fingers that her car wouldn’t get stuck. She made it to the end, parked, and climbed out into the cold. There were no trees to break the wind, and it whipped snow dust across the emptiness. For a couple of seconds, she turned her face into a freezing gust, wishing it would numb her emotions as well as her skin.

  What would she say to them? How were the kids handling their grief? How could she support them when she couldn’t even handle her own emotions?

  The front door opened, and a tall, gangly figure stood in the doorway. At first, Bree thought it was her brother. But he stepped outside, and the light fell on his face. It was her fifteen-year-old nephew, Luke, who appeared to have grown several inches since she’d seen him in August. He suddenly looked more like a man than a boy.

  His body might be maturing, but his eyes were all lost-child. Bree walked toward him without thinking. Her arms went around him. His body shook as she held him.

  “Who is it?” a small voice asked.

  Luke was taller than Bree now, and she had to move her head to see her niece. Kayla’s eyes were red and swollen, her face pale and blotchy. Bree opened one arm to include her in the embrace. The three of them stood in the doorway, with Bree blocking the wind.

  When she pulled away, her face was wet. She wiped her cheeks and scanned the kids. Physically, they seemed fine. The damage was only visible in their eyes. But she recognized the look as a reflection of her own pain, a sorrow that would never heal.

  “Where’s Uncle Adam?” Bree asked.

  Luke jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “His studio.”

  Bree herded the kids inside. Snow had blown across the threshold. She kicked it outside with her foot and closed the door. The interior of Adam’s place was one big room. A king-size bed stood in one corner, with a kitchen, sofa, and TV on the opposite side of the space. A partial wall separated his studio from his living quarters.

  Pizza boxes, clothes, and art supplies littered every surface. Bree rated the disaster as a Category 4, which meant Adam was in the final stages of a painting. In the next day or two, the debris would spread to the floor. When he was finished, he’d do nothing but eat and sleep for a week before shoveling out the chaos and beginning all over again.

  Dropping her coat on the back of the sofa, she walked to the studio and peered around the partition. Light poured from a picture window onto a huge canvas. Adam squinted at it. He was twenty-eight, but his face was lean and unlined. He could pass for a college student—until you looked into his eyes. Those were old-soul.

  He wore ripped jeans and a paint-splattered sweatshirt from the University of Pennsylvania, Bree’s alma mater. His hair was shoulder-length and streaked with gray paint. His brush was loaded with gray as well, and he applied it in broad, possessed strokes to a canvas the size of a classroom chalkboard. Bree studied the painting. It was abstract, but she could see the transition. Bold blues and angry reds swirled violently in the background. But the top layer had gone gray. It was fury and sadness, layered in pain. Without asking, she knew the gray had taken over during the night, after he’d learned of Erin’s death. Not that the underlying layers were anything approaching happy. His paintings never were. To Bree they’d always seemed as if terrible emotions were exploding on his canvases. Was this how Adam purged his demons?

  He’d been an infant when their parents had died. He couldn’t possibly remember. Right?

  But holy hell, darkness was a part of him so heavy she sometimes wondered how he shouldered the weight.

  If she were naming this particular painting, she’d call it Every Shade of Sorrow.

  “That sweatshirt is older than Luke,” she said.

  Adam didn’t respond for a few seconds, then he turned his face toward her. His eyes echoed the emotions in the painting. For the Taggerts, tragedy was a family trait, carrying through the generations along with their brown hair and hazel eyes.

  “Bree.” He crossed the ten feet between them and hugged her hard. Releasing her, he held her at arm’s length and frowned. “I got paint on your clothes.”

  Bree looked down. Gray splotched her sweater, as if his mood were transferrable. “I don’t care.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. The kids had settled on the couch, where she assumed they had been before she’d arrived. Kayla was watching TV. Luke huddled over his phone.

  Bree turned back to Adam. Red Bull cans lined the windowsill. “Have the kids eaten?”

