The Marshal

by Adrienne Giordano

  “What did you do?” Camille repeated.

  “I wanted to protect him. That’s all. I didn’t mean...”

  “Everyone stop talking,” Jenna said. “Right now.”

  She’s right. Brent didn’t care. He could do this. With Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Herb outside, he could control the emotional chaos in the house and get answers. He squatted next to Jamie, reminded himself that she’d been a constant supporter since his mom died and set his hand on her back. “Sit up and talk to me. Tell me what happened. What clothes in the basement?”

  Facing away from him, Jamie rested her cheek against the floor, her hair fanning out. “The women’s clothes. When he comes home, he hides them behind the pipe in the basement. Then he burns them. He gets rid of them. I didn’t know why and then I figured it out. He killed the women and burned their clothes. It’s always when he comes home from a trip. I used to watch for him. He’d come home and go to the basement first. I went down there one morning and found the clothes. When I got home from school, they were gone and he was cleaning the fire pit. He’d burn them in the fire pit when we weren’t around.”

  “Brent,” Jenna said, “please stop this. She should have a lawyer. You need to do this the right way.”

  “Yes. Stop this.” The sheriff strode through the door, gun drawn, a deputy on his heels. “All of you, outside.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” Jamie said, still on the floor. “But she caught him. She caught him burning the clothes and I got scared.”

  Someone latched on to the back of Brent’s shirt. Jenna.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said.

  He squared his shoulders, but inside the torture ran hot and deep, ripping into him, making his mind burn with visions of his cousin, his beloved cousin, swinging that brick at his mother. All to protect his uncle.

  Leave. This house was a curse. Every sickening inch of it. Leave. He glanced at his father, sitting on that damned floor and the fury Brent had kept under wraps for so long unraveled, whipping inside him like a live wire, its tip singeing him. As much as he didn’t want his father dead, the man had left them. Left him to care for a teenaged girl. How the hell would they fix this?

  Could they fix it?

  Jenna gave him a not-so-light shove and his feet moved. One foot, then the next, heading to the door where there would be fresh air and the howling wind and hopefully a ton a rain. Enough rain to wash away this house and the horror that it kept ramming down his throat.

  I’m losing it.

  He got to the porch and—yes—violent, fat raindrops poured from the sky. Rain so hard that it pounded against the roof—hammering and hammering—like it would drill through the shingles. Let it. Let it soak the house. Drown it.

  He jogged down the stairs, swung a left and stormed to the backyard.

  “Brent?” his aunt called from somewhere behind him.

  “No,” Jenna hollered back, pausing to turn back. “Give him a minute.”

  His aunt screamed, her hysterics registering and Brent stopped.

  Jenna nudged him forward. “Keep moving. I just looked and there’s a deputy with them. Camille is there, too. You need a break.”

  Protecting him. His feet kept moving, his shoes sinking into the already soft grass. He needed out. That’s all he knew. A few minutes of peace and no one depending on him to save them.

  He reached the backyard and hooked another left, pacing the rear of the house praying to God his family wouldn’t come back here and see him like this.

  When he reached the far end of the house he turned back and his gaze connected with Jenna’s. She stood by the tree outside of his old room, the rain dousing her, making her normally pristine hair cling to her head. She took one step and her heel stuck in the mud. She kicked off her shoes—I love this woman—and walked toward him, her feet sinking in the muddy grass.

  “It was her,” he said, sliding a sideways glance at Jenna as he stomped by, continuing to pace, just burning off the energy searing him from inside out. “She sat with us at every holiday knowing what she’d done. That she’d wrecked us. All this time.”

  At the edge of the house, he turned again, did another lap. Jenna struggled to keep up and finally stopped in the middle by the back porch.

  “Let it out, Brent. Please. Just let it fly. You’ll feel better.”

  He’d feel better? Really? He didn’t think so, because all that fire and rage and pain was tearing through him. His arms, legs, stomach. Each body part shredding. He’d trusted Jamie, looked up to her for helping to care for them. For showing them how loving families stepped up and gave shelter when all else failed. He loved her.

  And she’d murdered his mother.

  A fifteen-year-old murderer. How the hell?

  He turned for another lap, slid a glance at Jenna and his throat started to close. Jamie had held on to this secret, letting him obsess and give up his life to search for a killer. She’d watched him torment himself and never cared.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  He walked faster. Keep moving. Breathe. The shredding continued. No escape. Nowhere to put it all.

  “Brent, let it out.”

  He spun and faced Jenna and his mind went all kinds of crazy. “What was she talking about? My uncle killed women? She killed my mother?”

  The words—were they even words?—turned into a howl. Like a hole had been blown open and all that rage poured out of his mouth. Agony, every second of it, and the pressure behind his eyes became too much. He dug the palms of his hands against them and continued the insane screaming. I’m cracking up.

  “I’m going to touch you,” Jenna said, somehow penetrating his yelling.

  A second went by and she rested her hand on his back. It stuck to his now soaked shirt, but she rubbed back and forth. “It’s okay,” she said. “Let it out.”

