Until…shoot, it simply wasn’t fair that her past could rise up and scream at her. Taunt her. Tell her that not only was she not safe, but…not worthy. Except, in Knox’s arms, she could believe she was.
Glo was right. She had nothing to be ashamed about.
Knox deserved to know why she’d freaked out on him.
And that she’d never do it again if he felt like, ever… Oh boy.
Because the memory of the warmth that had suffused her entire body as she kissed him, felt his strong arms move around her to cradle her, his big hand touching her face so gently…
Yeah, no wonder she’d slept well.
Except now she remembered how heartbroken he’d looked last night when he thought he’d hurt her, and it propelled her to her feet to grab a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her toiletry bag, and headed to the bathroom to freshen up.
At least enough to face him, because the man got up early. Way early.
He was probably in the barn attending to his new baby bull.
She finished brushing her teeth and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was quiet, but a basket of freshly baked muffins sat on the counter with a note—Help yourself to a morning glory.
She grabbed a napkin and a muffin and headed outside, sliding on a pair of Birkenstocks by the door before she trekked through the yard toward the barn.
The door was open, as she suspected, and she stopped to pet a baby goat, its tongue wrapping around her hand, probably in search of crumbs.
Gordo had been let out into the pen, his stall open to the other side. Knox had herded the other bulls out to their own pastures a couple days earlier.
She headed toward the pen, expecting to see Knox sitting on a stool, bottle-feeding his bull—yet unnamed—and stopped, surprised to see Gerri with the bull nuzzled up to her, gulping down the bottle.
“Good morning,” Gerri said. She wore a work shirt and jeans, her hair tied back in a bandanna.
“Good morning.” Kelsey came up to the rail and put her foot on it. “He’s getting big.”
“These guys are born big,” Gerri said. “Only a week and this little guy already has a temper. Knox will probably release them to pasture when he gets back.”
Gets back? “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He left with Tate last night somewhere. That’s Tate—he’s always taking off. I’m not sure why he needs Knox. They’ll probably be back later today.”
Oh. She watched Gerri for a while, then headed back to the house and found Glo seated on a high-top chair. “Hey,” Glo said between muffin bites.
“Did you know Tate and Knox left last night?”
Glo frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah, and they didn’t even tell Gerri where they went.”
Glo said nothing, but she picked up her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Tate.”
Kelsey slid onto a stool. “What if I frightened the man away?”
Glo lowered the phone. “Seriously?”
“Okay, see, there’s a pattern of crazy going on here, one that Knox can hardly ignore. The first night I met him, I practically plowed down innocent bystanders on my way out of the beer tent, as if some phantom was chasing me—”
“Um—”
Kelsey held up her hand. “Then, after the man saved my life, I couldn’t even show up to thank him personally. Instead, I floor it to Oklahoma, where I practically have a meltdown onstage.”
“That might not have been the best reaction—”
“Thanks for that.”
Glo shrugged.
“And let’s not forget last night, when the man kisses me with such…such…let’s just say it wasn’t his fault I freaked out. In fact, I’m not even sure why I freaked out.”
“I know why,” Glo said, putting down her phone. “It’s because you’re afraid that if Knox truly knows you, truly sees you and all…” She twirled her hand in front of Kelsey. “All the layers of Kelsey Jones—then he’ll…run.”
Kelsey just stared at her, and her voice dropped. “Is it that bad?”
“Is what—”
“My layers. My crazy layers.”
Glo turned, took her hands. “No crazier than the rest of us. Sure, you have some darker baggage, maybe, but I’m guessing that everyone thinks their baggage is dark. So, no.”
She sighed. “I’m tired of the baggage.”
Glo nodded. Her phone vibrated, and she picked it up. Read the text.
“Is it from Tate?”
She nodded. “He says, ‘I’m doing my job. Don’t round up the posse just yet, Woody.’” She looked at Kelsey. “Why is he calling me Woody?”
