Broken in Love (Studs in Stetsons Book 2)

by Megan Hetherington

  “Oh.” My shoulders sag and I clutch the paperwork while I decide whether to take it.

  The delivery man slides a phone out of his pocket to check the time. He looks agitated and probably has a tight delivery schedule.

  “Okay.” I slide the pen from the clip and squiggle my signature at the bottom of the paperwork.

  “You have a good day, ma’am.” He nods his head while I consider the brown box left on my doorstep. I drum my fingers on my lips. What the hell is Carson doing sending me groceries?

  The box is heavy and I have to carry it in both arms. I shove the door shut with my backside and rush the groceries through to the kitchen table. Inside the card box is an array of provisions, including peanut butter cookies. My favorite. I grab two as I put the produce away in the kitchen cabinets. I’m positive a police officer isn’t required to buy crime victims groceries, and I’m certain he’s not trying to win me over as that would just be plain ridiculous. I’m a mess. No decent guy would ever want someone like me in their life. Especially Carson Perrins, one of life’s winners.

  With another cookie clamped between my teeth, I go to place my gun back in my purse and set my phone on charge. I stop mid crunch. Although I need to call Carson to thank him for the groceries and tell him I’ve found my purse, I can’t handle that question today. I don’t need sympathy or a conversation that brands me foolish for not spotting my purse earlier.

  Today, I’m gonna enjoy my clean house, stay away from the liquor, and enroll in that course. Alone. The way I’m meant to.

  Tomorrow, I’ll take the next step and let all these people who want to be part of my life inch back in.

  Six

  Lemon

  Officer Ledowski invited me to an interview at the police station and although I expected a follow up, I didn’t bargain on coming into town so soon after the attack. After giving myself a good talking to, I roll with it. I need to break my self-isolation before it breaks me.

  With two hands on the car door handle, I yank it open and step out onto my five-inch wedges. I debated whether to wear something “sensible” but decided against it. I dress the way I dress. High heels and low shirt, and I’m not changing that shit for nobody.

  Carson’s squad car sits in front of his office. But that’s not to say he’s there. At this time of the morning he’ll be at Alma’s, catching up on the latest gossip. It’s public knowledge Carson Perrins can be found there most mornings. It’s like an informal town meeting—if anyone has a complaint or concern, they show up to catch the local police officer, and he’ll likely deal with the issue before it becomes an offense. That’s why everyone respects him in Gunner Ridge. He smooths shit over. And it’s the reason he’ll be elected sheriff when James retires from office and the local police merge with the sheriff’s department.

  I sigh at that thought and press my lips together so I don’t mumble to myself in public. There’s no way Carson needs this attack to complicate things for him. The residents want to consider themselves safe in their town, and they already view the Green Parrot a blight on the community and a haven for all things seedy. So, no doubt, there will be a push for it to be closed. Then, where will the sad men of this area go? And where will I dance? It’s my only escape right now.

  I unfurl my sunglasses and position them on the bridge of my nose, push back my shoulders, and stride across the street to Alma’s. A breeze pulls my hair from my face and I grit my teeth in defiance, only remembering at the last minute to relax my jaw into a smile as I lean on the glass door.

  Carson looks up at me from his seat next to Sheriff James; Austin Barclay is opposite them. Carson lifts from his seat and the sheriff inches out of the booth to let him pass.

  “Lemon?” Carson’s deep voice is questioning, but I stand tall.

  “Carson.” I beam, leaving my lips curved for the allotted time to be considered a smile.

  “How are you?”

  “Good,” I lie. “Thank you for the groceries. It was thoughtful of you, although I want to repay you.” I reach for my wallet.

  Carson curls his hand over mine, closing my purse. His fingers are strong and his palm firm. “It was the least I could do.”

  The veins that run along the back of his hand are corded over thick muscles. I weave my gaze up his broad forearm to his eyes, expecting to see pity, but my breath hitches at the warmth that pulses from them. I gulp down my surprise and force another smile.