  Maybe it was the softness in her voice or that magic touch of hers, but the howling stopped and the air went silent. Over. That fast, just done.

  A crack of thunder boomed again, but Jenna kept rubbing. “You’re okay. Come sit on the porch.”

  She took his hand and led him to the porch. Her feet sloshed in the wet grass, but she kept moving until she shoved him to a step. Exhaustion leveled him and he dropped his head, allowing himself a few seconds. A few more.

  Breathe.

  Jenna sat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “You’ll be okay,” she said.

  He glanced at her, soaked to the skin, her makeup dripping down her cheeks into the wet bandage on her face—she’d need a dry one—and he knew she was right. For the first time in twenty-three years, looking down at this beautiful woman who’d probably drive him to madness, he knew he’d be okay.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By 7:00 p.m. Jenna was still at her desk supposedly working on an expense report that should have taken her ten minutes. Ten minutes was up an hour ago when the other associates had all headed out for happy hour. Woo-hoo.

  Two days ago, Brent’s world had fallen apart. And hers had almost gone with it. Whether she was suffering from some post-traumatic stress, a broken heart or a combination of both, she didn’t know, but her entire body hurt. Physically and emotionally.

  Tears bubbled up and she shook her head. No. No more crying. Never in her life had she cried this much. She loved this man, without a doubt, but she wouldn’t be the whipping girl because he refused to face the hurt and anger he’d buried. That, he’d have to do on his own. She was more than willing to help him, any day, any time, but he had to own up to it. Something he refused to do.

  Penny’s head popped over the top of the short cubicle wall. “Hey. You’re here late. What are you working on?”

  Jenna blinked away her tears and looked up. “Expense reports.”

  Whatever Penny saw on Jenna’s face, she didn’t like it. “Oh, no. What is it? Do you need to talk about what happened?”

  God, yes. But that included talking about Brent, and Brent was Penny’s friend, too
. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair to him. “I’m okay.”

  Penny wheeled a chair over from one of the other desks and sat beside Jenna, gently rubbing her back. “Clearly, you’re not.”

  Jenna swiped at her wet eyes. “He’s so quick to blame me.”

  “Brent? For the other day? He blamed you for his cousin going nutso?”

  Jenna gasped. “Of course not.”

  “Whew. You scared me. I couldn’t imagine him doing that.”

  “He wouldn’t. He just...” Jenna stared at the cubicle wall in front of her, focusing on the picture of her niece and her adorable toothless grin.

  “What?”

  She swirled her open hands in front of her chest. “He has all this pain and he won’t deal with it. And the minute he starts to get emotionally attached, he figures out a way to end it because he doesn’t want to get hurt. He used the case to push me away. Every time I did something he thought I shouldn’t have done, he went off on me before asking me about it. And I know it’s because he’s afraid of the emotional fallout. I won’t deal with him doing that. It’s too hurtful.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Has he called?”

  Jenna finally sat back and spun her chair to face Penny. “Yes. Several times. I can’t talk to him right now. Unless he’s going to deal with his emotions, there’s nothing to say. I can’t live like this, constantly worrying something I do will make him run. It’s not fair. To either of us.”

  The stitches on her face itched and she reached up, pressed on the bandage. No scratching. “And these damned stitches are driving me crazy. I just want to rip them out so I can see what my face will wind up being.”

  After everything that had happened, her face, her no-fail tool to getting her job done, might be permanently scarred. Now instead of seeing a pretty brunette, people would see a scarred one. All because she wanted to prove she was good at her job by cracking a cold case. And look what it had gotten her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Penny said.

  Jenna glanced up, met her gaze. “What?”

  “Your face. I know you think you’re good at your job because of how you look. Maybe it helps, sure, but your investigative skills and your instincts are what make you good. I promise you that. Frankly, you solved this case and your looks had nothing to do with it.”

  Jenna cocked her head.

  “Yes,” Penny said. “I’m right. You didn’t solve this case by falling back on low-cut shirts. Accept it.”

  Holy cow. She thought back. From that first day, it had been all about chasing leads, figuring out what had been missed, discovering evidence. She’d even chosen more conservative clothing after Brent had told her how smart she was.

  She let out a strangled laugh. “This is horrible. It took me getting my heart ripped out to realize I’m good at my job and it’s not about my boobs.”

  “No, it’s not. And I think you and Brent have a lot to talk about. Maybe you should call him back. See where this thing goes. Obviously, you care about each other.”

  “I care too much. That’s the problem. We’re stuck. And until he’s ready to make changes, we’ll stay that way.”

  With that, Jenna sat forward, covered her face with her hands and finally let the tears fall.

  * * *

  BRENT STOOD IN the now-empty living room of his childhood home staring at the wood floor where his mother had died. All the years he’d lost with her crashed down on him and he sucked in a breath.

  No doubt, the house, the memories, all of it had tormented him and altered the course of his life. Made him hard inside. Hard and alone. Sure he had his family, what was left of it anyway, but for himself? Nothing. Nada. For years he’d chosen to be the lone wolf. Now, with his family blown apart, he envied his sister for the life she’d built and found solace in. His life had been his mother’s case.

