The Marshal Page 16

  Her head snapped back. “I’m sorry?”

  Not an apology, but a question. As if she misunderstood his meaning. He stepped closer, refusing to let those blue eyes distract him. Not this time. “Let me clarify. I asked you one simple thing and that was to keep me in the loop when you spoke to my family.”

  “Yes. And I have.”

  “My father doesn’t count? You didn’t think it was wise to tell me he was coming here today?”

  “What are you talking about? He’s coming here tomorrow. Not today.”

  And there it was. She knew and she didn’t tell him. “You talked to him and you didn’t tell me?”

  “I was about to call you.”

  “You didn’t think that was important enough to disrupt my day?”

  “Brent, I spoke to him barely thirty minutes ago and then Penny called me into her office. That’s where I was when Marcie paged me. As far as your dad, he said he’d be here tomorrow. I was going to call you when I finished with Penny.”

  Brent figured he must have been from some other planet because he thought it was pretty damned clear he wanted to hear this stuff ASAP. Penny was a reasonable boss. She wouldn’t have minded Jenna taking a minute to call him. What didn’t she get about that? “He just planted his tail at the house. My uncle talked to him and my aunt is having a damned stroke.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “Wanting you to call me the second you hung up with him isn’t a lot to ask.”

  She stepped closer, reaching for him, but he backed away, shrugging loose of her hold. Her bottom lip wobbled and she swallowed a couple of times as her blue eyes filled. Jenna crying. That was new. As much as he hated the sight, he couldn’t help her. She’d blindsided him for the last time.

  “Brent, please, he told me he’d be here tomorrow. Not today. He must have come up here and then called me. He lied to me.”

  “Why would he come here before he even spoke to you?”

  “He lived in Carlisle for years, maybe he’s still in contact with someone who knows I’m poking around. I don’t know, but I didn’t talk to him until thirty minutes ago.”

  Brent jammed his hands into his hair, dug his fingers into his scalp. Blood barreled into his skull, pushing, pushing, pushing until his eyes throbbed from the pressure. Insanity. That’s what he had here. All of these people yapping at him and he didn’t know what was truth versus fiction.

  “My aunt is hysterical. They all come to me. Every damned issue becomes mine to fix.” He breathed deep. “I asked you to do one thing. Just give me a flipping heads-up so I can manage the spin. How was that not clear?”

  “It was clear. But I don’t control what your father does. How was I supposed to know he’d show up today instead of tomorrow?”

  “You couldn’t, but again, a heads-up about the conversation would have helped. Now I’m stuck with chaos and hysteria. I don’t even know where the hell he is right now. He could be on his way to Camille’s. I’ve gotta get over there and tell her before she finds out and goes nuts. That thirty minutes you waited would do me a whole lot of good right now.”

  “This is not my fault!”

  The conference room door flew open and Brent swung back to find Penny in the doorway, her lips pressed tight. “Whatever you’re fighting about, take it down a notch.” She scooted in and closed the door. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Jenna said.

  “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

  “My father showed up,” Brent said. “I didn’t know.”

  Penny whirled on Jenna. “You didn’t tell him?”

  And now Penny knew. Brent bit down, waited for his teeth to scream from the agony of all this pent-up anger and hurt and...and...rage. “You knew?”

  “No, no, no,” Jenna said. “She only knew because she called me into her office. I swear to you. She’s the only one who knows. I wouldn’t do that to you. Brent, I know what you’re doing. Please, don’t do this.”

  But Brent was beyond that. To hell with it. All this emotional upheaval surrounded Jenna. She made him crazy. No matter how much he cared—and constantly craved her lush body—he didn’t have the stamina for this. He needed calm and quiet. Jenna didn’t provide calm and quiet. She was excitement and lust and attachment. All things for him to obsess about, and he had enough to obsess about. Time to go.

  Turning his back on Jenna, he faced Penny. “I’m concerned for her safety. Great job finding leads, but we’ve got a killer unhappy with her. I’m pulling the plug. You’re fired.”

