by Kimberly van Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming (The Sinclairs of Alaska)
“Yeah, horrible tragedy,” Reese agreed. “Do you ever think of how many dead bodies might be hidden right beneath people’s noses, walled up in the buildings we enter every day?”
She made a face. “That’s macabre.”
“But true. Hell, we have no idea how many people have met their Maker early thanks to some evil asshole with a twisted childhood. It’s a sobering thought. Probably why I’ll never have kids. This world is a dumpster fire.”
“And you’re a bowl of sunshine,” Jordana quipped with a wry expression before reaching for the phone. A text message awaited. Well, it looked like her new roomie was ready to be sprung from the hospital. She pocketed her cell and rose. “I gotta go. Broderick is ready to leave.”
“Text me when you get home or I’ll show up with guns blazing ready to execute justice with extreme prejudice.”
She laughed. “You watch too much television. I’ll be fine.”
Jordana left and headed for the hospital. She didn’t like mysteries but there was something about Clint Broderick that made solving his more appealing.
Was that a red flag?
Probably.
Was she going to stop?
Not likely.
* * *
Clint gestured ruefully to his thrift store hand-me-downs the volunteers had rustled up for him so he didn’t have to walk out with his backside showing, and Jordana laughed. “I don’t know for sure but something tells me I have better fashion sense than this because damn, this is embarrassing,” he said.
“It lacks a certain...”
“Style?” he finished for her, staring down at the trousers that looked like they’d been plucked from some old guy’s 1970s wardrobe after his clothes had been donated to charity following his death. “I’m pretty sure this hasn’t been in fashion since disco was cool.”
“You might be right. It might’ve even come from Rosie’s husband’s closet, but look on the bright side, at least it’s better than the Braxville General blue robe special.”
“You got me there,” he agreed, dusting his trousers with a gingerly motion that smacked of a little awkwardness and Jordana didn’t blame him. This was a little strange. “So, you sure you want to do this?”
“Of course,” she answered. “My gut tells me it’s the right thing to do.”
“Well, I’m thankful to your gut. I’ve never been in a position like this. I mean, not that I can remember. The emergency techs had to cut my clothes free but they gave me a bag filled with the remnants. I think I started off well-dressed.”
“If that’s the case, that means you’re probably not homeless. My partner is running down your identity to see if we can find anyone who can help put together the pieces.”
“Probably also to check and make sure I’m not a lunatic,” he supposed, and Jordana grinned without apology. He chuckled. “I don’t blame you. I’d question how good of a detective you were if you didn’t.”
“Glad to know I’ve passed the test.”
“Well, that one, anyway,” he said with a wink. Was he flirting? Like he was in any position to flirt with the cute detective. That blow to the head had scrambled his neurons. Something told him that he wasn’t usually this easygoing but it felt good.
Maybe he was acting out of character. Maybe before he got jumped he was a stiff, rigid asshole with a chip on his shoulder.
God, he hoped not.
“All right, paperwork is finished. You’re sprung, Mr. Broderick,” Jordana said, gesturing for the open door.
But before they went any further, Clint had to set down some ground rules. “You have to stop calling me Mr. Broderick. Even though I don’t know who I am, I know it feels weird to be called something so formal. Please, call me Clint. Let’s pretend we’re old acquaintances or something. It might make things less weird. How about we try that?”
She graced him with a curious smile, cocking her head as if trying on his idea in her mind for size. “Okay, that might work for now. Unless I find out you’re, like, a serial killer or something.”
“Such escalation. What if I’m just your garden variety thief? Or a white-collar embezzler? It doesn’t always have to be so violent.”
Jordana laughed. “Okay, but if I find out you’re anything but the unfortunate victim of a crime, I’m putting you in handcuffs before you can even slather cream cheese on a bagel.”
“Mmm, bagels. I think I like those.”
All jokes aside, it was impossible to forget that someone had tried to kill him, possibly someone in this town, and he had no clue who to watch for. Not to be paranoid but being bashed in the head and wiped of your memories made for some jittery peripheral glances.
Danger could lurk anywhere—with anyone.
All he had was Jordana Colton on his side for the time being, and having a cop watch his back seemed like something he ought to hold on to.
Now, he just had to pass the first test.
Lord in heaven, please don’t let me be allergic to cats.
Chapter 4
Jordana unlocked her front door and welcomed Clint inside. “Well, here it is, in all its glory,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m not much for knickknacks and frou-frou stuff. I like it clean and simple. Less to worry about.”
Her sister Bridgette had once described her personal style as utilitarian and, by her tone, it hadn’t seemed a compliment, but Jordana didn’t care, which was probably why the military had appealed to her. Everything had a place and a purpose. If only life were that way, it would make solving crimes so much easier, but no, humans were messy and often did things for no particular reason aside from emotion, and emotion was impossible to rein in with logic and reason.
She dropped her keys in the small bowl perched on the table in the entryway. “Okay, so the house is small enough so no worries getting lost. Bathroom is over there, adjacent to the spare bedroom, and my bedroom, which is, of course, off-limits, is opposite the spare.” She returned to Clint, who was still surveying his new surroundings. “Any questions?”
