“No. But I suspect we need to tell him.” Then Nielson paused. “Shouldn’t we?”
Remy nodded. Then he frowned, as the odd note in the sheriff’s voice penetrated the fog of shock. “Yes, we should. Why wouldn’t we?”
“You have to admit, the similarity is eerie. And none of this trouble started until he showed up. Now … well, we have a dead woman on our hands, and the dead woman looks an awful lot like the woman he’s now living with. A lot like your former lover.”
Remy closed his eyes and reached up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Shit, shit, and double fuck. “It’s not King, and you know it. Your gut’s already telling you that.”
“Can we afford to be wrong?” Nielson murmured.
“No. We can’t.” Remy slid the picture back in the file and tossed it on the sheriff’s desk and then looked at him. “That’s why we need to tell him, because if we don’t … what if this guy is out trolling for women who fit the profile? If we don’t tell him, how can he protect her?”
Nielson nodded.
“It’s not him.” Remy shook his head, remembering with no small amount of envy the way King had looked at Lena. The way Lena’s face had softened when she heard the other guy’s voice.
She hadn’t ever once looked at him that way.
He hadn’t ever once managed to put that soft glow on her face.
He wasn’t jealous of King being with Lena, exactly. He had liked her a lot, had wanted her like hell, but he hadn’t been in love with her. Still, he was jealous of the way he saw them looking at each other—envious of what it looked like they had going.
King was a decent guy—Lena, her instincts about people were solid. And that dog of hers, hell, even if Lena’s instincts about people weren’t dead-on, that dog could tell a bastard from a mile off.
“It’s not him,” he murmured again.
“Okay. So we tell him.” Then Nielson grimaced. “That was my gut instinct, too. I just want somebody else who can help me shoulder the guilt if I’m wrong.”
Remy smirked. “Thanks.”
The phone chose that particular moment to ring.
Dwight reached down and pushed a button. “Yes?”
The brisk, efficient voice of his assistant, Ms. Tuttle, came through the speakerphone. “Ezra King is here to speak with you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”
Speak of the devil, Remy thought as he listened to Ms. Tuttle. The disapproval in her voice came through loud and clear and he grinned, watched as Dwight fought not to do the same. If he so much as twitched an amused eyelash, the woman would know and he wouldn’t have any peace. The sheriff’s schedule was her domain, and she ruled it with an iron fist—hell and damnation would rain down on any who interfered.
Including the sheriff.
“It’s okay, Ms. Tuttle. He’s probably here to see if there’s any news about the fire at his place.”
Remy could almost hear her teeth clenching, gritting together. “He could have called. It’s common courtesy.”
“Yes …”
Remy grabbed a pad of paper and scrawled something down, held it up.
Dwight saw it and grinned, winked.
Then, without missing a beat, he continued. “But he’s had a rough week, a rough year, really. It’s our Christian duty to be understanding, especially in this trying time.”
“Humph.” Ms. Tuttle didn’t sound terribly impressed. “You’re right, of course.”
“Send him on back. I’ll speak with him, and afterward, I’ll do my best to make sure he understands the importance of calling. We can’t have him messing up the schedule.” At that, Dwight rolled his eyes. As he put the phone down, he muttered, “You’d think she was handling the president’s daily affairs, sometimes.”
In under a minute, there was a brisk knock at the door and Ms. Tuttle stood there, a petite woman with steel-gray hair and snapping green eyes. She stepped aside to let Ezra enter and then, with a dismissive sniff, she closed the door behind her.
They waited until the familiar plodding tread of her thick-soled shoes had faded before Ezra looked at Dwight, a golden-brown brow cocked.
“Our Christian duty?” Ezra asked.
Dwight grinned. “Did she have her speakerphone on?”
“Nah, just turned up loud. Guess she’s hard of hearing—I heard every damn word.” Then he glanced at Remy, gave him a short nod. “Jennings.”
If Remy wasn’t trained to notice things about people, he wouldn’t have seen it. Ezra was good. Damn good. There wasn’t really that much that gave him away. Just a faint tightening around his eyes. No change in his voice, nothing in the way he moved. Just that thing around the eyes.
Knowing what he knew about cops, Remy suspected King had been in touch with Nielson about the fire … and other things, like the weird stuff that had happened at Lena’s place.
Had the guy suspected something was off?
Was that why he was here?
Regardless, Nielson would probably tell him about the Hollister woman, and it was going to be one hell of a shock when he saw that picture, when he realized who the woman was.
And it was something Remy didn’t need to be here for, he decided.
Although he still needed to discuss things with the sheriff, he reached for his briefcase and went to stand up. “Dwight, I’ll catch up with you later.”
“No.” Ezra stopped, hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his worn-out jeans. “Actually, I’d planned to look you up later … you might as well hear it now.”
Remy paused, then slowly settled back into the chair, hooking one ankle over his knee. “Exactly what do I need to hear?”
Instead of saying anything, Ezra slid a hand inside his pocket. Tugged something out. Whatever it was, it was small, small enough to hide inside the palm of his hand, and he kept it tucked there, where Remy couldn’t see it, where the sheriff couldn’t see it.
