Be Afraid

by Mary Burton

She quickly flipped more pages; aware he watched each page and sketch as they passed. When she found the page featuring the little girl, she carefully folded the sketchpad so that this was the only image he saw. She turned it to him, nerves biting at her. There was always a rush of worry when she showed any work for the first time. And for reasons she couldn’t explain she wanted Detective Rick Morgan to approve of this job.

  A deep frown furrowed his brow as he reached for the sketchpad and then hesitated. “May I?”

  “Yes.”

  He lifted the sketch and studied the image. The little girl smiled back revealing an uneven crooked tooth. Her eyes were hazel green, her face round, and angel-soft hair haloed dimpled cheeks. She wore a soft pink collared shirt that enhanced her glow.

  “She’s beautiful.” He spoke softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I can almost imagine hearing the sound of her laughter.”

  The knot in her chest unfurled just a little. “I wanted her to be pretty because I think she must have been very sweet.”

  “Why the smile?”

  What he didn’t say was that he feared, as she did, that the little girl had had little to smile about in her short life. “She deserved to be seen by the world smiling. I’ve also another sketch of her. In that sketch I drew her with a closed-mouth expression. I realize she might not have been a happy child.”

  He didn’t bother to flip the page but continued to stare at the smiling image. “This is excellent, Jenna. Really some of the best forensic art I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m one of the best.”

  He lifted his gaze to her. “I believe it now.”

  “You didn’t before?”

  “If you were so good, why’d you end up in a bar seven hundred miles from home, drawing pictures on the street?”

  She didn’t answer because she didn’t have a credible answer for him or for herself.

  “I can’t believe you walked away from this.” When she opened her mouth to correct him, he held up a hand. “Took leave.”

  A shrug.

  He sat back in his chair and stared at her with a keenness he had to reserve for suspects. She realized he knew why she left Baltimore. Not surprising. Made sense that someone would check up on her. She’d have checked up on her. “Who did you talk to in Baltimore?”

  His hand rested on the conference table, his thumb tapping. “Not me. Georgia. She’s a suspicious sort.”

  That jostled a laugh. “Smart gal.”

  Any humor evaporated like ice on a hot Nashville day. “Why the leave?”

  She held his gaze, refusing to look away. She’d done nothing wrong. “Job just got to be too much. I couldn’t handle the pain anymore.” She sat back in her chair. “I needed to take a break and get my head together.”

  He studied her, jaw clenched. “The Baltimore case of the little girl, that hit a huge nerve with you. Why?”

  The door opened to Bishop and Deke who entered the room, shattering the tentative connection Jenna and Rick had forged. They rose.

  Relief flooded her body. A moment ago, she’d been ready to drop her guard and talk to Rick. Openness was not a trait she enjoyed and she was glad now for the disturbance. She armored herself in as many professional layers as she could scramble around her.

  Rick’s ease had also vanished. His was the expression of a man with much to prove to his brother, his partner, and himself. “Detective Deke Morgan, Jenna Thompson. She’s our forensic artist. As you may have guessed by the name, Deke is my brother.”

  As Deke reached out a hand to her, she found herself cataloguing the similarities between Rick and Deke. “You two look alike. Is Georgia the outlier?”

  The brothers exchanged a glance and then Rick said, “She’s adopted.”

  Bishop’s expression held no hint of emotion but she sensed a keen interest in him.

  “Like me,” Jenna said. “Explains the connection when we met.”

  Deke studied her a beat but, without commenting, picked up the image and held it out so all could see. “Hell of a job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Flip the sheet and you’ll see her with a closed-mouth expression,” Jenna said.

  Deke turned the page and showed it to Bishop.

  “I like the first better,” Detective Bishop said.

  “Me too,” Deke said.

  “We need to get the image out to the media,” Bishop said. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Susan Martinez is on board,” Rick added. “We just need to get a copy to her and she’ll put it on air.”

  “She said yes, just like that?” Deke asked.

  Rick shook his head. “She’d like to interview Jenna. I didn’t commit.”

