Stupid, he knew, being that hung up on a woman with that kind of reckless disregard. But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop thinking about her, even months later.
Even now he found himself wondering what that mouth of hers would feel like pressed against his. How she would taste. How she would feel if he pressed her up against a wall, then pressed himself against her …
“Yeah. For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me,” Nia muttered, her voice low and soft. Then she cleared her throat. “Look, I’m sorry to be calling so late. I just wanted to … well …”
Her voice trailed off.
Law cocked a brow and leaned back against the wall. “You wanted to what?” he asked when her silence stretched from a few seconds into nearly a minute.
“I … shit. Has anything else, um, weird happened in Ash since, well, you know, that shithead died?”
“Weird.” Law ran his tongue along his teeth and tried to get his brain to think about something beyond the physical images. But he wasn’t having much luck. “Define weird.”
She muttered under her breath and then abruptly said, “You know what? Forget it.”
And just like that, she hung up.
CHAPTER
FOUR
DEFINE WEIRD, he tells her.
Nia was still trying to decide if Law Reilly had been trying to piss her off or if he’d been serious.
Weird was weird. What was there to define? But screw it. She’d just check things out herself. And that was what she was doing, why she’d spent the past eleven-something hours on her bike, driving from home to Ash, the small town almost an hour outside of Lexington.
She wanted answers—she’d get them. Wasn’t like she had anything better to do, not really. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate, and it was finally starting to show in her work, as evidenced by the fact that the last job she’d tried to get, they’d given it to somebody with half her experience, half her talent. But more heart, that much Nia could admit. She had no heart left, not for this at least.
She’d spent so many years building her career in photojournalism, but lately, all she was doing was flushing it down the drain. She didn’t give a damn, either.
She had to find closure, find some way to make herself accept this, or her life, as she knew it at least, was just going to stay in limbo. So she was back here. Whether or not she’d stay for long, Nia didn’t know. But the trouble had started here, so this was where she would start.
For now.
This was … unexpected.
He watched from the café as she rode into town. He’d seen her before. But the last time she’d been in town had been months ago … not long before things had come to a head.
Everything was over now. Why was she here? Why now?
For reasons that he couldn’t really understand, the sight of her had him … twitchy.
“One hell of a bike, huh?”
He glanced over as a couple of deputies came out. Giving them a smile, he shrugged and said, “I guess. I don’t know much about motorcycles.”
“I bet it would be a hell of a ride,” Ethan Sheffield said, a wide, wicked grin on his face. “The bike. The babe.”
Kent Jennings, a member of the city’s finest, smacked Ethan in the back of the head. “Your wife would kill you—over the bike and the babe. And you wouldn’t consider either of them—you’re too damn whipped.”
“Yeah. But I can think … right?”
Joking with the rest of them, he still watched her, watched as she pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office … watched.
Wondered.
“Okay, Joely … I’m trying,” she muttered, climbing off her bike and staring up at the courthouse.
Nia could all but feel the eyes crawling all over her as she started toward the sheriff’s office. She knew she wouldn’t find Dwight Nielson in there. She’d attended his funeral, although she’d kept to the back and left without speaking to a soul.
What she’d known of the guy, she had liked. It bothered her that the guy who had killed her cousin had cut such a wide swath of death. A sheriff, a deputy, her cousin … and he’d almost killed Hope Carson, as well. If it wasn’t for the sheriff, Hope would have died, too, probably.
Hope had survived, though. She’d survived and because of the sheriff, the son of a bitch Carson was dead in the ground.
Still, it just didn’t sit right. Nia just couldn’t buy it.
That was why she was here.
It didn’t matter that she didn’t belong here. It didn’t matter that they had told her that her cousin’s killer was dead. It didn’t matter that everybody else insisted that things fit—that it was over.
It didn’t fit for her. Nia liked it when things fit into a certain order and for some reason, these things didn’t fit into the order they were supposed to fit, and damn it, she wasn’t going to get whatever closure she needed until those pieces fit.
It was just … too easy, she guessed. Something that was too easy didn’t settle right with her.
Besides that, her instincts were humming. Nia trusted her instincts. Even though right now, she knew it might be grief pushing her to cling to something … anything.
But she didn’t think that was the case.
As she started toward the sheriff’s office, something shivered down her spine and her instincts went from a hum to a scream. Casually, she reached into her hip pocket and tugged her iPhone, pulled it out. Pretending to study it, she lowered her head. Using the phone as camouflage, she looked around without moving her head, tried to isolate just where that feeling was coming from.
Somebody was watching her. Staring at her—hard. She could all but feel the heavy intensity of that stare. But try as she might, she couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.
“Sheriff.”
Ezra still had to fight the urge to flinch when she said it in that tone of voice. He kept expecting Ms. Tuttle to throw him out on his ass for being an impostor. And honestly, he felt like one.
Plastering what was most likely a very false-looking smile on his face, he met her bright, impossibly vivid green eyes and said, “Good morning, Ms. Tuttle. How are you doing?”
“Not running late, as you obviously were.”