  And look where that had gotten him.

  Outside, a car door slammed and he wandered to the door, his insides grinding like rusty gears. His own fault for burying his agony. When he got to the doorway, he glanced back at the living room. This was it. He had to let it go. Let his mother go. How he’d do it, he wasn’t sure, but he had a starting point.

  He hoped.

  Brent stood with his feet just inside the threshold. Go. The porch was right there, the overhang blocking the bright sunshine. If he stepped out now, that would be it. Thousands of times he’d left this house. Today would be different. Today he had answers.

  “Brent?”

  Jenna stood at the base of the stairs in jeans tucked into boots, and wearing a flowy white shirt and a black leather jacket.

  He’d called her each day for the last three days, but her only response had been a text telling him she’d call him soon. Which she hadn’t yet done. Couldn’t blame her. He’d shoved her away enough. Now he had to throw himself on her mercy.

  And alter his plan of attack.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Your text said it was important.”

  “It is. How’s your head?”

  She shrugged. “Not bad. Still hurts a little.”

  She started to climb the steps, but he held up his hand. “I’m coming out.”

  And he did. He stepped over that threshold and—how about that?—it wasn’t the torture he expected. Really, the only thing he felt was...relief.

  He turned, closed the door behind him and met her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You didn’t lock it,” Jenna said.

  “Don’t need to.”

  “You’re going back in?”

  “No.”

  She stared up at him, her normally sparkly blue eyes flat, and that punch to the chest he always got made him realize all over again that he had major work to do. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “All of it. Pushing you away when you wanted to help. Firing you because I was scared. I’m a mess and you figured that out.”

  “Everyone is a mess, Brent. If everyone were perfect, life would be boring. The trick is to find people who accept the mess. I accept your mess. What I can’t deal with is you taking your mess out on me. And, frankly, we could have talked about this in Chicago. Why drag me out here?”

  He waved a hand toward the house. “I cleaned everything out.”

  “The house?”

  “Yeah. It’s empty.”

  She reached for him, squeezed his wrist and that feeling, that connection, shot clear up his arm. He wanted her. Even the high-maintenance parts that would drive him insane because she’d always want to talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. But he wanted it. All of it.

  “Why?”

  “It’s over now. Did Russ tell you?”

  She nodded.

  “Sixteen women so far. That’s the number they know about. Over twenty-three years, who knows how many more my uncle killed while on his road trips.” He tipped his head back, let the sun warm his face and chase the chill from his body. “He doesn’t even know why he did it. It’s...”

  “Twisted,” Jenna said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Jenna wasn’t the only one. “I don’t know where we all go from here.”

  “How’s Sylvie?”

  “She’s in Florida. Camille and I forced her to go visit her friend. We’re hoping she stays a while. Right now, there’s no reason for her to be here. Her daughter and her husband are in custody. Her family was blown apart too, and as bad as this situation is for Camille and me, as broken as we are, I can’t even go where my aunt has to. How the hell does someone recover from that?”

  Jenna sighed. “I wish I knew.”

  On the road, a flatbed carrying an excavator came to a whooshing stop, and Brent used his free hand to wave.

  Jenna angled back. “What’s with the tractor?”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Pardon?”

  He pulle
d his wrist loose and grabbed both of hers. “We’re tearing it down.”

  She made a tiny gasping noise. He’d surprised her. Good.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The house. It’s coming down. We talked to my dad. We reminded him he walked out and, for once, he needed to do what Camille and I wanted. That shut him up.”

  Jenna continued to gawk at him. “He agreed to this?”

  “After I told him I’d handle selling the property and would give him the money. He can have it. I don’t care. I want it over. I need a life.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this? It’s awfully fast.”

  “Twenty-three years is fast?”

  She squeezed his hands. “You know what I mean.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I do.”

  “So, your father is gone again?”

  “Left yesterday. Probably better that way. At least I have his number. He said he’d call me. We’ll see. I’m not counting on anything. Maybe I’d like to try talking once in a while. We’ll never be close, but...I don’t know. I guess I need to tell him how angry I am that he walked out.” He waved it off. “Anyway, I’m tearing this house down and I wanted you here. Not because I couldn’t do it alone, because I can.”

  “I know you can. You, Marshal Thompson, can do anything you set your mind to.”

  Hopefully, she truly believed that. He squeezed her hands again. “I’m ready. I thought letting this house go would be the hardest thing I’d ever do, but it’s not. And, hold on to your beauty-queen panties because I’m about to say something that will blow your mind.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Uh-oh.”

  “No uh-oh. I hope—I hope—you’ll be happy. Or at least open to it because letting this house go isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. These last few days without you made me realize that letting you go is worse. Way worse. And it hurts. Every time I see you I get this crazy banging in my chest. At first, it baffled me. Now, I think it’s my mother poking me, telling me you’re the one. Even if I didn’t want to admit it in the beginning, I know it now, and I’m asking you to let me try again. To make this right. And I’m starting with tearing this house down. It’s an albatross and—”