“I can’t give any good reason why I picked this up,” Ezra said, his voice distracted. “I was staring at the house, watching it go up in flames, thinking about how proud Grandma always was of that house, how much she loved it. I was so fucking pissed. Still am. I looked down, and there it was.”
“There what was, Ezra?” Dwight asked.
Remy’s gut went hot, tight.
Clenching his jaw, he stood up.
Ezra’s green eyes cut to him.
They should have been hard, cold as ice, or hot with fury.
But what Remy saw was pity.
And he knew. Somehow, he just knew.
Even before Ezra uncurled his hand and let that gold cross swing from his hand. Remy closed his eyes, looked away. But he could still see that cross, swinging there.
Brody’s cross.
Dwight stood up, leaning across his desk.
“What is that?” he murmured, more to himself than anybody else.
It’s Brody’s. The words sprang to his lips, but Remy bit them back. He couldn’t say it—shit. Couldn’t say it out loud. Wasn’t going to admit what that was, not in front of two fucking cops—
Shit. Shit. He hurled his briefcase down and started to pace the small office, scrubbing his hands over his face. He couldn’t breathe. Damn it, he couldn’t breathe.
Reaching down, he tugged at the knot of his tie, but it didn’t help.
What if that stupid kid had gotten hurt?
What if somebody had been in the house?
“Remy?”
Turning around, he met Dwight’s gaze, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything. He wanted to yell, curse—wanted to hit something. Wanted to go track down his brother and pound him senseless, make him wake up and see just how screwed up the kid had gotten.
Something had to be done, damn it.
“What’s going on, Remy?” Dwight asked.
Remy shook his head. He couldn’t say anything.
“It’s Brody’s necklace,” Ezra said, his voice quiet. “I remember seeing him wear it in town, maybe two weeks ago.”
H
e caught the charm in his hand, studied it. “It just didn’t seem like the kind of thing a teenaged boy would wear, you know? Unless a girlfriend gave it to him.” Ezra looked at Remy as he added, “Or maybe a mother who passed away.”
Silence fell.
Dwight settled back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. He blew out a long, heavy sigh and leaned his head against the padded headrest. “Well, shit.”
“Nothing puts him there,” Remy said, his voice rough and harsh. “That necklace doesn’t mean jack shit.”
“No.” Ezra laid it on the edge of Dwight’s desk and pushed his hands into the back of his pockets. “And the necklace, officially, wasn’t found there. I picked it up, and for all you know, I found it on the side of the road and I’m standing here lying through my teeth.”
“Shit.” Remy reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.
Abruptly, he hauled off, slamming his fist into the solid oak of a filing cabinet. Pain flared, his skin split, and dumbly, he stared at his knuckles, watching as blood started to flow. Then he reached inside his pocket, drew out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand. Looking at Dwight, he said, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.” He shot Ezra a dirty look. “You like fucking things up for me, boy?”
Ezra curled his lip. “Yeah, it just makes my day, Sheriff. I wake up every damn day, thinking about what all I can do to screw with your cozy little town. Get my girlfriend terrorized. Get my house burned down by some teenaged headcase.”
“He’s not a fucking headcase,” Remy snarled.
“Oh, the hell he isn’t.” Ezra slashed a hand through the air and whirled around, glaring at him. “I feel bad for the kid. You think I want to see him slapped with a crime like this? What is he … fourteen? Fifteen? He’s just a fucking kid and he’s got his whole life ahead of him. All he needs to do is figure that out.”
Then he sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. “He isn’t going to do that until he gets his act together. No one was hurt … this time. But you can’t make this go away. You want to give him a smack on the hand, have him come out and sweep up some of the ashes of my house? You think that’s going to convince him he needs to straighten up? He needs help, Jennings. And I think you know that.”
Gut churning, Remy looked away from Ezra and stared at the gold cross on Dwight’s desk, thought about the way his nephew had looked just that morning. Fuck. Why hadn’t the kid come to him? Trusted him?
Eyes burning and throat tight, he looked at Ezra. “What do you want me to say? What in the holy fuck do you want me to do?”
“Get him help. For the love of God, you’re a lawyer—figure it out, work it out. Get him help—he isn’t going to find what he needs in jail, but he can’t just walk away from this either.”
Remy shifted his gaze to the sheriff.
Dwight closed his eyes. Then he reached over and grabbed the necklace. “I wasn’t in here, Remy. Wasn’t in here. I left to get me a soda. You two idiots stay in here for the next ten minutes, or so help me God, I’ll beat you both bloody.” With that, he tossed the necklace at Remy.
On his way out the door, he shot them both a dark look. “If this comes back and bites me on the ass, I’m going to make the two of you very, very sorry.”
“Stupid kid.”
Keith Jennings, flipping through a book, looked up as Nielson came storming into the breakroom. He looked pissed, Keith decided. Very, very pissed. Leaning back in his seat, he studied his boss for a minute, torn between finishing the book and asking.
Curiosity got the best of him. “Which one?”
Nielson shot him a look. “Nobody.”
