The Marshal Read online

  When she put it that way, it didn’t sound reasonable. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Brent, you’re my big brother and I’ve always been in awe of you, but that’s dumb.”

  “Hey—”

  “No hey. If it had been me having to deliver that message, I’d have needed a few minutes to figure out how to tell you our deadbeat father was back. I’d have been worried about your reaction, and I know you better than anyone. She cares about you and you fired her.” Brent leaned forward, but Camille held her hands up. “I’m not saying she was right, but she’s done a lot for us. That’s all.”

  Camille was taking Jenna’s side. What the hell was with his family?

  “I don’t like being blindsided.”

  “But she didn’t blindside you. Dad did. It’s his fault, not hers.”

  His voice mail chirped and that reprieve couldn’t have come at a better time considering that Camille and her ever-efficient mind were aggravating him. He picked up his phone, checked the screen because why not? This conversation was definitely skidding off the rails.

  “You want to run from her,” Camille said.

  He’d scroll through his emails while he was at it.

  “Brent, you know I love you, but there’s a reason you’re not attached, and running won’t cure it.”

  Enough. He met his sister’s gaze, gave her the hard look he knew she’d understand. “Shut up about my life.”

  His normally agreeable sister shrugged. “You’ve never shut up about my life.”

  Hello? Someone had to take care of her. He hit the button to dial Penny.

  Camille rolled her eyes. “You’re messing this up. And that would be a shame because I think you care about her. I never butt into your business when it comes to women, but this time it won’t be so easy for you to walk away.”

  Brent held the phone up. “It’s ringing.”

  And I’m ignoring you. At least trying to. When had his sister gotten so smart about people? About him? He’d give her credit for one thing, she had him nailed. Yes, he’d walk away from Jenna, and no, it wouldn’t be easy.

  Nothing was ever easy when it came to Jenna. Especially that crazy feeling he got every time she stepped into his orbit. When she was close, he wanted closer. There was comfort there. A connection he’d never had and...forget it. No sense in tormenting himself.

  Penny picked up. “Hey,” he said into the phone. “What’s up?”

  “Is Jenna with you?”

  His fingertips tingled. Weird. He curled and uncurled his free hand. Brent stood and paced the small area behind the sofa. “Uh, no. I left her in the lobby. Why?”

  “Because she’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Well, Brent, if I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you. She’s not answering her cell. You said she’s in danger and now she’s gone.”

  He stopped pacing, stared straight ahead while his pulse jackhammered. She’s gone. AWOL. He wouldn’t panic. Not yet. Jenna liked going rogue and he wouldn’t put it past her to continue investigating. Even after he’d canned her. Her relentless ambition, her quest to find answers, were things he loved about her. Chances were she’d bolted to avoid Penny asking questions.

  “I’ll find her.”

  He hung up on Penny and dialed Jenna’s number.

  “Problem?” Camille asked.

  “Jenna went AWOL.”

  “After you fired her.”

  He adored his sister, but right now she was hacking at his last stable nerve. “You need to back off.”

  She hopped off the chair, walked to the entryway of the tiny apartment and grabbed her coat off the hook.

  Jenna’s voice mail beeped and her voice, the breathy one she layered on when she thought she needed it, came through the line.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Call me.”

  Camille shrugged into her coat. “No answer?”

  “No. Where are you going?”

  “Wherever you are. It’s time to find our father.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Wake up, beauty queen.”

  Still with her eyes closed and fighting the need to come fully awake, Jenna focused on the voice. Who is that? Piercing light flashed behind her eyelids and a shattering stab blazed down her neck. She peeled open her eyes, met the darkened living room of the Thompson’s house and silently thanked whatever god had gifted her with dim lighting.

  Ratty sneakers appeared in front of her. Jenna slid her gaze upward, along the jean-clad legs, over the zip-up jacket—Jamie—to the .38 in the woman’s hand.

  My gun.

  Jenna, the FBI reject, had made the most critical of all critical errors and let her weapon leave her. So sorry, Dad. Worse, she didn’t understand any of this. She rolled to her back and her vision loopy-looped right along with her stomach. Gonna be sick. “Bathroom.”