“As in Buzz Lightyear and Woody,” Gerri said, walking up to them. “Tate’s favorite show when he was a kid. Although I think he wanted to be Buzz.”
“I’ll remember that,” Glo said as she pocketed her phone.
Gerri set down a couple pairs of gloves on the counter. “You two girls up for taming some wicked thistles in the garden?”
Glo reached over and grabbed the gloves. “Yeah, but you’ll have to show us what the thistles look like.”
“They look like two grown men who sneak off into the night.” Gerri winked, kidding, but the comparison stuck around as the day drew out with no sign of Knox. Or Tate.
Not even a text.
And that night, his absence turned downright prickly as Kelsey headed downstairs, turned on the television, and watched a hockey game. It brought back old memories of her father watching the Minnesota Wild.
The next day she brought her guitar out to the porch and started to work out some lyrics that had gotten tangled in her brain.
* * *
What if I let myself love you
What if I called this home.
What if my heart said forever
And never let my love roam…
* * *
No, that sounded silly. But she kept scrawling until she put down something that made more sense.
A ballad, really, about the unexpected turns of life. And love, perhaps, waiting at the end of the road.
“Still no word from Tate?” Kelsey asked that night as Glo was typing an email.
Glo shook her head.
Which really, was why the next morning, when Carter called, when he suggested the gig up in Mercy Falls, a mere two hours from the ranch, when he dropped the name Benjamin King and told them about the invitation to sing at King’s rising star venue, the Gray Pony, and when he said that King wanted to meet with them about recording for his label, she didn’t hesitate.
In fact, she didn’t even ask Glo.
“We’ll be there.”
“You going to be okay?”
Tate stood outside the bathroom stall of the Twenty-Fourth Precinct. He was probably leaning against the sink, arms folded, but Knox had heard his brother stifling his own nausea when Detective Rayburn finally showed them the file.
Thank you, Katherine Noble, whose NYC connections had opened the doors Knox needed to track down Vince Russell, including a meet-and-greet with not only the prosecuting attorney for the case, but the detective who’d tracked down the three gang members who had jumped Clinton and Rebecca Jones and their fourteen-year-old daughter at 11:00 p.m. near 105th Street in Central Park twelve years ago.
They’d also attacked a handful of other people, but their terror spree culminated on the three tourists from Minnesota.
Knox had lost his pitiful lunch of a street hot dog when he’d opened the file. The girl in the photo had been beaten so badly Knox didn’t recognize her. The first-on-the-scene officer had written that she looked tortured. Thankfully, the photo was taken after the officer had covered her naked body with his jacket.
Knox had winced, shutting his eyes to the image, unable to bear the bruises, the blood, the horror of seeing the trauma.
But oh, it ignited not only a fury at her attackers, but an adm
iration of the courageous girl who had climbed out of a twelve-day coma, spent seven weeks in the hospital, and had to learn how to walk, talk, and read again, thanks to her head trauma.
Oh, Kelsey, you left so much out.
But what could she say, really, to capture the horror of being fourteen and jumped by three men—two who were only a couple years older than she was. And the perpetrator, Russell, had just turned eighteen. Knox had burned the kid’s image into his brain.
Dark hair, a swastika tatted between his eyebrows, a scar across his chin. Yeah, he’d recognize this guy on the street, or in a bar…or replaying over and over in his nightmares.
No wonder Kelsey dodged demons. Even if she couldn’t remember the assault—which according to the court documents, she had no recollection of the entire evening, just impressions, sounds and smells—one look at this guy turned the event brutally real.
Russell, I’m going to find you.
He came out of the stall and walked over to the sink. Tate moved away, no judgment on his face. Knox ran the water, washed his face, rinsed his mouth, and grabbed and wet a couple paper towels, holding them against his tired eyes.
He could use a little divine intervention trying to find one dirtbag in a city of 8.6 million people. Two days of searching had netted them exactly nil. They’d contacted Russell’s parole officer, visited his current address, a halfway house in the Bronx, talked with the resident manager, and even driven through the neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where his former gang hung out.