“Seems pretty straightforward. I’ve yet to see this potentially allergenic cat you mentioned,” he said.
“Ah, that’s Penelope—I didn’t name her so don’t judge—and she’s probably hiding. She’s not a huge fan of strangers or anyone aside from me. You might not see her at all.”
“Penelope...okay, good to know.” He gestured to the spare bedroom, asking, “May I?”
“Yes, certainly,” she answered with her own gesture, following him as he walked into the tidy spare. To her trained eye, she saw her military training in action. Crisp, tight hospital bed corners, zero clutter in sight, floors clean and countertops dusted. Keeping things in order gave her a level of comfort. “It’s not the Ritz but it’ll keep you warm and dry until we find out more about you.”
“It’s great. You didn’t have to do this and I’m grateful for the kindness.” He glanced around, adding, “I don’t know for sure but something about your style feels complementary to my own. I don’t understand the appeal of knickknacks, either. Dust collectors, if you ask me.”
“Exactly. If only I could convince my mom the same. She’s always trying to fob off her collections of nonsense on to me in the guise of ‘family heirlooms.’” Jordana made air quotes with a quick shake of her head. “Nope, it’s just junk, Mom.”
He chuckled. Jordana’s breath caught in her chest at the sound. Time to exit gracefully. “Okay, well, I’ll let you get settled and get out of your hair. Feel free to help yourself to the kitchen, though I don’t really keep a well-stocked pantry because it usually goes bad before I have the chance to eat it.” She clarified, “I eat a lot at the station, late nights.”
“Anything is better than hospital food,” Clint said with a wry grin. “I might not remember much but I definitely remember not appreciating the cuisine at Braxville General. Much
to be desired unless you’re a big fan of reconstituted split pea soup with the grainy consistency of a puddle after a hard rain.”
She laughed. “Can’t say that I’m a fan. I’m more of a burgers and fries kind of girl.”
“Me, too.”
“Burgers and fries girl?” she teased.
“Exactly.”
Jordana smiled until she realized with a start this sounded way too much like flirty banter. “Okay, then. You have my cell. Holler if you need anything. I’m going to head back to the station to catch up on some paperwork.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Clint said, but a frown creased his brow, prompting her to pause. “What I’m about to say sounds like the opposite of manly but it just occurred to me...what if whoever tried to knock out my lights comes back to finish the job? I’d like to think that I’m a badass with ninja skills when I get my memory back but the reality is... I’m probably not? I guess, what I’m trying to say, really badly, I might add, is that maybe I shouldn’t be left alone right now.”
That had to be really hard to admit, she realized. Clint also had a point and she was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of it first. For crying out loud, who was the detective in the room? Her cheeks flushed but she nodded in agreement. “Valid point. I’ll have my partner bring my paperwork here. I can work from home.”
“I hate to be a scaredy-cat about it but—” he rubbed the back of his head ruefully “—seems kind of foolish to tempt fate with unnecessary risk.”
“Right. Very true.” Okay, now that she was thoroughly embarrassed for seeming like a rookie—“Like I said, kitchen is all yours”—she disappeared behind her bedroom door.
Maybe Reese was right. Was it reckless to bring Clint into her home like this? She didn’t know anything about him and she seemed to forget basic common sense when he was around. Losing her good sense could be a liability for them both.
Clint was a handsome guy—and everyone in Braxville knew she was single as a Pringle. Tongues would wag, which meant if Clint’s attacker was still in town, it wouldn’t be difficult to narrow down his location.
She’d have to stay extravigilant for many reasons. Some of which had nothing to do with the case and more do with the fact that her heart rate seemed suspiciously rapid when he smiled.
A handsome man with a healthy sense of humor—that’s how panties ended up on the floor.
She rubbed her forehead. It’d been a while since she actively dated (translation: had sex) and apparently Clint flipped whatever switch she had inside her brain that regulated that area. No wonder Reese had side-eyed her when she told him her plan. Good grief, she sounded reckless and thirsty.
Hot, single guy with no memory? Suuurre, I can take him in—into my bed!
That last part was delivered in her head with a smarmy leer. Great, now she was bullying herself in preparation for the jokes that would invariably happen somewhere down the road.
The best offense is a good defense.
She’d go the extra mile to make sure no one had reason to question her integrity or her motivation. It was all about the case. Not his broad shoulders, muscular build and charming smile.
Definitely not that.
But the fact that he checked all her internal boxes? Well, that made for a perfect foundation for potentially awkward feelings to brew.
And that was just Jordana being honest with herself.
* * *
Clint closed the door and took a better look around his new digs. Clean, orderly and functional. What’s not to love? Better than a hotel room, right? And considering that he didn’t have access to his money (hopefully, he had some), Jordana’s offer came free of charge.
He sat on the bed, testing the springs. Firm yet supportive. Definitely better than a hospital bed. In addition to the knot on his skull, his spine felt permanently kinked from being folded into a bed too small to accommodate his frame.