  Jamie squatted in front of her. “What?”

  “I’m...sick.”

  “Yeah. Expected that when I dragged you in here.” She dropped a small pail next to Jenna. “Here you go, beauty queen. Do your thing.”

  Swallowing back bile, she clutched at the pail, waiting. She exhaled, then inhaled again and still vomit threatened. After a few more breaths, she opened her eyes and slid her gaze sideways. Jamie stood by the window.

  “What are you doing?” Jenna asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Get up. If she could just sit up, maybe she’d have a chance to get the gun back. Fool. She could barely see straight, much less fight for a gun big enough to knock a decent-sized hole in her. Still, if the alternative was lying on this floor waiting for someone to save her, she’d better figure out a plan.

  Jenna levered up and found herself on the losing end of her own gun. Vomit lurched into her throat and—oh, no, oh, no—she grabbed the pail, heaving into it, gagging until her eyeballs wanted to burst.

  Maybe she’d need that hero after all.

  She lolled back against the sofa and her stomach contracted, released and contracted again. Now that her stomach had emptied, maybe the nausea would subside. Let her at least get to her feet.

  She stared down at the plastic bucket Jamie must have retrieved from next door. The pungent odor of pine needles invaded her already vulnerable system and she sat back, held her arm against her nose to block the smell.

  Her fingers throbbed from the bashing they’d taken with the brick and she flexed them, wincing along the way. None broken. One good thing. “Jamie, please. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “That idiot uncle of mine came back. That’s what’s happening. He’s been gone all this time. You come along and suddenly he’s back. You love that, don’t you? Men falling at your feet. Following your every command.” She let out a frustrated grunt. “Stupid beauty queen.”

  Jenna studied her movements. Stiff, jerky, nervous.

  And holding a gun.

  She met her gaze and those eyes that were almost the exact color of Brent’s and Sylvie’s and all she saw was death. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but please, put that gun down before someone gets hurt.”

  “Shut up.”

  Setting the pail next to her, Jenna hung on to the edge in case she needed to swing it. “Can I get off the floor?”

  Jamie held up the gun, gestured to the sofa. “Fine. On the couch. Move slow. It won’t be much longer.”

  “For what?”

  “For our visitor. My uncle is coming. He will confess to murdering my aunt and after I catch him with your dead body, I’ll shoot him in self-defense. Then it’s all over. Everyone goes back to their lives.”

  Prickles of panic cruised along Jenna’s skin.

  Unglued.

  This whole setup was to get her uncle here so she could stage a murder. Jamie’s hand shook and her gaze bounced around.

  Jenna eyed the door, calculated the time it would take to get there.

  “I need this to end,” Jamie said. “This house should be razed so we can get on with our
lives and stop thinking about Cheryl. It’s all anybody cares about. This empty house and Cheryl. Now I’m going to end it. Once and for all.”

  Jenna’s panic took hold and she pictured the scene. Bodies in front of the sofa, blood everywhere. Brent would find them. He’d walk in, see the bodies and it would be a miracle if he didn’t go insane. A fierce protective instinct whipped at her.

  “This isn’t the way. If your uncle murdered your aunt, let the sheriff deal with him. This will not help you.”

  “Yeah, it will. You have no idea.”

  And the look in her eyes, that cold, deadly calm left Jenna wondering if a killer stood in front of her.

  Next plan. Jenna pushed off the floor, her stomach flopping like a fish on land. And dummy her, she’d come out here and not told anyone. So many mistakes.

  At the entryway, her purse had been thrown against the wall. Jamie must have put it there when she’d dragged her inside. Some of the contents, the tools of her trade—hairbrush, lipstick, notepad—had fallen out and lay scattered on the floor.

  “Forget it,” Jamie said. “I took your phone. My cousin keeps calling. He hates when people don’t return his calls.”

  She didn’t know that, but could use it. “I do know. I should call him. He’s such a worrier. I told him I was coming here. If I don’t call him, he’ll break speed records.”