Huh. Well, he’d hear about it sooner or later, he figured. That’s the way it worked in this town. Turning down the page he’d been reading, he tossed the book aside and watched as Nielson plugged some quarters into the Coke machine. “Is anybody telling King about the similarities between the victim and Ms. Riddle?”
Nielson grunted an answer.
Keith thought it might be a yes. He wasn’t sure. Damn. Something really, really had the boss in a mood today. He didn’t bother asking what it was, though. He kind of liked his head where it was.
CHAPTER
FIVE
SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY THAT A WISE MAN WOULDN’T be here.
But he couldn’t think of another place to be just then.
Watching Hope seemed to be just the thing to do.
Just the thing.
Even though there were all kinds of trouble going on in Ash right now. If anybody saw a strange, shadowy figure skulking about in the woods, well, he might find his ass plugged with buckshot, and yet, here he was.
He couldn’t not watch her.
She had been in the hospital and according to the gossip grapevine, just a few hours away from getting arrested. The words he’d heard had been criminally insane.
Just thinking about it was enough to make him chuckle.
Her … insane.
He laughed.
She looked like she would scream at a loud noise.
She looked like she would run if somebody jumped out from behind a tree.
And they had been ready to arrest her for assault, maybe even for murder?
It was amusing.
But now she was out … and he imagined she would run soon.
That was what she did.
And all he had to do was watch.
Once she ran …
“I shouldn’t be here,” Hope muttered.
The sun beat down on her back as she paced the porch, but she was still cold.
Law slumped on the swing at one end, his eyes closed. He wasn’t sleeping, though. He cracked one lid open, peered at her with that shrewd, intense gaze, and then closed his eye again.
“You aren’t leaving, Hope.”
Shooting him a narrow look, she continued to pace.
“Not really up to you, is it?” she shot at him.
He smiled a little, but didn’t say anything.
No. She wasn’t leaving. Not right now.
Three days. She’d been back at this house for three days, and each day was like a waking nightmare. Her skin crawled, just being inside that place. Memory flashes of the night haunted her, all the damn time. They were vague, so damn vague, nothing but blips, really, but even those were too much.
Neither she nor Law had terribly clear recollections—not too surprising with Law, considering how badly he’d been battered. The hit she’d taken to her head could easily be blamed for her vague memories, but she wondered how much of her hazy recollections were because she was just too big of a coward to remember.
She kept seeing Prather … oh, shit. She covered her eyes with her hands, as though that would block out what few memories she had of that night. The clearest one she had of him was his face—lifeless, but his expression had been one of abject, terrified pain—like he’d died all but begging for mercy.
He hadn’t deserved that.
She suspected he’d been a chauvinistic jerk, but nobody deserved to die like that.
She couldn’t be here without remembering …
Law was going to have his office gutted, completely redesigned, but it would be awhile. Even when it was done, she knew she’d still see it as it had looked that night. With the red stain of blood spreading across the floor.
Hell, even now she could see where blood and other things had left their mark.
The sheriff had given them the okay to go ahead and use the room, said they’d gotten everything they’d need, but there was no way Hope would ever step foot in there, not until Law was done doing whatever.
Maybe not even then.
Being in the kitchen wasn’t as hard, but she barely remembered any of what had happened in the seconds before she’d been hit. The clearest memories all happened before she’d come in here.
Part of her wished the sheriff had told them they wouldn’t be able to come back here yet. And how selfish was th
at? This was her best friend’s home—he loved this place.
Loved it, and just being here gave her nightmares. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, shooting him a dark look.
“I am capable of standing up, Hope.” He grimaced.
“I’m already standing.” Then she flushed, realized how short, how sharp her tone sounded. Turning her back on him, she reached inside the house and grabbed the cordless from the counter. Then she made a face, almost wished she’d let Law get it after all.
She knew that number. The display only showed Carrington County before it ran out of room, but she knew the number.
She cleared her throat before she answered.
Still, her voice creaked a little as she said, “Hello?”
When Remy Jennings spoke, the sound of that slow, lazy drawl hit her low in the belly. “Hello, Ho … Ms. Carson. May I speak to Law, please?”
Without saying anything else, she delivered the phone to Law, tried not to think about the man on the other end of the phone. Tried not to think of how that deep, easy voice made her feel.
It was amazing, really, that she even recognized that feeling. It had been years since a man had made her feel that way … and her ex-husband hadn’t ever managed to do that just by talking.
No man had. Other than Remy Jennings.
But she really, really needed to quit thinking of him as a man. Really.
Don’t think of him as a man. Think of him as a lawyer … hello, he wanted you arrested! That right there should have made it very, very clear that he wasn’t a guy she needed to think about.
Hell, she didn’t think about guys period.
She didn’t trust them.
She didn’t need them.
Other than Law, and he wasn’t really a guy in her opinion. He was Law. He was her friend … and he was safe.
He was it, though.
The other males of the species, they could go to hell in a handbasket and that would suit her just fine. She’d survived just fine the past few years without a guy, no reason to change that. And it wasn’t like she ever wanted another guy in her life again anyway. Not after Joey.
A small, quiet voice deep inside her heart murmured, Remy is nothing like Joey.
If You See Her Page 5