The Forgotten Widow

by Layne, Kennedy

  “Kenna, I really wish you hadn’t discussed the case like that.”

  Dean had followed her to the kitchen, a pensive frown still written across his features. It was clear that he didn’t want her even speaking to Bright, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. He was her client. She wouldn’t ostracize him without convincing evidence, though that didn’t mean she wouldn’t take meaningful precautions.

  “We have reason to believe that Brighton should be looked into based on the timeframe alone,” Dean finally shared, though he seemed reluctant to do so. “We can’t ignore the fact that he came back to town right before the killings began. I realize that he’s your client, but I’m asking that you postpone any face-to-face meetings with him until further notice.”

  Kenna had been doing her best to treat this situation rationally, pushing aside any unfounded fear that might have her making reckless decisions. Dean was making that rather difficult, causing everyone to appear as a potential suspect. She was literally jumping at shadows.

  “I didn’t come right out and ask Bright if he was a widower or if he’d lost his father, but wouldn’t you know something that significant about his personal life if you researched him?” Kenna asked, shoving a pod in the Keurig machine with a little more force than necessary. “Tell me if I’m missing something obvious here, please.”

  Kenna sounded angry even to herself, but she’d walked around downtown today deluding herself into believing that two different men had been following her. She wasn’t normally the type of person to overreact, but she now found herself in a position where she might possibly need to accept that a client could be a serial killer, her phone might miraculously be saved by tiny grains of rice, and that the man standing near her island invoked feelings that had laid dormant for quite some time.

  “I recognize that this is an overwhelming situation for you, but we’re doing the best we can. Once we’ve confirmed Brighton’s alibis on the nights in question, you are free to conduct business any way you see fit. Until then, I’m advising that you proceed with caution.”

  “Do they teach you that at the academy, Agent Malone?” Kenna asked, not bothering to fiddle with the coffee machine anymore. She grabbed the dishtowel that she’d set on the counter, needing something to strangle in her frustration as she faced him. “Even I know the phrase I recognize comes from some psychiatrist wanting to give validation to their patients’ fear. I realize that you probably think of me like every other potential victim you’ve interviewed, but I—”

  Kenna barely managed to cut off her admission before embarrassing herself further. A federal agent had been in a situation where he’d needed help, and she’d been there to give a helping hand. That didn’t make her unique, and that certainly didn’t mean she should get special treatment. It was best that she just follow the FBI’s advice, exactly as he’d indicated. What she really needed more than anything else was a day at home with no interruptions where she could get caught up on some of her accounts, maybe even with a Hallmark Christmas movie on in the background.

  “I give you my word that I’ll stay clear of Bright until you tell me it’s safe to do otherwise,” Kenna relented, not even needing to add that she might not be conversing with her client over the phone, either. Her cell was still buried in a container of rice. She might not get to have her relaxing day tomorrow if this little hack didn’t work. “I appreciate you stopping by when you couldn’t reach me.”

  It was hard to miss Dean’s frustration, especially when the taut muscle along Dean’s jawline kept flexing as he clearly recognized her attempt to keep things professional. She wasn’t sure why that would offend him, considering that was exactly what he’d been attempting to do since the moment he rang her doorbell last night.

  “Do you have any other means of reaching someone in an emergency?” Dean asked with a hint of annoyance, his attention now on the Tupperware container filled with rice. Her phone was somewhere in the small grains, hopefully having the moisture sucked out of all the openings. She chalked up his impatience to exhaustion. “Maybe a landline?”

  “If you had postponed asking me that question in about two days’ time, the answer would be completely different.” Kenna reminded herself that she needed a bit of patience herself. The alarm company had specifically told her that she would need a landline for the security system she had chosen from their online catalog. “I’ll be fine. If I need anything, I can always run over to the neighbor’s house.”

  Dean switched from staring at the container of rice to her, seemingly at a loss.

  “Look, I’m not your responsibility,” Kenna said, trying to be the voice of reason. He was exhausted, probably starving, and hadn’t been home in two days. They had no idea if she was even on the serial killer’s radar, so it was pointless for him to take any more time out of his schedule just because she’d knocked her phone into the toilet. “That came out wrong. What I meant to say was that I’ll be fine alone here tonight, and I’ll make sure to get my phone either fixed or replaced by tomorrow. You don’t need to worry.”

  The timer on the oven chimed, reminding her that she’d shoved a pan of frozen lasagna she’d had in the freezer onto the middle rack to warm up for dinner. She set down the dishtowel in exchange for a pair of oven mitts that she’d tossed onto the counter earlier. The delicious aroma wafted into the air as she set the pan on top of the stove, reminding her that Dean probably hadn’t had a decent meal recently. She’d already given him an out, but she couldn’t bring herself to deny him the chance at having a good meal. It wasn’t that she was an excellent cook, but she did make a mean lasagna. As it was, half the small pan would go uneaten anyway.

  “The answer is unequivocally yes,” Dean stated right when she turned around to make her offer. He was already taking off his dress coat. “God, that smells good. I don’t think I’ve had a decent meal in over a week.”