  There. Done. Enough said. Without looking at Jenna, he walked out.

  * * *

  FIRED? FIRED. The word left Jenna more than a little dumbstruck. He’d actually done it. Later, when she got over this mind-frying anger, that loss would tear right into her chest and drill through her heart. At this moment, chasing him down the hallway, she was too incensed to feel the pain.

  “You are not firing me.” She made sure to keep her voice low, but loud enough that a retreating Brent would hear. “We will take this outside, but we’re not done.”

  “We’re done.”

  They stepped into the elevator and Brent smacked the button, ignoring her. Of course he was. Because if he looked at her, she’d see all his terror carving him up, eating away at him like acid on skin, and God help him if he showed any weakness. Instead, he picked a fight and here they were back at the beginning.

  “Putting aside our personal involvement, are you going to jeopardize my career by firing me?”

  “I told Penny my reasons. I told her you did a good job. If there’s any fallout I’ll fix it, but I can’t do this with you anymore.”

  So stubborn. All these years he’d been trying to find his mother’s killer. Finally, some progress was made and he wanted to end it. He’d have his life back and be able to heal, and he wanted to stop?

  Wait.

  She looked up at him, the man who pretended to ignore her by staring at the elevator doors. Locked up tight. As usual. Because this was his MO. To stay distant and unattached so he could focus on his mother. Avoid emotional conflicts with women. I’m so dumb.

  “Now I get it.”

  Finally, he glanced at her. “What?”

  The elevator hummed and Jenna glanced up at the flicking numbers. Five, four, three—she hit the stop button and the alarm sounded, a loud, blaring that rammed her eardrums.

  “Brilliant,” Brent said, reaching for the button.

  “Don’t touch that button.”

  He stopped, grunted and turned to her. “I’m not doing this. I’m done.”

  “Of course you are. Because you’re terrified of solving this case. Without it, you’ll have to find a way to deal with the emotions you’ve packed into yourself. You’ve said yourself you’re a bomb waiting to go off. Without your mother’s murder, you’ll have nothing but that bomb. So, instead, you’ll push me away, like you’ve done every other woman in your life, and then you’ll be alone and miserable. Which, oddly enough, seems to be your comfort zone.” She flung her arms. “Bravo!”

  In that annoying way of his, Brent snorted. “Here we go with the psychological evaluation again.”

  He turned back to the closed doors, focused on them as if they were the most fascinating thing he’d witnessed. Locked up tight. This would get her nowhere. That thick skull of his would not be penetrated until he calmed down. She’d have to wait. She hit the button again and the alarm stopped. The elevator jerked and began its descent. Two, one. The doors slid open and he stepped off.

  “Don’t do this, Brent. Let’s chalk it up to an argument, a misunderstanding, whatever, but don’t fall back on being a jerk because it’s easy. You’re better than that.”

  He paused and a woman, someone from the fourth floor Jenna had seen before, angled around him. Given the late morning hour, the lobby was quiet. At least she’d gotten one break. She waited for Brent to turn around. Waited for him to admit that terror had consumed him. Waited for him to apologize
.

  A full twenty seconds passed and nothing. Not a word. Just this big, hulking man standing with his back to her. In that deepest part of her where she’d grown to admire him, to care for him—no, to love him—that stung. Finally, Brent took a step, hesitated, but no, kept moving, his strides long and fast and heading straight for the door. Away from her.

  Jenna didn’t move. Maybe, after she’d spoken to his dad, she should have called him on the spot or rushed to wherever he was. Her mistake. One she’d never make again, but she’d thought she’d had time. Simple as that.

  She’d thought she had time.

  Apparently not.

  Well, she did now and Brent had just announced he didn’t know where his father was. She’d find Mason. Fired or not, she’d find him. What she did on her own time was her business, and she suddenly felt ill. Not actually a lie since her stomach flip-flopped like an Olympic gymnast. Pseudo sick day.

  She’d head upstairs, avoid her boss, grab her keys and purse, and take a trip to Carlisle to find Mason Thompson.