  Jamie waved the gun. “I listened to your voice mail. He’s mad at you, beauty queen. Demanding to know where you are.”

  Caught. “He’ll figure it out.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “By the time he gets here, all he’ll find is another dead woman. And his dead father.” She spun to the window and stormed around, jabbing the .38 once, twice, three times in Jenna’s direction. Each time, Jenna flinched, waiting for the bang of an accidental—or not so accidental—shot.

  “Jamie, please. I don’t understand. If Mason is guilty, you committing a double murder doesn’t accomplish anything. All it does is get you a life sentence.”

  Even if her plan was to make Mason look guilty.

  “And dispose of a killer.”

  “But at what cost?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Totally snapped. Not a pinch of rational thought to be found. Jenna rested her pounding head against the back of the sofa and faced off with her own gun. Her thoughts whirled and she analyzed her errors, picking them apart with brutal accuracy. Coming here alone, not alerting anyone, her failure to move when the brick flew at her.

  But wait. Jamie hadn’t been here when they’d found the bricks. Jenna ticked back to their conversation at the truck stop. She hadn’t said anything. She had, in fact, put her off.

  “You tossed the brick through my window, didn’t you?”

  No answer.

  “Why, Jamie?”

  Again no answer. Push her.

  “To scare me off, right? Only I didn’t go. Then I found your uncle.”

  “And brought him back here. As if we needed that filth here after he left his children? What kind of man abandons his children after their mother is murdered? Not my father. That’s for sure.”

  The way she said it, accentuating the not, caught Jenna sideways. Odd. “What does that mean?”

  “My father is a good man. He takes care of us. Whatever his faults, he never walked away. So I’m going to fix things. Finally make them right.”

  Jenna’s vision blurred again and she swallowed another surge of bile. Her stomach protested and she grabbed the bucket, heaving into it. Sick as a dog, head spinning and Jamie off her rocker. With Jenna’s gun. Outside, a clap of thunder sounded and the boom rattled the windows.

  Banner afternoon.

  Jenna finished with the bucket and, short on options, dabbed the cuff of her sweater against her mouth. “I could use a napkin. I have some in my purse. Please?”

  “Is this a trick?”

  It wasn’t, but the idea had merit. If she could distract Jamie, she might get a few seconds to attack. But with the way her head spun, she’d probably fall on her face. “Please. I’m so sick.”

  Jamie rolled her eyes. “Now you’re a drama queen on top of a beauty queen. I expected more from you.” She stomped to Jenna’s purse and kicked it toward her. “You get them. And don’t try anything. I will shoot you.”

  Jenna didn’t doubt that.

  A car door slammed, the sound muffled by the closed door. “Finally,” Jamie huffed. Keeping the weapon aimed at Jenna, she peeked out the window.

  “You’re about to meet Brent’s father.”

  Jamie cracked the door ajar, waiting for Mason to push it open. This is it. Heavy footsteps—boots—thunked against the wood and Jamie inched back, raising the gun. Do something, do something, do something.

  “Run!” Jenna screamed. “Run!”

  Jamie swung right, the .38 looming in Jenna’s direction and—don’t shoot, please don’t shoot—Jamie’s finger moved over the trigger. Go. Jenna rolled sideways. Boom! The shot ripped into the arm of the sofa where Jenna had just been sitting. Stone-cold crazy.

  Jamie swung the gun back to the doorway. Standing there, a look of terror and panic tightening his cheeks, stood Brent’s father. It may as well have been Brent in thirty years. Same big build, same hair color and bone structure.

  Bone structure she definitely wanted to see in thirty years.

  No dying today.

  Jenna scrambled to her feet, the soles of her shoes slipping on the damned wood and her bad ankle barked. No traction. “Run!”

  “Don’t move,” Jamie said, calm as could be. She backed up. “I don’t care which one of you I kill first. Anyone moves, they get shot.” She jerked her head at Mason. “Get inside.”