Speaking of skull, he gingerly touched the angry bulge still deforming his head and grimaced. Definitely not a great look but he was alive so that kept his vanity in check.
So, his name was Clint Broderick. Seemed like a decent, strong name. He opened the hospital bag with the remnants of his clothes. The linen felt fine, maybe high-end. Definitely not a thrift store find like the rags he was wearing right now. First order of business, find something else to wear. He couldn’t continue to sport this 1970s ensemble for much longer or else people were going to start asking if he was planning his Halloween outfit early.
But seeing as he had no cash, it made purchasing difficult.
He didn’t want to borrow money from the only person he knew in this tiny town but he didn’t see a more viable option.
Clint groaned. Was the universe going out of its way to emasculate him? The only thing that would further demolish his sense of masculinity was if Jordana discovered he’d been brained in the head by someone’s pint-size, rolling-pin-wielding grannie.
He much preferred the theory that he’d been attacked by a hardened criminal or an international assassin.
All kidding aside (sort of), he was trying not to dwell too hard on the fact that someone had tried to kill him. Who had he pissed off so bad that they wanted to snip his thread?
Was he an asshole? Did he do dastardly things to innocent victims? What kind of person was he? The kind of person who used the word dastardly? He didn’t have any answers. A sense of panic hovered at the edges of his thoughts. Hell, he didn’t have a clue as to who he was or what kind of person he was.
For all he knew, he could be a real jerk who never donated to good causes, or sneered at the misfortune of others.
God, he hoped not.
What if he was the kind of guy Jordana would never actually invite into her home if she knew his true character?
Talk about a spiral into serious mental health danger.
Good or bad, a person’s identity was everything.
Breathe. Chill out. You’re not Hitler.
He’d know if he were a bad person, even if his memories were gone. If he were a terrible human being, he’d be drawn to do more terrible things, right? That’s logical. Right. Clint paused a moment, waiting to see if terrible desires jumped into his head. When nothing unseemly took center stage in his mental theater, he nodded with satisfaction at his own deduction.
Conclusion: normal guy with memory loss. No hidden Hannibal Lecter lurking in his psyche.
Okay, so time to make a plan. He couldn’t sit in Jordana’s house like a caged canary, waiting for the next shoe to drop. Jordana’s partner was running a background check on him. Details would reveal themselves and he’d hopefully find someone who actually knew him and could help put the pieces together.
And, much like a normal guy, he had eyeballs in his head. Eyeballs that really enjoyed the view of his new roommate.
But that was a hot stove best left alone. He didn’t need his memories to figure out that messing around with the cute detective was a bad idea.
She didn’t seem attached to anyone, but then, maybe she preferred to keep her house separate. He knew nothing about her aside from the fact that she appeared dedicated to her job, focused on keeping boundaries between them, and that she had the most beguiling smile when she chose to share it.
For all he knew, she could be a crooked cop keeping him close to protect those who had bashed his head in. Sure, it was a theory but he really couldn’t give it much weight. Jordana had a straight and narrow sensibility about her. She probably never lied on her taxes or took an extra dinner mint at a restaurant.
She’d also probably never mess around with someone under her care—and he was relieved. Mostly because his conviction toward her wasn’t quite as strong. He was way too intrigued by the intensity of her stare and the subtle curve of her lips to say that he wouldn’t ever cross that line.
With Jordana keeping the lines tight
ly drawn, he didn’t have to worry about anything unprofessional happening. All he had to worry about was finding who tried to kill him before they tried to come back and finish the job.
Chapter 5
“I got intel on your houseguest,” Reese announced, sliding over in his office chair to Jordana’s desk, dropping a folder with a grin. “Background check came in this morning. Seems your guy—”
“Not my guy,” she corrected him with a warning scowl. “But go on...what about Clint?”
“Seems Clint Broderick is some big fish from Chicago. The guy is loaded. Owns a big tech company. I’m talking easily worth millions.”
“That explains the fine threads,” she murmured, digesting the information. She returned to Reese, dreading the answer to her next question. “So, is Mr. Moneybucks married or something? Someone waiting and worrying back in Chicago?”
“Nope. Only family was the dead guy walled up in the warehouse. Tough break, that. It’s the old trope—the lonely rich boy with only dollar bills to keep him warm at night.”
Jordana tossed a balled-up paper at Reese’s grinning face. “You’re finding way too much enjoyment in this.”
“A sense of humor is important to keeping one’s sanity,” he drawled with a subtle smile. “So where is your rich houseguest? I thought you said he didn’t want to be left alone?”
She chuckled at how her answer would be received. “Actually, I lent him some money so he could buy some clothes. He couldn’t keep wearing what the hospital discharged him in.”
“At least you know he’s good for it,” Reese quipped, to which Jordana agreed. “It could be worse—he could’ve been a con artist and just bilked you out of a couple bucks.”
“My gut told me he was an acceptable risk and, as it turned out, I was right,” Jordana said with a pointed look toward Reese because she wasn’t above rubbing in her victory. “What else did you find out?”
“Well, he might not have any family but he does have a business partner, Alex Locke. Contact information is in the file.”