  Jenna had assumed she’d be behind the scenes. It had never occurred to her she’d take center stage. “That really necessary?”

  “No. But she said it would get the story more air time.”

  Jenna had arrived in Nashville with little purpose other than to understand where she came from and why Ronnie had taken it all away. She had researched the town and her family through old news clippings, but she’d stayed under the radar, basically hiding behind her sketchpad. So stupid to come this far and hide. She was no coward.

  Maybe now it was time to let Nashville know she was here. “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” Rick asked.

  “She can interview me. Shouldn’t be that hard to explain what I do?” She looked like her mother and her sister. If Shadow Eyes was watching, he’d recognize her.

  Rick shook his head. “I don’t fully trust this reporter.”

  A smile tipped the edges of her lips. “I can handle her.”

  Rick frowned. “It’s not necessary.”

  “I know.”

  Deke’s gaze lingered on the sketch. “Would you be open to doing another sketch? Budget’s going to be smaller than this one.”

  “This one was for free,” Jenna said. “Can’t beat that price.”

  Deke studied her. “Right.”

  “Who am I drawing?” She tossed out the question, more interested in shifting Rick’s attention away from her.

  “There’s an attorney, a public defender, in town. Rachel Wainwright. She has a new client who’s been accused of drunk driving. Rachel thinks there’re mitigating circumstances. Long story short her client says she was raped two months ago and has been suffering from PTSD.”

  With the Lost Girl, she’d felt volatile. With this new witness, she held on to a healthy dose of skepticism. “Sounds like a ploy.”

  “I would agree,” Deke said. “But Wainwright says the woman is telling the truth and Wainwright has a good nose for this kind of thing.”

  She folded her arms and cocked her head. “Homicide detective working with a public defender?”

  Deke’s craggy face lifted into a smile that almost looked friendly. “Yeah.”

  Rick chuckled. “Give her the whole story.”

  Deke shoved his hands in his pockets. “Rachel and I are dating.” The admission softened the detective’s features. Rachel had breached his armor.

  “Ah.”

  “Rachel is a tad driven when she thinks she’s defending the innocent,” Deke offered.

  “Not easy to be around, right, Bro?” Rick offered.

  “Just a bit.”

  Jenna looked at Rick. “You don’t like her?”

  Rick shook his head. “On the contrary. I respect the hell out of her. She stepped up for Georgia last year. Saved her life. So I’ll always be in her corner.”

  Jenna waited for more explanation. She’d read the articles but knew there was more. When he didn’t explain, she didn’t push.

  She’d never planned to stay here long, and then she’d signed the monthlong lease, accepted one assignment and now another. A simple no would have severed her growing connections to the town and this family. And still, she only shrugged and said, “Sure.”

  “When are you available?”

  “When is the witness available?”

&n
bsp; “She’s at Rachel’s office now. Rachel just got her out on bail.”

  “Has Rachel got that look in her eye?” Rick asked.

  Deke nodded. “She believes her client, no matter what the preliminary evidence says. She’s on a mission.”

  Jenna didn’t want to go home and this was a good excuse to delay it. “I’ve got my kit in my Jeep. If Ms. Wainwright is open to a visit now, I’ll do it now.”

  “I’ll call Rachel,” Deke said. “Her office is only blocks from here.”

  “I’ll walk you over,” Rick said.

  “Sure.” With care, she tore the images of the girl off the sketchpad and handed them to Rick. “She’s in your hands now.”

  “I’ll get those to Martinez,” Bishop said. No hint of bravado or challenge.

  Rick handed over the pictures. Whatever turf war these two were having, well, they’d called a truce during this case.

  They moved down the hallway, down to the first floor and out to the parking lot. The sun had set and a gentle breeze blew cooler air. She fished her keys from her purse and opened the back door. She grabbed her art box.

  Rick took the box from her. “Her office is three blocks that way.”

  “Handy location.”

  “She’ll tell you she picked the place because it’s cheap. Her place used to be a restaurant. She works on the first floor and lives on the second.”