  “How did you even know that I was going to invite you to dinner?” Kenna asked with a laugh, preferring this man in front of her over the impersonal federal agent who’d walked through her front door a few minutes ago. “Don’t answer that. You know where the bathroom is if you’d like to wash up.”

  While Dean was busy hanging up his coat in the front closet and using the bathroom, Kenna had gone ahead and set the small kitchen table off to the side with two place settings. Usually, she ate her meals by herself in front of the television or standing over the sink. It would be nice to have a bit of company, and maybe she could find out why Dean and the sheriff seemed to be so focused on Bright. She couldn’t argue that the timeline of his arriving into town wasn’t cause for suspicion, but he’d not said or done anything that would make her think he was capable of murdering another human being quite so viciously. The only thing about him that seemed to fit the profile was his age.

  “What would you like to drink?” Kenna asked, having pulled out one of her cans of flavored sparkling water. “I have Coke, water, apple juice, milk, and…”

  Kenna let her voice trail off after seeing Dean’s concerned expression, his cell phone gripped in his right hand. Something had clearly happened in the few minutes she’d been setting the table. Again, that horrible sensation in the pit of her stomach returned full force.

  “What happened?” Kenna asked, letting the refrigerator door shut ever so slowly behind her. “Was there another victim?”

  “No,” Dean replied, but his answer didn’t negate her feeling in any way. “My partner, Special Agent Frank Rowe, was still at the station doing some research on potential suspects. Brighton’s brother died a year ago, leaving behind a wife and two-year-old daughter. I’m sorry, Kenna, but unless he can provide airtight alibis for the three nights in question, it looks as if we’ll be bringing him in for official questioning tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dean pushed aside his empty plate, not having enjoyed such a delicious meal in months. He and his brother always tried to have at least one Sunday a month with their mother, but that did
n’t always happen with their heavy schedules. The last three weeks he’d been spending the majority of his time in Winter Heights, and the month before that had been dedicated to the domestic terrorism cell that had done nothing but continue to escalate since they’d gotten their initial lead from an informant.

  Thinking of leads, the one Frank had dug up on Brighton was the best break they’d had since the beginning of the investigation. Tomorrow would prove to be another long, harrowing day.

  “I really appreciate the dinner, Kenna.”

  She’d been quiet during the entire meal, not that he could blame her. He’d put a massive hole in her previous bubble of hope that her client had nothing to do with the murders. He’d taken no pleasure in chipping away her assessment of Brighton’s character, just as he wasn’t going to feel good about what he was about to suggest. She didn’t like it when someone wanted to bend that stiff backbone of hers, but the information he’d received had skewed the situation.

  “You’re welcome,” Kenna replied with a small smile. She hadn’t eaten much, and he resisted the urge to say something she might misconstrue. As it stood, he was still trying to figure out how to word his request. “I have dessert from the bakery. It’s a small peach pie that was calling my name, but I’d be willing to share.”

  “My brother makes the best peach pie,” Dean shared, divulging a fragment of his personal life to ease her anxiety. He pushed aside every alarm that was ringing at the personal rule he’d just broken, but the way her green eyes lit up dulled their sound. “He’s a chef at an upscale restaurant in New Haven. He makes his own pastry dough from scratch.”

  Dean rattled off the name as he grabbed both plates, leaving her to sit in the chair with her lips still parted in surprise. He rinsed off his plate while attempting to find the drawer with the saran wrap in order to cover the rest of hers. Even though he was practically dead on his feet, the least he could do was help her clean up after enjoying a homemade meal.

  “The top drawer closest to the refrigerator,” Kenna said, having turned sideways in her seat to stare at him in what could only be described as disbelief. “You’re telling me that your brother is the head chef at one of my favorite restaurants?”

  “I’m not telling Matt that,” Dean informed her wryly, going about covering the plate and finding a place for it in the fridge. His movements were slowing down, and he recognized the need for sleep. “He already has an ego the size of the Atlantic Ocean when it comes to his abilities in the kitchen.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Younger, thank God,” Dean said with a light chuckle. He gave Matt a lot of grief, but that was his job as an older brother. Just like everything in life, Dean took his roles seriously. “I need to have some edge over him.”

  “I take it the two of you are close?” Kenna stood, picking up the parmesan cheese container before making her way to the heart of the kitchen. “I’m an only child. I’ve always been envious of others with brothers and sisters.”

  “We are close,” Dean confirmed, leaning back against the counter. He crossed his arms, hoping that would keep him steady. His Galco Miami Rig shoulder holster was like a second skin normally, but even that was irritating the hell out of him right now. “Granted, we’ve had our fair share of knockdown drag outs, but we’re family in the end. Besides, our mother would slap us upside the head if we held a grudge for more than a couple of minutes.”

  “And your father?” Kenna asked, her green eyes sparkling with interest now that he’d let the conversation go on a bit too long. “What is he like?”

  “He passed away just after I turned seven and Matt was five.” Dean would probably regret this conversation come morning, after he’d gotten a shower and some of the sleep he needed in order to have a clear head. “Mom moved us from Philadelphia to New Haven so that she had the support of her family. We were what my Aunt Thea called a handful and then some. She passed away around five years ago, but I can still remember her chasing Matt and me with a broom around the oak tree in her front yard for smart-mouthing her.”