  Adam blinked and turned to the window for a few seconds, as if just realizing it was midmorning. “We had breakfast.” He ran a hand over his scalp, then pushed his hair out of his eyes. “If you’re hungry, there’s leftover pizza in the fridge.”

  His gaze—and his attention—had already returned to his painting.

  Bree rubbed his arm. He looked thin, but then he always lost weight when he was working. “You need to eat too.”

  “OK,” he said absently.

  She doubted he’d remembered what she’d said. He was in eat and sleep only when unavoidable mode. Leaving the studio, she went to the kitchen. More Red Bull cans cluttered the counter next to three empty pizza boxes and a box of Cheerios. The milk was sour, but miracle of miracles, she found eggs and cheese that hadn’t expired. She scrambled them and took a plate to Adam. He set it on the windowsill, promising to eat. Bree grabbed a trash bag and cleaned the counter, then set plates on the breakfast bar for the kids.

  What should she say to them?

  Kayla picked at her food in silence. Luke shoveled the entire plateful down in less than two minutes. He washed it down with water and set the glass down. “When can we go home?”

  “Hopefully, later today.” Bree reached out and took one of Luke’s hands and one of Kayla’s. “I don’t know what to do, but I want you to know I’m here for you.”

  Kayla began to cry. Bree rounded the breakfast bar and hugged her.

  “I want Mom,” Kayla sobbed.

  “I know.” Bree pressed her head to the child’s.

  The girl lifted her tear-streaked face. “Why did this happen?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” Bree said.

  “Last night, the deputies said Justin did it.” Luke’s words were tight.

  “They told you that?” Bree asked, angry.

  Luke shook his head. “No, but I heard them talking.”

  “No one knows what happened yet,” Bree said. But Matt had been right about the deputies and their preconceived theories.

  “But Mom was at his house, and he’s gone.” A muscle in Luke’s face twitched, as if he was working hard to maintain control.

  “What else did they say?” Bree asked.

  “That’s all.” Luke shrugged. “But I want to know more.”

&nb
sp; And Bree wanted a few choice words with the deputies who’d talked about the case within earshot of the victim’s kids.

  “Justin is missing,” Bree clarified as much as a reminder to herself as to inform the kids. “Until he’s found, we don’t know what happened.”

  Emotions churned in Luke’s face. “But you’ll tell me the truth?”

  “I will,” Bree promised. Luke was almost an adult. She would not treat him like a child.

  She considered Justin and the odds that he’d killed Erin. Bree’s own father had been a chameleon, friendly and amicable when outsiders were present, a bully with his family. Maybe Justin had the same ability to put up a pleasant facade. If so, the kids should have seen both sides of him. She doubted he could have hidden his true nature from the people who lived with him for four years.

  “Did you like living with Justin?” Bree asked.

  Kayla nodded.

  Luke shrugged. “He’s OK.”

  “I didn’t want him to leave,” Kayla sniffed. “He was nice to me. I miss him.”

  Bree remembered Justin as a seemingly even-tempered man. Erin hadn’t wanted to make him move out, but she hadn’t felt as if she’d had a choice. “Did you ever see him be mean to your mom?”

  “Nope,” Luke said.

  “Did they fight?” Bree asked.

  “Sometimes.” Luke toyed with his fork. “But it was usually Mom yelling at Justin, and him saying he was sorry. He felt bad about the drugs. He wanted to stop. He just couldn’t.”

  “Addiction changes a person,” Bree said.

  Luke didn’t respond for a few seconds. “Justin was kind of a pain, always wanting to do stuff with me. But he was never nasty to me or anything.”

  Erin had said Justin tried too hard, and Luke had resented the pressure. Luke blew his hair out of his eyes, and Bree saw conflict in them. The teen had given Justin a hard time, and now he regretted it.

  “Neither one of you were ever scared of him when he lived with you?” Bree asked.

  Both kids shook their heads.

  Kids had good instincts. As a child, she’d been terrified of her father. Maybe Matt was right about Justin too. Maybe he was innocent, and Bree couldn’t separate her own past from the present. She might be as prejudiced as the chief deputy.