  As they walked down Union, she inhaled a deep breath, savoring the open space. “Where’s Tracker?”

  “Home. We had to swing by the house for a few minutes and this late in the day he’s better off resting.”

  “I bet he wasn’t happy.”

  “No. Not thrilled. But I gave him a chew stick and that seemed to buy some forgiveness.”

  A smile played on the edges of her lips. “I took leave from the Force willingly and I realized today how much I miss it. I can’t imagine having it snatched away.”

  “It’s not fun.”

  The walk to Rachel’s office took ten minutes and just as they reached it, Rick’s cell buzzed.

  “Deke,” he said as he raised the phone to his ear. He listened and nodded. “Great. I’ll let her know.”

  As he hung up, Jenna said, “Ms. Wainwright has agreed to the sketch.”

  “She did. She’s getting her client ready now.”

  “She doesn’t waste time.”

  “She’s a dynamo. Not the kind of attorney I’d want to deal with in court.”

  Deke, who’d driven, had beaten them to the office, a brick building with a large plate-glass window that read WAINWRIGHT AND ASSOCIATES.

  Deke and a slender woman with short, black hair greeted them. Intensity radiated from the woman who wore a black sleeveless dress that showed off fit arms and the lean legs of a runner.

  “Jenna Thompson,” Rick said. “Meet Rachel Wainwright. Attorney-at-law and champion of the downtrodden.”

  Rachel arched a brow. She was tall, lean, and possessed a severity that might have made her unapproachable if not for her eyes. They radiated a softness that weakened some of Jenna’s defenses.

  The attorney extended her hand to Jenna. “I hear you’re a forensic artist.”

  Jenna accepted her hand, noting Rachel’s firm handshake. “I am.”

  “She’s very talented,” Rick said.

  Jenna shrugged. “I am.”

  Rachel’s gaze sharpened. “I like a woman who knows her worth.”

  “Where’s your client?” Jenna asked.

  “And you don’t like to waste time. We might become friends,” Rachel said. “My client is inside. She’s taking a quick shower but will be downstairs in a minute.”

  They entered the building to find a large, open floor plan. There were two desks, one piled high with papers and the other stripped clean as if it had been vacated. Looked like “and Associates” was for show.

  “Is there a private place she and I can meet?” Witnesses often relaxed in more private conditions.

  “No formal conference room but there is the kitchen. It’s become an impromptu conference room at times. My client will join us there soon.”

  She glanced toward double swinging doors that looked as if they led to the kitchen. “Great.”

  “I’ll be sitting in, of course.”

  “No,” Jenna said.

  “Excuse me?” Rachel’s tone took a hard right from easygoing to challenging.

  “I always meet with my ‘clients’ alone. In the early years, I’d allow friends and, once, an attorney, to stay. But having the other person in the process affected the outcome. The witness will always relax more if it’s just the two of us.”

  Rachel looked as if she’d bitten into something sour. “I’m looking out for Belinda’s best interests. I wouldn’t hamper her description.”

  Rick, to his credit, did not offer a comment. Points for him, she thought. She fought her own battles.

  “You wouldn’t mean to, but you would. We always alter what we say based on our audience, even if we don’t realize we’re doing it.” She knew her job, but these folks didn’t fully believe that. One sketch had earned her some points but cops, and clearly Rachel Wainwright, were a hard sell. “I promise it will be best. You’ll end up with a better image.”

  Hands planted on narrow hips, Rachel considered Jenna. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Rick shook his head. “On that note, I’ll leave you two.”

  Rachel looked at Rick as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Thanks.”

  Smiling as if accustomed to Rachel’s tunnel vision, Rick saluted and with a nod to Jenna said, “Good luck.”

  The Morgans didn’t smile much as a general rule but when they did, it was hard to be indifferent. “It’s getting late and this is going to take a few hours.”

  “Sure.”

  As Rachel led the way, Jenna followed. The two entered the industrial kitchen equipped with well-used stainless-steel appliances and a large counter surrounded by a half-dozen stools.