A dull red blush crept up his cheeks—he hadn’t been late.
His hours were typically from eight in the morning until five and he had been in this damn seat by 7:53. Normally, he was here at 7:30, the same time as Ms. Tuttle, because she terrified him. But that morning … well, Lena had slipped into the shower with him. He had lost track of time.
Without looking away, he said, “I was attending to an important personal matter.”
For a split second, he thought he saw what might have been a smile tugging at her stern mouth. But then it was gone—gone before he could be sure. “Hmph. I’m sure you were. Well, I hope it was very important. Now … I assume you’re ready to handle business matters, Sheriff. There’s a young lady here to speak with you. Claims she knew Sheriff … Sheriff Nielson.”
Ms. Tuttle’s eyes gleamed brightly for a second, too brightly, and she looked away. To give her a moment, Ezra frowned and pretended to study the ruthlessly organized calendar she always provided for him.
“I don’t see anybody on my schedule.”
“Hmph. Like you would know what to do with that schedule if I didn’t give it to you,” she muttered. Then she sighed and reached up, patted her hair. “She’s not on the schedule, Sheriff King. Her name is Nia Hollister—”
Ezra looked up. “Hollister.”
“Yes.”
Their eyes locked, bright and snapping green with dark, deep forest green. Ezra looked away first.
That name would echo through this county for decades. None of them knew the woman who had died here. Died in their town. But none of them would ever forget her either.
“Nia,” he murmured. “That would be Jolene’s—the victim’s—cousin.”
“Yes. Do you have time to speak to her?�
�
Although it was a question, it was asked in such a way that Ezra knew if he said no, he might as well hold out his knuckles to get them rapped. Not that he’d planned on saying no, anyway.
Still, he couldn’t let her think she had him completely cowed. Right?
He folded his face into stern lines and met her gaze somberly. “I’ll make time. But we need to try to stick to the schedule.”
“I make the damn schedule,” she sniffed. Then she turned on her square heels and let herself out.
Letting his head fall against the back of his chair, he muttered, “Dwight, I appreciate you leaving me the dragon, but geez. How do I rein her in?”
There wasn’t an answer, of course, and three minutes later, he forced himself upright as he heard the familiar tap-tap-tap of Ms. Tuttle’s heels on the tile floors. He didn’t hear anybody else behind her, although he imagined Joely Hollister’s cousin was there.
And she was … A second later, the door opened and Ms. Tuttle stepped aside, allowing a woman to enter before she closed the door and tap-tapped down the hall.
Once Ms. Tuttle was gone, he focused on his visitor.
She was tall—that was Ezra’s first impression.
She was gorgeous—that was his second impression.
She was heartbroken—that was his third, and final, impression.
Even after all this time, she was still broken inside. And there wasn’t much of anything he could do to help her with that, either. He couldn’t give her the closure she needed, because he was still having trouble finding it himself.
“Sheriff King, right?”
He rose from behind his desk. “Yes, that’s right. And you’re Nia Hollister.”
She gave him a tight, strained smile. “Yes. Thanks for seeing me like this.”
“Not a problem.” He gestured to the seat across from his desk and waited until she’d sat before he lowered himself back to his chair. As she crossed one jean-clad leg over the other, he folded his hands. “What can I do for you?”
She swallowed and looked down, studying the black messenger bag she carried. “I … this isn’t easy,” she said quietly. She looked back at him, once more giving him that tight, strained smile. “I usually have something of a reputation for being very calm, logical … rational. I don’t … well, I don’t know exactly, but lately, I’m so paranoid, I’m even annoying myself and that’s not like me.”
Ezra cocked a brow at her. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?”
She reached inside the black bag, pulling out a file folder. “I … I don’t know if you know much about my cousin.”
“There’s not a person in this town who doesn’t know about your cousin, Ms. Hollister. We’re all terribly sorry,” he said softly.
“Thank you.” She nodded, gripping the folder so tightly her toffee-colored skin went bloodless. “I … I’d been out of town for a few weeks before she was killed. And not in very good contact before that. It had been probably close to three months since I’d seen her. Her fiancé, well, he just—he couldn’t cope with anything after he was told she’d died, and she was in bad shape. We had a closed casket ceremony.”
She stroked the folder, her gold eyes staring off into the distance, seeing something. Memories, Ezra assumed. Unpleasant ones, he suspected, judging by the way her mouth tightened, the way her lower lip trembled as she fought against tears.
“Three months,” she whispered again. “When I saw her the day I came to identify her, I didn’t think about her hair.”
Something inside Ezra went cold. “Her hair?”
Nia’s eyes cut to his. “It was short—too short. I’d thought maybe she’d gotten it cut … they were getting married soon, and I thought … well, I wasn’t really reading e-mail much, deleting a lot. Not keeping an eye on Facebook or anything either. I just didn’t think. But her hair was too short. And she didn’t cut it.”
“How do you know?”
