by Tee O'Fallon
She continued to admire the smooth way Matt worked the sheriff. Seemed like all Underwood wanted was mutual respect from his fellow law enforcement officers, and both Hentz and the FBI agent clearly hadn’t picked up on that. And, of course, he wanted to be re-elected.
“Will Sands was a mean son of a bitch. Bad temper. Constantly in and out of jail for stupid stuff. I don’t know why that nice girl, Erica, married him in the first place. We all figured it was because she got pregnant. Little Billy Jr. was born seven months after the wedding.”
Trista looked up from reading. “How old was the boy when his father was murdered?”
“About eight. Nice kid. Smart, too. Got good grades, respected his elders. Everyone had high hopes that Billy would turn into something a whole lot better than his POS papa.”
Matt flipped to the second page of the report. “The murder weapon was a deer-gutting knife. Any prints on the knife?”
“Not many.” Underwood nodded. “Someone had cleaned the knife but didn’t do a good job. We got a couple clear prints. Only they came back not on file.”
“You think the wife, Erica, killed her husband?” Trista asked.
“She was always the number one suspect. There were even bloody footprints in her size on the kitchen floor. But after the murder, no one ever saw Erica or Billy Jr. again. They disappeared into thin air. There was a BOLO out on them for years. After a while, people began to forget there’d been a bloody killing in their community. Besides, the guy was bad news, so no one except for Will’s brother—Avery—really cared whether his killer was caught. The only reason the investigation went on as long as it did was because Avery and the old sheriff used to be friends.”
Matt held up the enlarged color photo of the knife. “These prints are pretty small.”
Sheriff Underwood nodded. “That’s another reason why the sheriff at the time figured Erica had killed Will herself.”
Trista flipped to the page in the report Matt was referring to, and as her stomach lurched, she was grateful they hadn’t stopped for lunch. The blade was long and ugly, with smudged, bloody fingerprints.
Matt massaged his chin as he continued staring at the photo. Then she realized he was staring at her. Her hands, more specifically. “Hold up your hand.”
As soon as she did, he looked alternately from the photo, to her hand, then back to the photo. He pursed his lips, deep in thought.
“Something on your mind, Sgt. Connors?” Underwood rested his elbows on his desk, leaning forward.
“Have you ever considered anyone else as a suspect other than Erica Sands?” he asked, finally looking up.
“Not really,” Underwood said. “The keys to Will’s old truck were missing, and neither Erica nor Billy Jr. ever showed up in a hospital. Why do you ask?”
He held up the photo. “These prints are small. They could belong to a woman. Or, they could belong to a small child.”
Trista widened her eyes. “You don’t think the boy killed his own father, do you?”
“I doubt it,” Underwood said. “According to witnesses, Billy adored his father. Will never touched the boy and was careful to take his anger out on Erica when Billy wasn’t around. Besides, the coroner puts the time of death at ten a.m. Billy would have been in school at the time. That was confirmed by his teachers and several of his friends.”
Matt made a sound in the back of his throat that told Trista he didn’t necessarily agree with the sheriff’s assumption about the identity of the killer. “Erica Sands would be about seventy by now, and the boy would be around forty-eight.”
“That’s right.” The sheriff nodded. “What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, although she could tell something had piqued his curiosity.
As Matt and the sheriff continued discussing the case, Trista flipped through the remainder of the report, noting that Erica Sands was indeed a small woman, not much taller than five feet. Then she looked at the other photos, one in particular. That of Will Sands lying in a pool of blood, his eyes open, yet sightless. It reminded her all too much of Thomas George’s body, minus the blood. But both men had been murdered.
Matt stood and held out his hand to Underwood. “Thank you for your time.”
“Any chance you can tell me why all the sudden interest in a forty-year-old murder?” the sheriff asked as he shook Matt’s hand.
“I wish I knew,” Matt answered, dropping his copy of the report onto the desk. “But if we get any leads, we’ll let you know.”
“I’d sure appreciate that.” Underwood stood and turned his back on them, a clear signal they should leave now and take the other copy with them.
Minutes later, they were back at the truck letting Sheba out to stretch her legs in the park next to the sheriff’s department.
When Trista opened the door to get out of the truck, Matt stopped her. “Wait here. I don’t want you exposed any more than necessary.”
Reluctantly, she stayed in the truck while Matt jogged around the park with his dog. Sheba raced in front of him, her nose to the ground as she followed one scent after another before finally stopping to relieve herself.
Matt’s stride was long and graceful. Athletic, like that of a thoroughbred racehorse loping effortlessly around a track. As she continued watching, she was struck by the incongruities of this man. For someone so big and strong, he’d been infinitely gentle with her last night, both physically and emotionally. He’d been taken aback at discovering she’d been a virgin, but there’d been no judgment, not of her, anyway. He’d seemed more shocked that she’d chosen him to be her first.
A breeze rustled the tree behind her, blowing strands of hair in front of her face. Speaking of faces, Matt was so handsome and confident he could have any woman he wanted and yet he believed he didn’t deserve her. She was the one who should be totally in awe of the fact that this beautiful man wanted her, not the other way around.
