by Lainey Reese
Luke said nothing as he contemplated Jax’s words.
“I want to be over there. I want to hold her and take care of her.” Emotions choked his words to a stop for a moment until he could rein them back in. “I just keep remembering all the times I made her cry. All the chores she did that I could have done for her. How stressed it made her to be caught between the two of us.” He rubbed angrily at his eyes; the tears gathered in them felt like lead weights, but he refused to let them fall. “This was all my fault. If I had just left her alo—”
“I didn’t realize you were omnipotent.” The droll tone was only eclipsed by Jax’s withering expression. “If you were so all-powerful, she would have never lost the baby. It’s not your fault. It’s not her fault. What happened was just a horrible tragedy. One you suffered together.” Jax took another long pull from his drink then set the empty bottle down on the counter. He gripped Luke’s shoulder in a firm hold. “You made your daughter together. You shared the pregnancy together. You didn’t leave her side the entire time at the hospital and lost her together. Then, a few days after you brought her home, you just disappeared on her. Get over there, show her your pain, and let her show you hers. What’s happening is a hell of a lot more than ‘she needs you.’ This goes deeper than that. And besides, you need her just as much. Look at you. You’re a wreck.”
Chapter 21
“Can’t we just get it next time?” Sharon asked the raised back end of Christy as the other woman hunted through the haystacks. “You know we’re gonna be right back here in a day or two. If one of them finds it beforehand, they can just hang on to it for us.”
“I can’t risk it, sweetheart,” Christy said in her chipper voice. She’d been a whole new woman since her reconciliation with her son. Suddenly, the tiny glimpses of joy and sweetness that had drawn Sharon to her like a moth to a flame had blossomed and multiplied until Christy was practically a euphoric bonfire. The oppressive weight of guilt and longing were gone, and she glowed with an inner peace that could make Sharon weep with gratitude. No one she had ever met deserved a second chance more than this woman. And she’d gotten it.
Now, she bubbled over with happiness, and Sharon’s already sweet and giving lover was practically saint-like now in her generosity and love. She showered it on everyone she came in contact with and was so content she even smiled in her sleep. “You’re not a cook, Sharon. You wouldn’t understand the bond I have with that spatula. I got it at a specialty craft fair, and I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere else. I won’t be able to replace it. I don’t know if you’ve paid attention to me in the kitchen, but I use that almost every time I cook!”
Sharon tried not to laugh. Christy was riffling through the loose hay on the floor, flinging it everywhere as panic started to set in.
“It’s just a spatula,” Sharon told her. “I’ll buy you a whole new set if we leave now.”
“Just a spatula!” Christy popped up from behind a stack, hay ridiculously caught throughout her hair, face flushed, and eyes bright with mock indignation. “Didn’t you just hear me? It’s not just any old spatula. It’s the Rolls Royce of spatulas. The Lamborghini even.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s the Bob Fosse of kitchen utensils, and I’m not leaving this barn until I get my Fosse back.”
Fosse was Sharon’s all-time favorite choreographer, and she’d taken that argument to the mat with many a dancer over the years—including Christy, who objected him for his misogyny rather than his talent—and the point was made. God, the woman was irresistible.
“Fine,” Sharon told her. “Find your Fosse then.”
“This’d go a lot faster if you helped,” Christy replied then scooped up an armful of hay and threw it in Sharon’s face.
“Oh, it’s on now.” The challenging glint in Christy’s eyes ignited a fire in Sharon, and she vaulted over the hay separating them, knowing Christy expected her to go around instead. Christy squealed like a twelve-year-old, scrambled backward, and turned to run. With a laugh, Sharon gave chase.
“More sweet tea?”
Max looked up from his file notes to focus on his waitress—Jessica today.