  The idiot stood in the doorway, hands raised. This man was Brent’s father? Something went fluky in the gene pool. Brent would have disarmed her in four seconds. Maybe three. His father? He froze. She supposed Jamie was right about one thing: Mason Thompson was a weak man.

  “Inside or I shoot you. I don’t care. You’re worthless anyway.”

  Run. Please, run. Get help. This time she hoped he’d run for the right reasons.

  He stepped inside and Jenna gasped.

  “Shut that door and lock it,” Jamie said.

  Again, Mason did as he was told.

  “What the hell’s going on, Jamie?” he asked.

  Jamie tilted her head. “Oh, Uncle Mason, we’re going to play a little game. It’s called Let’s-Make-Everything-Right. Now get in here and shut up.”

  * * *

  BRENT SWUNG INTO the driveway, spotted Jenna’s car parked in front of a blue pickup with a missing tailgate and let out a stream of curses that would put Aunt Sylvie in a straitjacket.

  His father always drove pickups and although Brent had never seen this one, he didn’t doubt who it belonged to.

  So, yeah, Jenna was inside the house, probably interviewing his father. After Brent had fired her.

  “I see Jenna took that whole you’re-fired thing seriously,” Camille cracked.

  Another smart-mouth. Lucky him. He jammed the SUV into Park and eyeballed his sister. “You about done?”

  “Not nearly. I always let you take the lead on things, but this time, I think you’re in over your head. It doesn’t matter at this minute, though, because I’d like to see what our father is up to.”

  “You want me to do this? I could talk to him and then bring you in.”

  Camille’s dark blue eyes clouded and grew darker. Intense. Stronger. Normally, he’d insist on handling this himself. But hadn’t that been one of Jenna’s observations? That he never let anyone help him?

  “No,” Camille said. “I’m tired of being afraid to face him.”

  Brent reached over and tugged on her hair the way he used to when she was a kid. Those were the good memories, the memories that reminded him that their childhood hadn’t been a complete loss. “Let’s do it, then.”

  He slid from the SUV, contemplated throwing his suit jacket on again. Nah.
Why make an effort for a guy who’d walked out on them?

  In the distance, thunder rumbled. Wicked storm heading in. They’d make this quick and get back on the road again.

  He stopped in front of the car, grabbed Camille’s arm and looked her in the eyes, searching, making sure this is what she wanted.

  His sister patted his hand. “I’m okay. I’ve got you and you’ve got me. That’s all we need. We take care of each other.”

  Yes, they did. Whatever their childhood had tossed at them, they’d survived. “That we do, sis.”

  Camille pointed to the driveway next door. “Jamie is here. I wonder if they’re all inside with him.”

  Him. Brent didn’t expect a lot from his life, but he never wanted to reach a place where his children would refer to their father as him rather than Dad. A sad state all around.

  Brent dragged a hand over his face. “I can’t handle all of them. Not in this lifetime. It’ll be a free-for-all. We have to clear the place so you and I can talk to him. Back me up on that.”

  “You know I will.”

  Camille tucked her arm into his and the two of them walked toward the porch. “Don’t be mad at Jenna. She’s invested. You can’t hold that against her.”

  Brent snorted. “Is this some twisted female unity?”

  “Maybe. I like her. She’d be good for you. If you pulled your head out of your rear.”

  “Don’t start.”

  He unhooked his arm, dragged his key from his pocket and tromped up the stairs. He wouldn’t knock. Never. He’d maintained this house for years. His name wasn’t on the deed, but he’d assumed responsibility. Whatever was going on in that house, it involved him. And Camille.

  He shoved the key in the door, flipped the lock and grabbed the knob. For a brief second the cold metal against his sweat-soaked palm shocked him. When he opened the door, he’d put eyes on his father for the first time in over nine years. No visits or calls or wondering if they were all right.

  Nine years.

  A fresh bout of anger hissed at him, coiled around his neck and he stiffened. Stay calm. That’s what he needed now. Not to blow his top. To treat his father with respectful indifference. That’s all the old man would get. Brent cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders and all that coiling anger loosened its grip. Better. He turned the knob and gently pushed open the door.