  She hadn’t worked this hard to walk away.

  No, sir. Fired or not, she had a murder to solve.

  * * *

  JENNA PULLED INTO the driveway of Brent’s home, well, the Thompson home, because now that his father had shown up, who knew what to call it?

  Above her, dark clouds swirled, their blackness threatening and ugly. A storm rolling in. How appropriate. She parked and then marched next door, fighting to keep her heels from sinking into the soft grass that separated the two homes. Hopefully, Sylvie or Brent’s uncle could fill her in on what had gone on with Mason. She needed to find the man, question him and compare his story to what she’d heard from the rest of Brent’s family. All before Brent tracked her down.

  If she thought he was mad now, all she needed to do was wait until he found her still working the case. And doing it alone. But after sneaking out of the office to avoid her boss, who would most certainly remind her that she’d been fired, Jenna and her .38 were flying solo. Besides, his family lived next door and they’d play chaperone.

  Although her reasonable self warned her not to pursue this, part of her couldn’t walk away. They’d come too far and it had become too personal. Proving herself wasn’t the issue anymore. Now she wanted to help Brent figure out who had taken his mother from him.

  She simply needed to do this one last thing and talk to Brent’s father.

  Then she’d either rule him out or have the sheriff question him again. And again. And again. With what Jamie had shared, it was time to pressure Mason Thompson.

  Eventually, if guilty, he’d break. The man was too weak to withstand an interrogation—an interview—as her father called it.

  Then she’d leave Brent and this case behind. For her own sake, she had to. But, darn it, the thought of that squeezed her chest, like a fist curling at the base of her throat. She heaved out a breath and pinched her eyes closed. Don’t cry. She couldn’t. Not now.

  Heartbreak. That’s what this was. It had been a long time since she’d felt it and—darn—had she ever truly understood its paralyzing presence, its savage way of sucking away every ounce of happiness? She didn’t think so. Her aching body didn’t either.

  But she and Brent couldn’t live like this. He used every disagreement as an excuse to run from a relationship, and the chaos and pain would be too much.

  Just finish this. The rest she could do later. For now, she’d pull herself together and get through this last task. She tugged on the sleeves of her trench coat, smoothed the collar, took a breath and banged on Sylvie’s door.

  Behind her, the wind whipped up again, rattling the branches on the big oak beside the porch.

  No answer.

  The absence of their cars didn’t bode well, but Jamie’s car was here. Maybe she’d gone somewhere with Sylvie?

  She banged again and waited. Still no answer. Fine. She’d try next door. Maybe Mason had returned and they were all in there having a powwow. If they weren’t and Mason was there and she wound up alone with a suspected killer, well, she had her .38. That was all the reasoning she needed. She tromped down the stairs and across the lawn, her heels once again sinking into the grass. Mud on her favorite shoes. Great. Just another annoying thing on an already annoying day.

  Brent had actually fired her. After everything they’d talked about and knowing how important this was to her, how she hungered to make a difference, he’d ripped it right out of her desperate, clutching hands.

  If she could go back, maybe she’d make a different decision, ask her boss to hang on a second and call him immediately rather than waiting.

  But beating it to death wouldn’t fix it.

  She climbed the porch and a noise—scraping—drew her attention. She peeked around the side of the house and saw the lattice Brent had torn off the other night sitting on the ground.

  Hadn’t he replaced that? Yes. Definitely. He’d told her that he’d only tucked it back in and would nail it in place the following weekend.

  So why was it sitting on the ground? She supposed this howling wind could have knocked it off.

  Unease creeped up her spine, tapping each vertebra on the way up. With each tap her heart rate kicked up. A warning? Paranoia? She continued to stare at the opening under the porch, waiting. Anticipating.

  Don’t.

  Yet, like a lure she couldn’t resist, she tiptoed off the porch to investigate. Slowly, she eased her .38 from her purse, held it just the way her father had taught her—two hands, thumbs along the side, grip tight.