She wasn’t a psych major, but even she understood the underlying issue. He was so guilt-ridden, he didn’t think he deserved anything good in his life. For twenty years, he’d been torturing himself over Jerry’s death, carrying around a pain so deeply ingrained it was slowly but surely killing him.
He’d already told her plainly he didn’t want her sympathy, but her heart went out to him just the same. Not in pity, she realized. But she was equally certain he would never let her in until he could set aside the guilt and start living for himself.
As things stood right now, there wasn’t a single part of his life that was devoted to his own happiness. His job was to protect others, and in his spare time, he’d been working on Jerry’s Place to help others, not him. She understood his need to create the nonprofit. It accomplished several things he wanted so desperately. To do good for others in need, to memorialize his friend, and to assuage his guilt. Clearly, the last part wasn’t working, and she doubted it ever could.
Sheba walked at Matt’s side, constantly looking up at him for his next command. The animal was the only other woman in his life. The dog was devoted to him, and she could both see and sense their inherent bond. He would do anything for her, and she for him. That was love.
Her heart clenched, with both joy and sadness. What if he didn’t let her in? What if he couldn’t allow himself to ever love anyone?
As Matt and Sheba came toward her, only one thing was certain. She was head over heels in love with a man who might never be capable of loving her back.
…
Somewhere outside Washington, D.C.
The delicate China cup rattled on the saucer as she sipped her tea. Not even her habitual afternoon Earl Grey could settle the acid churning in her stomach or the fear that now kept her awake night after night.
Things were spiraling out of control, and she had to take matters into her own hands. Setting the cup onto the elegant, inlaid-wood coffee table, she shook her head in disbelief. Their entire world was about to crumble down around them because of some slip-up she must have made. B
illy and his family would suffer the most and that was unthinkable. It was…unacceptable.
She glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails and clenched her hands in disgust. Her boy had come too far for the damned Russians to destroy everything he’d accomplished. This was his chance—his dream—and she’d be damned if anyone would stand in his way or undermine the very fabric of who and what he’d become.
There was only one thing to do. Billy might not agree with what she was about to set in motion, but it had to be done.
With trembling fingers, she picked up the phone and dialed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Before Trista knew it, another week had passed.
After they’d gotten home, Matt had checked in with Buck, but there’d been nothing new to report. She assumed Hentz had informed Wayne and Genevieve that they’d been at Thomas George’s house and that the reporter was dead. From online newspaper accounts, George’s killer was still at large. There’d been no mention of any suspects nor were there any leads for the police to follow up on. She’d expected a serious reprimand from the agency about her and Matt sticking their noses where they didn’t belong, and they’d both gotten it.
The message Buck had delivered to her from Wayne was that if she didn’t stay put, she’d be thrown into protective custody whether she liked it or not. Matt had received a similar tongue-lashing from Buck, along with the reiteration to keep their heads low and he’d be in touch soon.
Soon can’t come soon enough.
Since returning from West Virginia, they’d slept in separate beds every night and had minimal yet civil conversation. He seemed to be avoiding her, going out of his way to put physical distance between them but still remain close enough that he’d be there quickly should something happen. On more than one occasion over the past week, she’d caught him staring at her with an intensity that made her toes curl. There was heat in his gaze, and if she didn’t know better, she’d even go so far as to call it desire.
Probably my own wishful thinking.
Even Matt’s friends had detected the cold chill between them, especially Nick. His sharp gray eyes didn’t miss a beat, and while he hadn’t come right out and asked, she suspected he knew she and Matt had made love.
All the other men were out on one pre-election detail after another, and she missed them, especially Nick. Over the past week, they’d become friends. Probably, she guessed, because out of all them she sensed he was closest to Matt, and he’d gone out of his way to make her feel comfortable. Including giving her some instruction in self-defense.
Upon their return from West Virginia, she’d initially asked Matt to assist her. When he declined with no explanation as to why, Nick had stepped up. That was until Matt caught them grappling on the living room floor with Nick’s muscular arms wrapped around her neck. From that moment on, Matt had taken over, but his instruction had been detached, as if he didn’t want to be near her.
Sometimes she wished she could have fallen for Nick instead. Unlike Matt, Nick seemed to be capable of tolerating her company. Unfortunately, he didn’t evoke the same physical or chemical attraction she had to Matt, even though with his sandy-blond hair and gorgeous gray eyes, he was striking enough to be on the cover of a magazine. And beneath that whole hard-ass cop thing Nick had going on, she was convinced he was really a sweetheart.
She stared at the computer screen, massaging her temples. Breaking into the reporter’s password-encrypted files was vastly more difficult than she’d anticipated, but she was close. Another few hours and she ought to have the password.
Poofy jumped onto the desk next to Matt’s laptop and mewed, nuzzling her arm. Taking a break, she gathered the cat in her arms and held him close. The low rumble of his purr resonating against her chest was a welcome comfort.
The kitchen door shut, and Matt’s boots clumped as he walked into the office. Poofy scrambled from her arms back onto the desk. When she looked up, she found Matt scrutinizing her intently again in that way she’d become accustomed to over the past week, and her heart beat a little faster with the fervent hope that he still wanted her as much as she wanted him.