  “Did she catch you?” Kenna asked with a laugh, twirling the parmesan cheese container in her hand. “I just can’t picture you talking back to your aunt or mother. You are definitely a rule follower. Let me guess—it was your brother who got you into trouble nine times out of ten.”

  “It actually was Matt who caused the most trouble, but that was fine by me.” Dean wiped his hands on the dishtowel she’d set down by the stove before explaining the reason why. “Let’s just say that he never did figure out why he was always the one to get caught red-handed pulling a fast one.”

  “And why was that?” Kenna asked, her previous mood having dissipated the moment he shared with her that his brother was a chef.

  “I was quicker to the draw,” Dean said with a flash of a smile.

  “Did your mother ever remarry?”

  Kenna had clearly made the connection he had with this case, most likely combing through her memory for their previous conversations. He should have reined in this discussion prior to it getting to this point, but he didn’t find himself regretting the conversation as much as he thought he would.

  “No,” Dean replied softly, deciding to bring up what he’d wanted to mention earlier. It was time. Plus, he really did need some sleep. “Mom never remarried, but she does take in a movie every now and then with a gentleman neighbor who lives down the street. She enjoys Mr. Jenkins’ company very much. Speaking of company, you mentioned that you had brunch with a friend of yours today. Seeing as your phone is temporarily out of order and we have reason to bring Brighton in for questioning tomorrow, maybe you should give her a call.”

  Kenna compressed her pink lips in annoyance, somehow not losing a bit of her lipstick during their meal. Then again, she hadn’t eaten a lot. He reminded himself that all he needed to worry about right now was getting her out of this house until he had the chance to rule out Brighton, which seemed unlikely prior to tomorrow morning.

  “Let me ask you a serious question.” Kenna set the parmesan cheese down on the counter with a thud as she straightened her shoulders. “Did you contact the other women who might be potential targets and tell them that Bright, the owner of the renovated pub downtown, might be The Widow Taker? Are you directing all of them to go stay with a friend or family member?”

  “Sheriff Hopkins and I did inform the other women to take precautions and that it might be a good idea to surround themselves with family and friends,” Dean countered, though he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what she was referring to in the context of the discussion. “But I didn’t spend the night with them in a blackout, nor did I enjoy a nice dinner with them at their kitchen table. You’re right, though, Kenna. I shouldn’t be favoring one potential victim over another in a case like this, but it’s your kitchen I happen to be standing in at the moment.”

  Kenna once again pursed her lips in frustration when he wouldn’t cave under the pressure. He owned up to giving her preference in this moment over the others. No one else was aware of who was on their suspect list, just as with any other case he’d ever worked on. That type of information was usually held close to their chest in order for an arrest to be made clean and without misstep. He wouldn’t change his method of operation now.

  “There are extenuating circumstances in this situation, such as you being at the pub when we first approached the subject to question him,” Dean pointed out over the chime of the grandfather clock resonating throughout the house. A glance at it in the corner of the living room by the fireplace revealed that it was going on nine o’clock at night. He was no longer driving to New Haven, which meant staying close by tonight. “I also couldn’t reach you by phone, which landed me on your doorstep, leading to the moment earlier when I received pertinent information about your client. I won’t—”

  “I get it,” Kenna said, interrupting his reasoning on why he was all but lecturing her that she should go stay with her friend this evening. “I do, bu
t I’m not going to disrupt Jenn and Craig’s evening, just because I was clumsy enough to have knocked my cell phone into the toilet.”

  Dean had no choice but to try a different tactic, one that he wasn’t proud of himself for taking. Even so, he desperately needed a good night’s sleep. He wouldn’t be able to even close his eyes if thought she was here by herself without the means of calling for help.

  “Kenna, you’ve already pointed out that I look like shit. I’m practically swaying on my feet with exhaustion, and tomorrow is bound to be a long day.” Dean held up both hands imploringly. “Help me out. Just for tonight.”

  Kenna actually seemed to be considering his latest plea, which meant he was closer to falling face first in a king-sized bed. It was maybe a five-minute drive to the hotel. If the regular nightly concierge was on duty, Dean should be able to be checked in relatively fast. This night hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected, but the home-cooked meal had definitely turned things around. With all the blood in his body rushing to his stomach to digest the food he’d just consumed, he was fading fast.

  “I’m not leaving my house, Dean.”

  He closed his burning eyes and barely suppressed the groan that wanted to erupt with a vengeance. Damn, she was stubborn beyond belief.

  “I have a better idea,” Kenna continued, and he caught the smile in her voice. He didn’t find anything humorous in their current situation, and the delicious dinner he’d just enjoyed was increasingly prompting his body into a coma that could last for the next twelve hours. He would be lucky to get eight. “I have a spare bedroom right up those stairs. You don’t need to sit in a chair in the living room to stay warm or drive forty minutes to reach home. Come morning and if my phone isn’t working, you can head into the station while I head for the store in order to get a new phone.”