  He peels his hand away and looks at his watch. “Are you heading over to the office?

  “Yes. Just gonna grab a coffee before I go.”

  He smiles. “Probably best.” He leans in. “The coffee’s pretty rank over there.”

  I laugh, gasping in aftershave scented air, thankful he can’t see my reaction through the darkened lenses of my sunglasses.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he says.

  I order my coffee and glance around the cafe, while Carson leans across the table to finish his conversation with the sheriff. A few friendly faces nod and smile, others duck their heads. But it’s a trio of middle-aged women that catch my eye: the Dawson sisters and their cousin, Amelia. They’re staring at Carson’s backside. The black fabric of his pants stretches across his buns and it’s most certainly an eyeful. I chuckle to myself as I grab my Styrofoam cup from the counter then I nudge Carson—a move that has the trio raise their eyebrows. He finishes his conversation and strides toward the door. I follow with an exaggerated swish of my hips, while Carson holds the door open and dips his hat as I pass. I smile over a sip of my coffee as I walk out onto the street. I appreciate the way he makes me feel like someone of value. It’s quaint but welcome.

  “So, how are you feeling today?” he fixes on my forehead, the graze disguised by make-up and my down-do hairstyle.

  “A-Okay.”

  He chuckles. “Good to hear it.” He walks at the same pace as me. “So, you ready for the interview?”

  “As much as I could be. Oh, before I forget, although I’m sure it will come up, I found my purse.” I angle it at him from under my arm.

  “I noticed.” He stops. “I also noticed you had a gun in there. I suggest you apply for a license.”

  “Okay,” I say, sheepishly. Trust Carson to spot the gun and know I don’t have a license. I didn’t even want a darn gun, but Blue gave me it on one occasion before he left. Supposedly, to make me feel safe. But all it did was make me wonder who I would use it on first. Him. Or me.

  “You must be scared after the attack an’ all, but you don’t need the kinda trouble carrying an unlicensed gun will bring.”

  I nod, pressing my lips into a tight line. “Sure.”

  “Lemon… I’ve handed the case over to the sheriff’s department.”

  “Oh?” I stop. Then, to cover my surprise, I bend and fiddle with the ankle strap on my wedges. Ledowski didn’t mention that when he called me in. I’m not sure I’m ready for questions from a stranger.

  “Nothing for you to be concerned about. In fact, it’s standard protocol with a case of this nature.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as I straighten.

  “Well, it’s not particularly clear cut. With the perpetrator still at large and not likely a local, there’s a great deal of investigative work that extends beyond Gunner Ridge and I just don’t have the resources or jurisdiction for that. And you know how it is here, since the sheriff’s department relocated to Gunner Ridge. The sooner we get lines of responsibility figured out the better.”

  “Oh.” I suck on my top lip, forgetting I’d put lipstick on this morning, and I pull my mouth tight at the taste.

  Carson’s face sags. “I can be in the interview if you want?”

  “Nah, it’s okay.”

  “Sure?” He rests a gentle palm on the small of my back as I climb the first concrete step to the municipal offices. It’s a busy building containing the mayor’s department, as well as the Tulare County Sheriff Department and the Gunner Ridge Police, and I’m surprised he touches me this
way in such a public environment.

  “Yep.”

  I’m sure I hear him breathe with relief.

  He powers up the stairs, to make sure the door is open for me when I get there, but before opening it, he leans in close. “The interviewer is a woman.”

  I roll my eyes, as I don’t understand why he thinks that would make any difference. I can’t remember any more than I told him already. Another night’s sleep didn’t make a lick of difference, and having a woman interview me won’t either.

  It’s cool inside the sizeable entranceway and he leads me through glazed doors to his offices. Inside the room are four heavy desks, two of which are empty, a door that leads to a holding cell, and a separate interview room. The only decorations are a portrait of the president, and shiny plaques and framed certificates which signify Carson Perrins is qualified enough to do his job.