“Yes,” he answered her with a smile. He tried to put real warmth into it for her benefit. He’d been a regular here over these last months, and she had quickly become his favorite. The food here was always good, but whenever Jess was on the grill, the meals elevated to a whole new level of delicious. “Excellent as always tonight. My compliments to the chef,” he said the last with forced formality and was pleased to win an answering smile from her for his effort. She’d been close to the last victim, and the longer the case drug on, the harder it had been on her. She—not to mention the families—needed closure.
“Any news?” she asked with a scared kind of hope in her eyes. “Anything new, I mean? It’s why you’re back, isn’t it? Something new?”
“Nothing groundbreaking.” His hand flapped the papers on the table in front of him. “We just finally got back some of the forensics from the lab, so I came in town to go over some of the findings with your sheriff.” Though not mandatory or the norm, he shared all the facts of the case with Derek. The sheriff was smart, and his easy, good-ole-boy charm disguised a mind as sharp as a scalpel. He’d come to value the man as a colleague and grown to value him as a friend on top of that.
“Forensics? Now?” Jessica looked sincerely baffled. “Brandi was killed almost three months ago. The lab results are only just now coming in?”
“Yes.” Her reaction was the fallout from crime dramas and movies. “Contrary to what you see on TV, forensics take a very long time. We haven’t even gotten all the labs back, and what we do have took a lot of string pulling and favors to get them this fast.”
“Oh.” Jessica looked crestfallen. Her large blue eyes glistened as tears gathered like storms in them. “I didn’t know that. I guess this means things could take a whole lot longer then, huh?”
Her resignation cut deep. “Yeah, it does.” Max gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “No matter how long it takes, Jess, I won’t give up. We’re gonna find this guy. Don’t you give up hope, okay?”
“Okay.” Her smile was forced, but he appreciated the effort. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right?”
“Right,” he told her and reopened his folder to get back to work while she reached out to fill his glass. Something on the back of her hand caught his eye. There was a smudge of a greenish pattern stamped on the back of it that looked remarkably familiar.
“Hey, Jess,” Max said, feeling like a door were being cracked open. “Where’d you get that?” He tapped on the discolored spot with a fingertip.
“Oh that?” She rubbed at it with her other hand and frowned. “I wash and wash, but it still takes days to go away. It’s supposed to only show up under blacklight, but neon brings it out too as you can see.” She twisted her hand this way and that under the glow of the Open sign glaring in from the window.
“Yeah, those things can be a bitch,” he sympathized while telling himself to remain calm. This could be nothing. “So, where did you get it?”
“From a rave I went to last weekend. That was three days ago. Sheesh! I think I’m going to try rubbing alcohol.”
He’d guessed right. Brandi had the same design stamped onto her hand.
“So, you go to raves a lot?” he asked, cautioning himself to keep it casual so as not to get her excited. Excited witnesses tended to unconsciously embellish in their efforts to help.
“Yeah. Some people do yoga.” She grinned conspiratorially at him. “I burn off my tension dancing and screaming out song lyrics at the top of my lungs.” Her expression sobered. “If only I had gone that night with Brandi. She wouldn’t have had to walk home. She’d still be—”
When her voice caught, Max grabbed her hand this time and held her icy fingers in his warm palm. “You can’t know that. You can’t blame yourself any more than her other friend can. The only person to blame here is the one who killed her. Can you take a coupl
e minutes and sit down?”
Jess looked over her shoulder. The dining area was pretty clear; it was well after the lunch rush, and she had time before the dinner crowd started coming in.
“I want to ask you some questions about the raves. I know you weren’t there that night, but if you’ve been there before, and especially if you ever went with Brandi, your input could help.” He thought he interviewed all Brandi’s “rave” friends. He’d known that she and Jess had been close, but since she was a number of years older than the victim, he thought the relationship was one where they hadn’t spent much time together.
Jessica sat and fidgeted with the place setting in front of her, obviously nervous. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, but I don’t know how I can help.”
“I didn’t realize you and Brandi spent much time together. How did you two become friends?”