“I put Sheba up in the kennel,” he said as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m heading upstairs for a shower.”
Disappointment swamped her, and she prayed the pathetic longing she experienced every time she saw him wasn’t written all over her face.
His boots clumped up the stairs. From the dampness of his shirt and pants, he and Sheba must have gotten in another heavy training session. To counter all the mushy stuff you’re doing to my dog, he’d said.
Now that she knew what he looked like totally naked, it was impossible not to imagine him standing beneath the pounding spray.
Poofy readjusted his position on the desk, tucking his tail beneath him and closing his eyes in that half-closed position cats were known for.
Focus. Focus on the files. Anything for distraction.
She began tapping on the keyboard, searching for other articles written by Thomas George, determined to find the connection between the reporter’s big story that he may or may not have been killed for, the attacks on her, and whatever the Russian rezidentura had been referring to in the chat room. She had a feeling the answer lay in the reporter’s encrypted files.
Maybe there’s another way.
The burner phone Matt had given her lay on the desk beside the laptop. What she was about to do was exactly what Wayne had forbidden.
Thirty seconds of internet research later, she was on hold for Martin Denis, Thomas George’s editor at the Arlington Sentinel.
“Martin Denis,” a man answered.
Hairs on the back of Trista’s neck tingled. She spoke Russian herself and had been exposed to many dialects throughout the course of her career. So she could recognize the faint accent of someone who’d been in the U.S. a very long time. Denis was also a shortened version of Denisovich, a common Russian surname.
Should I hang up? No, the phone is a burner and completely untraceable.
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Mr. Denis, my name is Elizabeth Winter. I’m a reporter for the Charlotte Sun. I’m calling about Thomas George, one of your reporters who was recently murdered.”
“Ah, yes,” Denis said. “A tragic loss for us here at the Sentinel.”
“Since George was a Charlotte resident, I’m doing a small local-interest piece. I understand the police have no leads as to the motive behind his murder.”
“No, they don’t,” he confirmed. “It’s quite mysterious.”
“Do you have any idea what story he was working on at the time?” She held her breath and, when he didn’t respond, added, “He was an investigative reporter, so I couldn’t help wondering if whatever he was working on might have a link to his death.”
There was a lengthier pause on the other end. “Why would you come to that conclusion?”
Think fast. Keep him talking.
“I realize it is somewhat of a leap, but when the police don’t have any of the usual motives, such as burglary gone bad or crime of passion, we have to think outside the box. Do you know what he was working on?”
“Even though Thomas is dead, I’m hoping someone else will pick up his story and complete it one day. In his memory, of course. In the meantime, it is the Sentinel’s policy not to comment on any unpublished articles.”
“So you do know what story he was working on.”
“What did you say your name was?” Denis asked, a discernible note of suspicion in his tone.
Trista hung up, letting out a frustrated breath. It had been worth a try.
Poofy raised his head, and a second later, the doorbell rang. Looking at the monitors on the adjacent wall, she saw a tall man and a slightly shorter woman standing on the front porch by the main door. She’d been given strict instructions not to unlock the door for anyone, but as she peered closer at the couple on the monitor, something about them looked familiar.
At the door, she p
ulled aside the sheer curtain covering the sidelight window. In a millisecond, she knew who these people were. The man was an older version of Matt, with the same solid build and confident bearing. His hair was a distinguished gray, but he was still an undeniably handsome man. There was no doubt he was Matt’s father.
The woman standing beside him was about six inches shorter but still tall for a woman. She’d undoubtedly tower over Trista, just as Matt did. Her features were similar to Matt’s and his father’s but in a feminine way. The woman looked to be about Matt’s age, so she guessed this was his sister. The next things she noticed were the stylish clothes, hair, and makeup. Trista could only dream of carrying off such a put-together look.
Even though Matt would be pissed at her for letting someone into the house, she entered the code to disengage the alarm, then unlocked the door. Both the man and woman stared at her, their eyes dipping first to her shirt, then down her legs to her bare feet.
The woman’s mouth quirked into a grin that reminded her of Matt. “Nice shirt.”
Oh boy.
Since the washing machine had been in constant use lately by all of Matt’s friends, he’d given her one of his old Harvard T-shirts. The shirt was so long on her that she’d tied it off at the waist, revealing a couple inches of bare midriff.
The man cleared his throat. “I’m Matt’s father, and this is his sister, Joyelle. May we come in?”
“Of course.” Trista stepped aside for them to enter, then closed the door, feeling incredibly self-conscious at the obvious conclusion they’d leaped to. That she and Matt were sleeping together. Only they weren’t. Not anymore, anyway.
“Matt’s upstairs in the shower. Would you like to wait for him?” She looked at the other woman, who was grinning broadly now.
Heat rose to her face as Matt’s father again took in her wardrobe. “No,” he said. “That won’t be necessary. We just came to make sure Matt received this invitation.” He moved to set a cream-colored envelope on the hall table but stopped. On the table was an identical envelope. Unopened. “I see he already has one.” His jaw clenched, and the scowl on his face again reminded her of the similarities between the two men. He tossed the envelope onto the table and turned and opened the door himself.