They’d finally returned to the Twenty-Fourth Precinct to talk to Detective Rayburn, a balding, thickly built man with steely, tired eyes. He’d taken them into a room with an interactive map detailing all of New York and the gang activity. Spent the last hour giving them the dark rundown of the life of a parolee.
“They can’t get a job, can’t find housing, and have been out of the population for so long they don’t know how to integrate back into society. They’re like children, in many ways, and of course the first thing that happens when the old life comes knocking is to kick back in with their gang.”
Rayburn had leaned against the wall, his arms folded. “If this guy is anywhere, he’s back with the Morris Park gang, an Aryan group right in the heart of a primarily Jewish neighborhood.” He shook his head.
“And what about his threats against Kelsey?” Tate asked.
That’s when Knox had made the mistake of opening the file again, searching for the man’s statement and threats. Happened again on Kelsey’s picture and had to leave the room.
Now, he threw the towels into the trash, glanced at a grim-faced Tate, and headed back into the hallway.
Detective Rayburn held a cup of coffee. “Believe me, the entire thing makes me sick too. In all my years working homicide, this was one that got to me. It made no sense—wasn’t racially targeted, the Joneses had nothing of value on them. It was just a bunch of kids bent on terrorizing people. Russell may or may not have been the ringleader, but he was the only adult in the group. And, he was the rapist—we found his DNA—”
“That’s all I can take,” Knox said, lifting his hand. “We just need to make sure Russell wasn’t in Texas three weeks ago during the San Antonio bombing. Or trying to hunt down Kelsey now.”
Rayburn considered them a moment, then gestured toward a nearby interrogation room. Knox followed him in, behind Tate, and Rayburn closed the door.
Took a breath. “Okay, so if you guys can give me your word you won’t take justice into your own hands…” He turned, raised an eyebrow.
Tate had folded his arms.
Knox met his eyes but affirmed nothing.
“Yeah, I get that. I just don’t want to show up somewhere and find you two lying in a puddle of your own blood. These guys aren’t to be messed with.”
“We just want to talk,” Tate said in a dark tone that Knox didn’t recognize. He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Yeah, the only scout in the family had been Knox, and he wasn’t making any promises.
But Rayburn nodded. “He has a brother. AJ. He owns a barbershop on Cruger Avenue in the Bronx. Vince used to hang there sometimes. But I didn’t tell you that.”
Tate nodded, and Knox held out his hand. “If you hear anything…”
Rayburn nodded. Held on a bit longer. “Tell Kelsey…okay, maybe don’t tell her anything. But I’m glad she has people. She sat in that hospital for two weeks before anyone came for her—I think it was her brother. Navy guy, if I remember correctly. But she…was alone.”
“Not anymore,” Knox said and released him.
They took an Uber through Manhattan, into the Bronx, onto Boston Road, and finally slowed in the residential district of Cruger Avenue. They passed two-story brick houses, some with awnings, clean and groomed, not what Knox might consider gang territory, although his understanding of gang life and criminals was limited to Blue Bloods and a few episodes of Law & Order.
Knox suspected he might be just as unassuming as the Joneses had been walking through Central Park, buoyant after a theater performance.
They crossed an intersection framed by storefront shops—a carpet place, a deli, a Chinese takeout, a nail salon. More brick houses, many with flower pots hanging from clean front porches, a green fence that cordoned off a vacant lot, Keep Out signs posted, and finally they came to the barbershop, a tiny hole-in-the-wall with a faded red awning imprinted with the words AJ’s Barbershop. Next to it, a small deli featured lotto tickets and a yellow sign that read simply We Sell Beer.
Tate headed straight for the barbershop, something changed in his demeanor. But he stopped right outside the door, his grip on the handle. “I do the talking. Whatever you do, don’t…just don’t be you.”
Huh?