“Oh… well, that one’s easy enough to answer.” She smiled at him, and her shoulders slumped a little. There was a reason interviews took so long. Leading people to a place of complacency took time and patience; getting them lulled to a point where they didn’t think before they answered was key. The subconscious held a lot more information than we knew, and occasionally a skilled interrogator could pull forth the line that would lead to the killer. If he was lucky. And Lord knew he was due for some luck with this case.
“In high school, I was the T.A. for Mrs. Lexington’s home ec. class over at the middle school. Brandi and I just sorta hit it off. She was cool, ya know? Funny.” A sad smile flirted at her lips even as fresh tears spiked her jewel-bright eyes. “At first, I was like ‘check this funny kid; what a smartass,’ but then, the more we talked and joked in school, the more I liked her, and before long, she wasn’t this really cool student but my really cool friend. We started hanging out, going to movies, and when I’d do one of my ‘friends and feast’ parties, she’d always come help me cook.”
“Friends and feast?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Her cheeks tinged in a blush. “I want to own my own organic restaurant someday. So every couple months, I plan a big feast. Like a five or seven-course meal with a decked-out table. Or a big outdoor movie night where everyone gets their own picnic basket. Or once, I did a luau with a whole roasted pig.” Her shoulder shrugged self-consciously, but there was a glint of pride in her expression that showed him just how serious and passionate she was about her dreams.
“That sounds fantastic. So, Brandi helped with those? Was she a good cook too?”
“Oh yeah.” Jess nodded enthusiastically. “She had a real knack for it. Especially desserts. When I opened my place, we always talked about how she was going to be my pastry chef.” Fresh tears threatened, but she bravely soldiered on and waited for him to continue.
“Jess, I know it’s hard. I really appreciate you doing this,” Max told her in his most comforting tone.
“I don’t see how knowing she could cook helps, but I’m happy to tell you whatever.”
“We never know what will help until we stumble on the information that does. It’s definitely a hindsight is twenty-twenty kind of thing. After the case is closed, we can look back and go, ‘yeah, I guess all that time we spent chasing down A, B, and C was wasted; in the end, we only had to track down D.’ But like I said, we never know which lead is the one with a killer at the end of it until it’s over.”
Max asked her a few more questions about cooking and what it was like tutoring, the rhythm of their back-and-forth lulling her so that the answers to his questions rolled off her tongue without any forethought or hesitation.
“So, last night at the rave, did you see anyone you recognized? Are there any regulars you always see?”
“Sure,” Jessica answered absently and rattled off half a dozen names he already interviewed and cleared off his list.
“What about the not so regulars? Or maybe anyone there who would surprise me?”
Jess’s lips pursed, and she seemed to take the question as a challenge. “Hmm, lemme think. There was Mark Wallace; he’s the preacher’s kid, but I guess it’s not really much of a surprise the PK walks on the wild side. Bit of a cliché’, huh? Then there was Logan and Abe, and—oh yeah!” Big blue eyes got even bigger, and she bounced on her seat with eagerness. “Jax was there last night too. Did you know he likes to go to raves? With him being the town lawyer or accountant or whatever, it always gives me a kick when I see him there. He’s like… old too, not just all fancy, but he’s like over thirty or something. You’d think he would go to like a sock hop or something. But he likes the raves, and he’s there pretty much every time I am, so he must go pretty often.”
Max didn’t have the brain space to register she thought thirty was old or that people over thirty were only fit for a sock hop. No, his mental function was completely arrowed in on who it was.
“You’re sure about this?” He tried to keep his voice and expression neutral in order to not excite her into exaggerating or embellishing, but it was not an easy task. The slicked-up attorney had been easygoing and full of jokes on the surface, but underneath had been thinly veiled contempt. Max just chalked up his attitude as typical resentment for authority that most people assumed while getting questioned. Could he have missed clues to a murderer? A tingle started at the base of his skull. That early warning signal he got when he picked up on a new line to tug. He could feel adrenalin gathering, like his body was preparing to spring into action, and as soon as Jess finished talking, Max was on his feet.