  She moved silently, avoiding a pile of leaves that might crunch when stepped on. No movement from under the porch. Step over step she approached. Just before the opening where the lattice should have been, she squatted.

  Something flew at her—jump—and her pulse hammered, sending blood rocketing into her brain, slamming its way in. She reeled back. Trigger. No. Could be nothing. Someone clearing debris from under the house. She couldn’t know. Pull the trigger.

  Too late. A brick—another damned brick—hit her square in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She fell backward, landing on her butt, and pain shot down both legs. Gasping, she forced air into her lungs. Gun. Don’t drop it.

  Before she could look up, another brick smashed down onto her hand. Grinding hot pain lanced into her fingers and she cried out. Looming over her was Jamie—Jamie?—brick still in hand, readying for another swing. Fight. Jenna kicked out, connected with Jamie’s hip, knocking Jamie sideways.

  Somehow, her gun was still in her hand, but her grip was no good. She tried to curl her fingers and a second bolt of pain shot through them. Useless fingers. She rolled, grabbed the gun with her left hand and—boom!—something clocked her on the back of the head.

  Ahead of her a tree swayed, its edges blurring against the gray sky. Using a branch as a focal point, she got to her knees. Nausea filled her belly. Feel sick. Cold, wet moisture from the dirt seeped through her tights to her knees, and her head looped and spun right along with her rebelling stomach. Too much.

  She lay back down and closed her eyes. No sleeping. She fought to open her eyes but the lids were so heavy.

  “Stupid beauty queen,” Jamie said. “My cousin loses his sense and look where we are. So stupid.” Something poked Jenna’s side. “Get up.”

  Up? No. She closed her eyes again. Sighed at the relief.

  And then, finally, the blackness came.

  * * *

  “HE’S BACK?” CAMILLE asked, her voice cracking under the strain of hearing that their father had appeared as suddenly as he’d abandoned them nine years earlier.

  Brent sat back on his sister’s giant sofa and forced his shoulders into a relaxed position. In the time he’d been working his mother’s case, this was one conversation he never wanted to have, but if he appeared calm, Camille might believe it.

  Typically, he could talk motives and suspects with no problem. Telling Camille their father had returned would open the gaping wou
nd she’d spent years of therapy gluing shut.

  Brent nodded. “He showed up at the house today. Uncle Herb talked to him. Sylvie is a mess and I’m heading out there. I wanted you to know.”

  At least she wouldn’t be blindsided.

  Get over it. He couldn’t dwell on the fact that he and Jenna, despite their raging sexual attraction, didn’t mesh. If they had, she would have notified him lickety-split about his father. Even if she didn’t know the old man was moving up the time frame, she should have told Brent he was coming. Sure, the guy showing up a day early would have been a surprise, but Brent would have at least known he was coming.

  Instead, he got smacked upside the head with it and still didn’t understand why.

  Women. Always complicating his life.

  His phone rang. Ignore it. He drummed his fingers on his leg and Camille’s gaze shot to the coffee table where his phone continued to ring.

  “Is that him?”

  “I don’t know. Could be. Uncle Herb gave him my number.”

  “Can I look?”

  Third ring. “Sure.”

  Shaking her head, Camille scooped the phone up and glanced at the screen. “Penny Hennings.”

  Brent blew air through his lips and gave the relief its due diligence. Facing his father was imminent, but he didn’t have to rush it. Had it been Mason calling, Brent would have ignored it. Let the old man wait on him for a change.

  The phone went silent and Camille set it down. “Isn’t she Jenna’s boss?”

  “She is.”

  “Maybe they have news. Shouldn’t you talk to her?”

  “I fired them.”

  As expected, because his sister’s mannerisms hadn’t changed since her seventh birthday, she wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. Total pig face. “Why?”

  Where should he start? “Jenna sat on telling me about Dad. He wasn’t due until tomorrow.”

  Camille shrugged. “And?”

  And nothing. “She should’ve called me ASAP.”

  “But...” She cocked her head. “You just said he wasn’t due until tomorrow. You’re mad because she didn’t call you?”