But Tate didn’t wait.
The place smelled of hair tonic and shampoo. An older man in a green apron sat in a chair. Another man with short blond hair, late thirties bent over him with clippers.
He looked up at Tate and Knox. Lifted his chin. “Sit down on the bench. There’s a wait.”
Tate didn’t move. “AJ Russell?”
The man stopped the clipper motor. He held a comb in the other hand. Said nothing for a moment, then a quiet, “Why?”
Knox made to move, but Tate stepped up to AJ. “We need to talk to you about your brother.” No question, just a statement, a sort of easy tone, but a seriousness in it that stilled Knox.
Especially when Tate took the clippers from AJ’s hand. Set them on the counter, apologized to his customer, and pushed AJ into the back room.
AJ turned, a glance over his shoulder.
“We’re just talking, pal. No worries,” Tate said, his voice friendly.
But the tiny hairs raised on Knox’s neck when Tate closed the office door behind them.
“Sit,” Tate said and kicked out the rolling chair from a metal desk.
AJ tightened his jaw, and for the first time, Knox saw the resemblance to his brother, Vince. Square-jawed, the man bore a tattoo on the side of his neck, half covered by his smock, a German two-headed eagle.
He sat. Glared up at Tate, who didn’t change his expression. Tate lowered his voice and leaned over AJ.
AJ moved so fast, Knox hadn’t a clue how he’d picked it up, but in a second, he’d taken a swipe at Tate with an open shaving blade.
Little brother Tate had honed reflexes like Knox had never seen. He stepped back, the knife skimming past his gut, grabbed AJ’s wrist, jerked him forward, and slammed his fist into the man’s face with a cross-hand punch that had AJ’s head snapping back.
Then Tate slammed his wrist against the chair, dislodged the blade, and dumped AJ on the ground with such quick force that Knox had to scramble out of the way.
Tate held the guy down in an arm submission hold, one knee in his spine, his mouth close to AJ’s. “We’re going to forgive that, on account of you don’t know who we are.”
Who we are?
Knox just star
ed at Tate. Apparently, his brother had learned a few tricks in Vegas.
He wasn’t sure if he should help him or get out of his way.
Tate didn’t look like he needed any help.
“We’re friends of Kelsey Jones. That name should be familiar to you because your brother raped her and murdered her parents. Nod if you recollect this.”
AJ’s cheek was smashed on his grimy floor, but he nodded.
“Your brother is out of jail and gone missing, and my guess is that you know where he is.”
“No, I don’t! I don’t know where Vince is!”
Tate considered him a moment. “He hasn’t come by here once in the last three weeks? I find that hard to believe.”
He must have exerted pressure on AJ because the man wheezed. Swallowed. “Fine, yes. Once. Right after he got out. Said he…” He closed his eyes.
“What? Said what?”
“He said he had unfinished business!”
Tate let out a word that seemed appropriate for the moment, then looked up at Knox.
Knox wrapped his hands around the back of his neck, squeezed. It was better than hitting something. Or someone.
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Anybody who he trusts, that he’d go to for help?”
AJ hesitated.
“I’m not sure who you’re protecting, or why, but if your brother hurts my friend, I’m coming after you. And my brother won’t be here to keep me from breaking your fingers.” As if for emphasis, he grabbed one of AJ’s fingers.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Knox said quietly.
Tate didn’t look at him.
The man grunted, a sweat breaking across his forehead. “Listen—no. I don’t know. His cellmate got out a month before he did. They were pretty tight—”
“Who was his cellmate?”
“This guy. His name was…Harris, I think. Bradley Harris.”
“What was he in for?”
AJ took a breath. “I think he tried to blow up something.”
Tate let him go. Got to his feet. Looked down at AJ. “If your brother comes back here, I want you to call me.” He yanked AJ’s phone from his pocket. No screen lock. He dialed in his number, sent himself a text. Dropped the phone on the man’s back. “We’ll be in touch.”
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