  A tall brunette enters from the inner hallway and smiles at me.

  “Hey, I’m Detective Jones, from Visalia. Officer Perrins is letting us use his interview room today.”

  My gaze lowers from her sharply cut bob to her ballet pumps, which poke out from a gray pinstriped pantsuit. I cramp inside. Not wearing a uniform blurs the lines between formal and friendly. I hate all this and want it to go away. Everyone wants to be kind. To help me. But I don’t need it right now.

  She tilts her head and I smile sweetly, giving a farewell wave to Carson over my shoulder, who winks, as if to reassure me everything will be fine.

  I follow her down the narrowing hallway and through a plain door. From the papers and documents strewn across the desk, it’s obvious she’s been working from this room all morning. I case the space while she scoops everything into a briefcase, but with nothing more than a table and two chairs, and drab beige walls, there’s little to capture my attention.

  “So, Carson tells me you know each other well?”

  I pause, not sure of the meaning behind her question. “Sure. This is a small town where everyone knows everyone.” I settle my sunglasses on top of my head and run my fingers down my hair to make sure it still covers the scrape on my forehead.

  She pauses, clutching at the briefcase. “Oh, I’m sorry, have I stumbled on something?”

  “No,” I fire out. “We went to school together. Known each other since we were young. We’re friends.” I bite on my tongue to stop myself from rambling.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

  So why say it, then? I dampen my annoyance and sip on my cooling coffee. It would be wrong to make this more awkward than it needs to be. I lift a plastic chair away from the table and set down my cup, wondering what Carson has said about us for her to get the wrong impression.

  “So, I wanted to run through everything you remember from the night of September 10. Don’t miss out any detail at all. Sometimes that’s where the most useful clues lurk.”

  “Okay.” I sit and take a breath and repeat what I told Carson, adding in the answers I gave to the questions he asked so my account is more detailed.

  She doesn’t interrupt or ask me to clarify anything, and at the end of my report she doesn’t offer a comment. Just a sigh. A very irritating sigh.

  I drink more of my now stone-cold coffee.

  “So, Lemon, do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to harm you?”

  I roll my lips and shake my head.

  “What about the Corrigans?”

  I pull my chin into my neck. “What have they got to do with anything?”

  After a second or two, she shrugs. “Just thought I’d ask. I hear you were married to one of them.” I nod. “That you had an… emotionally charged relationship.” I huff. “It’s just sometimes these ties are hard to break. Especially with divorce. Things are said. One party wants to exact revenge over the other. You get the picture.”

  I puff out my chest and cross my arms underneath it. “It’s got nothin’ to do with the Corrigans.” My stance is awkward and my underarms are sticky, so I unfurl my arms and let my hands rest on the table. “Anyway, I was the loser in that relationship, and I was the one who was attacked. So… go figure.” I’m not being smug, more dismissive. I hate the way this woman who doesn’t even know me or my history is making personal remarks about my friendships and now my marriage. Yes, my marriage was a goddamn crap-fest but who is she to point that out?

  She angles her head and taps her pen. “We have footage from one of the security cameras at the Green Parrot. I don’t want to upset you.” Her hand glides across the table toward mine in an apparent show of empathy. “But I want you to watch and tell me if it sparks any further memories.”

  “Okay.” I recoil my hand under the table. Call me paranoid, but I sense there is something in particular she wants me to see and it makes me wary.

  She pulls out a laptop from her briefcase and loads a file.

  “So that’s you.” She points with her pen at the screen. It’s odd seeing yourself on what looks like an episode from Cops, and I can’t help but think how cocky I look with my foot up against the wall.

  “Oh. I had a cigarette,” I blurt. Why don’t I remember that? My brain tightens from the perplexity at the revelation. Then the screen shows me scrolling through my phone before headlights from a vehicle blur the image.