  Rachel reached in a bulky briefcase and pulled out a thin file. “I was just assigned her case this morning. Her name is Belinda Horton. She’s twenty years old and she’s a waitress at a local pub in East Nashville.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was attacked. Raped. The man held a knife to her throat and told her if she moved, he’d cut her throat. She was terrified and complied.”

  Jenna had felt helpless and terrified when she’d been five, but as an adult, she’d learned self-defense as well as how to handle a gun. She’d never, ever wanted to feel that kind of fear again.

  As if reading her thoughts, Rachel added, “She’s a small woman and her attacker was well over six feet. She’d never encountered any violence before.”

  “Why was she in jail?”

  “According to Belinda, the attack happened two months ago. She never told anyone and she never sought out help after the attack. She’s been drinking heavily. Last night, she was drunk when she slammed her car into a park bench. She walked away unscathed but totaled her car as well as the bench. The judge wasn’t happy and wanted to send a message to drunk drivers.”

  “Understandable.”

  “He’s ready to throw the book at her. When I got the case, she started weeping almost immediately and told me about the rape. No one else knows.”

  “Could be a convenient lie.” Jenna traced her finger over the smooth edge of the visitor’s table.

  “I know. Believe me, I know. That’s why I’d like a picture of her attacker. If we can somehow identify him then maybe we can prove the attack happened and she can receive counseling instead of jail time.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Seconds later, they heard footsteps in the back hallway and the back staircase doorway swung open to a petite woman whose short, blond hair hung damp around her round face. Mascara had smudged below her eyes and the jeans and gray shirt she wore made her skin look sallow. She wore chipped red-tipped nail polish and had a small butterfly tattoo on
her wrist.

  Belinda’s eyes were bloodshot as she looked at Rachel with a measure of relief. “Ms. Wainwright.”

  Rachel smiled. “Belinda. How’re you doing?”

  “Hanging in there. I’m so tired and want to sleep but my brain won’t shut off.”

  “It will later tonight and then you can get some sleep.” Rachel placed a steady hand on Jenna’s forearm. “This is Jenna Thompson. She’s a forensic artist and she’s here to help you remember the face of the man that attacked you. We’ve pulled a few strings to have her here.”

  Belinda shook her head as she sat at the counter. “I don’t want to remember. I’ve been spending the last few months doing my best to forget.”

  Rachel slipped behind the counter where a pot of coffee brewed. She poured her client and Jenna a cup. “You have to remember. You have to or you’re going to jail for as long as that judge can send you away. I have to prove that you’ve been suffering post-traumatic stress from the rape.”

  Tears welled in her blue eyes. “I can’t.”

  Jenna cleared her throat. “Rachel, why don’t you give us a few minutes. We’re just going to talk and I’m going to draw. Nothing serious. No pressure.” She’d get the image but getting the details would be slow-going.

  Rachel smiled at Belinda. “I’ll leave you with Jenna. She’s a nice lady and she’s here to help.” Rising, she took a step back, hesitating when Belinda swiped a tear from her face.

  Jenna sat at the counter and opened her sketchpad to a face she’d drawn earlier. She showed it to Belinda. “This is one of my drawings.”

  “Is that a bad guy?”

  Jenna glanced at the image of a man she’d drawn just a couple of days ago. “No, he’s a cop. Detective Rick Morgan. I draw pictures when I get bored. I just wanted you to see what I can do.”

  Belinda sniffed. “It’s good.”

  “I think so. Though I’m not sure of the eyes.” She studied the image with a critical eye and as with most artists thought about a dozen things she’d do differently if given another chance.

  “How’d you get started drawing faces?”

  “When I was fifteen I talked my aunt into letting me draw portraits in Inner Harbor in Baltimore. I set up an easel and she watched as I waited for people to stop. That first day was warm for so early in the summer and I was soaked in sweat when my first customers stopped, a woman and her boyfriend. I drew her and she loved it so much he gave me a twenty-dollar tip. I spent several summers on that corner and made money for school.”