Nia cocked her head. “I asked her fiancé. Joely wanted long hair for her wedding … and if that’s what she said she wanted, she wouldn’t have cut it on a whim. Not my cousin.” With a strained smile, she said, “Joely didn’t do whims. She just didn’t. I might react on a whim and go short with my hair, but once she made up her mind, she didn’t change it.”
Tucking that information away, Ezra studied her face.
“Okay. I’m trying to understand why you’re telling me this, but okay.”
“I think her killer did it.” Then she reached inside the folder and pulled out a picture. It was a close-up of a woman’s necklace—a gold heart, simple, elegant. Nothing particularly unique about it. “And her necklace is missing.”
Ezra frowned, studying the little bit of gold. “No necklace was reported on her or near the victim. We found a pair of earrings, an engagement ring, and her watch. But no necklace.”
“I know. I’m the one who claimed her personal effects. But she would have worn that necklace. It wasn’t in her car, her home, and nobody has reported it in the days since she died. I think the killer took it.”
Now the ice in Ezra’s gut was a cold fire—cold, but ready. Just like him. He felt strangely excited … tense but somehow loose. Even as he tried to tell himself to let it go, to move on. “That’s a possibility, but unless we find where he kept his …”
“Trophies?” Nia offered, lifting a brow.
He didn’t respond, wasn’t entirely sure how to.
“I’m telling you this to give you another tool to find him,” she said softly.
“Find him,” Ezra repeated.
Find him—fuck, he wished he could just write her words off. Find him—Joe Carson didn’t need to be found. He was buried in Clinton, Oklahoma, and half the town there was cursing the people of Ash, Kentucky, while the other half was secretly crowing in delight or thanking God and muttering about just rewards.
Find him—according to the way the case went down, Jolene Hollister’s killer didn’t need to be found because he was already dead. He’d been found with those personal effects, personal effects that had belonged to Jolene Hollister. It had been enough to incriminate him. Questioning after the fact revealed he had been seen in town, often, and he was also staying in a motel in another small town twenty miles away—the room had been in his name for several weeks. Before that, there was no record of him in Ash or even near the town, but if a cop couldn’t cover his tracks, who could?
Oh, yeah, Ezra wanted to think that Nia was paranoid, even waited a few seconds to give his brain a chance to conjure up the appropriate, noncondescending response.
It wouldn’t come.
As he stared into golden eyes, all he could feel was a faint, excited hum in his blood … one that was all too familiar.
“Exactly why do you think I need tools to find him?” he asked finally, leaning back in his chair, keeping his poker face on.
“Well, at least you’re not patting me on the head and reminding me that you guys buried somebody, somebody you think did it,” she muttered, more to herself than him.
Ezra chuckled. “I get the feeling that if some guy tried to pat you on the head, he might draw back a bloody stump, Ms. Hollister. And you haven’t answered me.”
“I’m still trying to figure out how to say it. I was prepared to come in here and have you throw me out on my ass, seeing as how you were probably involved in closing that case.”
“No.” He shrugged. “I just stepped into this slot at the beginning of the year. The deputy sheriff, Steven Mabry, took over the job temporarily, but he was only willing to do it until they found somebody else. It’s not a job he wanted for the long haul just yet.”
Nia lifted a brow. “I take it you’re the somebody else?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced, absently reaching down to rub his leg. “I’m the somebody else.”
“So maybe that’s why you’re not throwing me out on my ass. You haven’t been involved in this from the get-go.” She inclined her head as she spoke.
; Ezra grinned at her. “Oh, no. Make no mistake. I couldn’t have been any more involved in this if I’d asked. And I didn’t ask—didn’t want it, either. Now that you’re done stalling, why don’t you tell me just why you think I need to find a killer when the record says he’s already been found … found dead, by the way?”
A straight shooter, Nia surmised.
A drop-dead gorgeous one, too. Under normal circumstances, she’d like to see him in front of her camera. Those deep green eyes, that wide, somewhat wicked smile.
But Nia’s life was so far from normal … Still trying to find the words, she looked around his office. Absently, she glanced down, saw the glint of gold on his hand. “You’re married.”
“Yep. Few months ago. And you’re still stalling.”
“Not … stalling. Formulating.” Nervously, she rose from the chair and started to pace. Her messenger bag bumped against her hip as she did and she rested a hand on it, on the files inside. “This … shit. I was out here before, back when Sheriff Nielson was trying to find my cousin’s killer. Did you hear about that?”
A faint grin curved Ezra’s mouth up. “Enough to hear that you’ve got a mean right hook.”
“I take it you and Reilly are friends.” She blushed hotly and looked away.
“Of a sort. Yeah, I guess. He’s one of my wife’s best friends. And because I love her, I try not to hate him.”
Curious, she glanced back at him. “Ah, why would you hate him for being friends with her?”
“Because he had a thing for her when I first moved here.” Then he scowled. “Shit, you got a way of making people tell you things, you know that.”
He glanced down, studying a picture frame on his desk.
Nia followed his gaze. “Is that your wife?”
He nodded.
Nia waited, but he didn’t hold it out to her. She lifted a brow. “May I see?”
If You Know Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense Page 4