  “What were you looking at on your phone?”

  I screw my head to one side. “Nothing as far as I can remember. But I… I have my phone in here.” I scrabble in my purse for my phone, my fingers trembling with nervousness, as I try to discreetly push the gun down in the lining and pull out my phone.

  “So, you didn’t call or text anyone, asking them to come over?”

  “No.” There was a text I sent to Blue, but I deleted that yesterday. It was pathetic. Like all the messages I’ve sent to him over the last months. I cleared them all from my new forward-thinking frame of mind.

  “Oh.” She says with a bored tone as she pauses the image.

  “Did you want to look at it?” I offer it out to her, but she scowls as if it’s tainted with anthrax.

  “With your consent, I will pull your phone records.”

  “Oh, okay. So, you don’t need my actual phone for that?”

  “No. The records will show everything from that night.” She smirks at me, as if I’m some kind of dumb-ass and I slip my phone back into the purse.

  She restarts the video. “We digitally enhanced the next part. As this is where the perpetrator appears.” She points at the guy walking in front of the headlights. “But, disappointedly, it’s no clearer.”

  I stare at her while she studies the screen and I wonder if she uses that word often; how much of life is she disappointed with, and who does she blame for her disappointment? Unlike me, I guess she has a whole notebook full of people with that label. I, on the other hand, only have one person to blame for anything I find disappointing. And that’s me.

  She pins me with a glare, so I focus on the screen like I did as a student, chastised by my teacher for dreaming about Blue rather than the algebra on her interactive whiteboard.

  A checkered shirt and a white hat is the most visible part of the guy who approaches me, but there’s nothing recognizable about him and I’m certain it’s neither of the Corrigan boys. In fact, it can’t be anything to do with Blue. He and everyone he cares for was at his wedding party that night. But it’s odd, a feeling I had at the time of the attack washes over me again. A sense of familiarity perhaps or… “He was already there, though.” The words are easy to say and fall off the tip of my tongue, but the meaning behind them is strangled and refuses to reveal itself.

  She hits pause again. “Where, Lemon?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know exactly. Go back, please.” I lean forward and squint.

  She nods and rewinds the film, but it’s impossible to spot him until the headlights illuminate him. With the image paused again, she leans back on her chair and taps her pen on the table. The tip tapping is annoying and clouds my recollection further of what happene
d that night. Soon, my already frayed nerves will snap like an overstretched guitar string.

  “So, you don’t think the pickup had anything to do with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about this red Ford Fiesta?” She shows me a photo of the car.

  I shake my head and I blow out a deep breath of frustration while she makes a lengthy note and lets the video footage play out until the end of the incident.

  I blink rapidly at the sight of the attack. What is it about this guy that pulls at my mind? This image is in danger of becoming my memory, so I remind myself that I remember nothing. I even flinch when the gun goes off as if it is a total surprise and when I glance away from the screen to the cop, I tighten inside at the intense stare she anchors me with. It’s clear she is trying to gauge my response to the video. But she lets her attention slide when the footage ends. The last few frames are of me lying still on the cold ground. She leaves me alone with that image. And that part I remember. How despondent I felt. If someone could have ended my life right then, I would have gladly slipped away.

  “Can you identify him, or anything about him?” She leans over her folded arms.

  I nibble on my lip as I become as exasperated as she is that I remember so little. “Nope.”

  She throws herself back on the chair in annoyance. “Let’s go through this one more time and then we’ll call it a day.”

  After a painful fifteen minutes of re-watching the unclear image, I blow out a breath. “Okay, so where are we with all this?” My tone is terse and I’m pissed at the way this woman is treating me. I’m unsure if she is trying to intimidate me or if she’s simply condescending.

  “What do you mean?” She asks in a slow drawl, feigning innocence.

  I snap and my go to direct attitude kicks in. “Well, what else do you want from me? Because I sense you don’t believe me or you think I’m holding back on something.”