“Jessica, you’ve given me some new leads. Thank you for talking to me, and if there is anything else you remember, or if there was anyone you left out, can you give me a call?” He handed her his card along with cash for his bill.
“Hey,” Jessica called after him as he beelined for the door. “You forgot your change. This is way too much for a tip.”
“Keep it,” he told her, not slowing down or looking back. Unlike the Palmer boys, this didn’t feel like another dead end. “Best damn tacos of my life.”
Her gushing thanks followed him out into the sun.
“Stop! Stop! I’m gonna pee!” Christy and Sharon’s gales of laughter echoed off the barn walls like bubbles of joy, and Sharon could hardly bring herself to ease up her tickling fingers. She knew Christy though, and that was no empty threat. That woman’s bladder was directly tied to her laughter, and she learned the hard way not to take the warning lightly.
“Let’s see how you like it.” Never one to play fair, Christy took advantage of Sharon’s slackened hold, surged her hips up, and flipped them both until she now straddled Sharon. With victory gleaming in her laughing eyes, Christy planted her knees on either side of Sharon’s hips, manacled both wrists, and brought them over her head. Christy leaned close, slowly, drawing out the moment, and the laughter in Sharon’s expression melted under the rising heat of desire.
“God, Shar,” Christy said reverently. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” Her full, soft lips brushed against Sharon’s and made her gasp. Then she trailed them along one cheek to whisper in her ear. “And, good Lord, you always smell so amazing.” She nuzzled in the tender hollow of her collarbone and took exaggerated sniffs. “And you’re always so soft. So perfectly silky.”
Sharon bit her lip as Christy scraped her teeth down Sharon’s neck then sucked on the point where her heartbeat was going a million miles an hour. “I keep telling you. Cocoa butter is your friend.”
“Oh yeah.” Christy smirked knowingly. She knew she could do whatever she wanted right now, and Sharon would lie back and purr. The woman reveled in the power she had to make Sharon quiver for her. “So you’ve always said.” There was a wicked smile in her voice that had Sharon’s senses on high alert. Christy was fire and passion and uninhibited sensuality when they were together, and it intoxicated Sharon.
“Let go of my hands,” Sharon panted, her body ready and eager to participate. “I need to touch you.”
Christy lifted her head just enough to brush their noses together. “No,”
she told her then took a playful nip. “I like having you under me and squirming. If I tell you to keep your hands where I put them, will you be a good girl and obey?” she asked in her syrupy southern accent. Sharon groaned. It worked. Christy grinned in feline triumph, relaxing her grip, and Sharon braced her feet on the floor and flipped them in one mighty heave. They were both laughing and squealing again as Christy—wrested from her place of power—now scrambled on hands and knees to escape Sharon’s grappling tackle.
“Oh wait! I think I found my Fosse!” Christy’s frantic bid for freedom had taken her to the farthest corner of the hay loft, and their tussling had unearthed something that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the high window.
“How’d it get way over there?” Sharon wanted to know. “What’d you do, chuck it across the room or something?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense but— Hey.” Christy picked up what looked like a wad of dirty jeans wrapped around…
“What is that? A knife?” Sharon got a very bad feeling in her stomach. “Christy? Tell me this is a farm thing and that all country barns have giant hunting knives wrapped up in bloody rags. Please tell me that.” Christy’s expression showed more confusion and puzzlement than Sharon felt, and it was anything but reassuring.
“I dunno, honey,” Christy answered, turning the bundle in her hands this way and that like she was trying to make sense of it. “Maybe they use this for the animals? Maybe?”
Sharon could tell she was reaching.
“To what?” Sharon wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “Like, do they kill their own meat or neuter them or something? Why would it be way over here, hidden away in the corner?” Maybe she watched too many crime dramas on TV. Or maybe it was those dead girls who kept popping up all over the whole damn county, but those were definitely a pair of old jeans wrapped around that knife, and not even Christy had come up with a reason why someone would keep what clearly looked like bloody jeans with it. Any normal person would wash them out, right?