She shook her head. “I don’t know, but why would Justin need to get into Erin’s house anyway?”
“He needed something that was here, and he couldn’t call and ask for it. He’s wanted. His face was all over the news today.”
A knock sounded on the door. A deputy stood outside. Matt recognized Jim Rogers, who’d been with the sheriff’s department for many years.
Rogers walked into the kitchen and stopped. He startled as his gaze swept over Bree and landed on Matt. “Flynn.”
“Rogers,” Matt returned the awkward greeting.
“You know each other?” Rogers gestured between Matt and Bree.
“We do,” Matt said.
Bree gave Matt a look and turned to Rogers. “Did you find tracks?”
“Yeah.” Rogers cleared his throat. “He ran through the pasture. The footprints disappeared at the road on the other side. In addition to the tracks headed toward the road, there also were tracks leading this way. He probably left his vehicle back there and walked here across the field. I’ll dust the door and kitchen drawer for prints before I go. You can stop by the station any time after tomorrow to pick up a copy of the police report.”
Bree closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I don’t remember if the intruder was wearing gloves.”
“We’ll dust anyway.” Rogers hustled from the kitchen, returning to his vehicle for his fingerprinting kit. He pulled several prints from around the doorknob and a partial from the kitchen drawer. “I’ll let you know if we get any matches.”
He would run the prints through AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, and look for matches in both criminal and crime scene databases. The prints he pulled probably belonged to family members, but it was always worth a try. Criminals could be unbelievably stupid.
After Rogers left, Bree checked on the kids, and Matt went to the garage for a piece of wood, which he nailed over the hole in the glass. They both returned to the kitchen.
“Both kids are sound asleep.” Bree paced. “I guess the dog made them feel safe.”
“Brody will hear anything unusual.”
She studied him for a minute. “What’s up between you and the deputy? I assume you used to work together.”
“He shot me.” Matt shocked himself with the blunt admission. “Him and another deputy. It was an accident. We were serving an arrest warrant on a drug dealer at a warehouse. The sheriff was supposed to send me and Brody in the south entrance, but he sent us to the north. We got caught in the crossfire between the dealers and the deputies. I don’t blame Jim. It wasn’t his fault, and he felt terrible afterward. But it does make things awkward between us.”
“I’ll bet,” Bree said. “You don’t sound very convincing when you say it was an accident.”
“Remember the corrupt former sheriff I told you about?”
“The one who committed suicide?”
“That’s him.” Matt considered how much to tell her. “I saw the sheriff hit a suspect in the kidney with a baton, repeatedly. The guy was lying on the floor in handcuffs. He was no threat to anyone.”
“Excessive force?”
“The sheriff had a temper.” Matt nodded. “I should have reported him. It wasn’t the first time. He was a real bastard. Thought he was above the law. No,” Matt corrected. “He thought he was the law. But that’s where it gets tricky with a sheriff. A police chief can be fired by the mayor or town council, but a sheriff is an elected official. He has to be charged with a crime and/or impeached.”
“That’s not an easy process.”
“No. He was very popular at the time. There was no way I was going to talk the DA into charging him. The guy the sheriff beat up was too scared to testify. The sheriff was a powerful man who’d been in office for a long time. It would have been his word against mine.”
Bree’s eyes narrowed as she made connections. “You think the sheriff sent you in the wrong door intentionally.”
“It has crossed my mind.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly,” Matt agreed. “It was bad enough that I got shot. But Brody . . .” He paused. “I think Rogers felt worse about shooting the dog.”
“Do you trust anyone in the sheriff’s department?” Bree asked.
“I trust Marge,” Matt said.
“Not Chief Deputy Harvey?”
“I don’t know about Todd.” Matt shook his head. “I hate to think he knew. He always seemed like a decent guy, but when I got out of the hospital, Todd and the other deputies treated me differently.” As if he’d already been an outsider. Like the sheriff had already spun the story of the shooting in his own favor, and everyone had believed him. He’d been a very convincing man. He’d told big, brash lies with contagious confidence.
“Did Todd shoot you too?” Bree asked.
“No. The other guy left the department after the sheriff killed himself.”
“So, maybe that guy knew.”
“Maybe. There was an investigation after the shooting. Everyone gave their official statements and clammed up. The sheriff said I went in the wrong door. I didn’t.”
“His word against yours all over again.”
“That’s right.” Matt flexed his hand. “The sheriff came to see me at home. He offered me a substantial settlement to let it go.” Technically, the deal had come from the county, but the sheriff had had influence.
“And you took it.”
“Only after he agreed to retire Brody and give him to me. His injury wasn’t too serious, but there was no way I was letting him put his life on the line for that asshole again.”
“Now I understand why it’s awkward between you and the sheriff’s department.”
Matt’s gaze dropped to a red smear on the floor. “Are you bleeding?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I got caught in barbed wire.” She waggled her fingers at him. Band-Aids covered two knuckles. She stooped to roll up the hem of her jeans.
“Sit here.” Matt patted the granite island.
Bree hoisted herself up and swung her foot over the sink.
Matt rolled up her pant leg. “Your jeans are wet.”
With a sigh, Bree told him the whole story of her discovering and then chasing the intruder. Not surprisingly, it was more complicated than her simply running off a burglar.
Matt’s blood went cold. Armed cop or not, she could have been killed. “You should have locked the door and let him run. What if he’d been armed?”
Anger, and maybe a hint of embarrassment, flushed her cheeks. “I wanted to catch him. What if he was the man who killed my sister?”
Matt turned on the faucet. Did she not realize how important she was? Had her brain not computed the new responsibilities she’d assumed when her sister had died? Matt studied her for a few seconds. No, he decided. She hadn’t processed her sister’s death and all its consequences yet.
She was used to being alone, not having anyone dependent on her. How long would it take her to figure out that her life was completely different now?
“Those kids need you,” he said simply.
She frowned, as if she hadn’t thought that taking care of them meant taking care with herself. “I know, but he didn’t attack me. He ran.”
Not the point.
Matt rephrased his thoughts into language she’d understand. “Next time, promise you’ll wait for backup, OK?”
“OK.” She acknowledged his point with a nod, but he still felt as if she wasn’t appreciating her new role in the kids’ lives. Bree’s brother, Adam, was not guardianship material. Too distracted. Too focused within his own world. The kids would always be an afterthought. It might not be intentional, but the kids would still suffer.
Not with Bree, though. She would put Luke and Kayla first.
Matt peeled off her bloody sock. He expected to find the two cuts on her ankle. The tattoo surprised him. It was a winding vine, done in shades of dark green and dotted with a few tiny blue flowers. The work
was delicate. “Where’s the first aid kit?”
She pointed to a door behind him. “In the pantry.”
He found a small plastic box on a shelf and brought it to the island. “I can’t believe you didn’t feel these.”
“It’s been a rough night. I might be numb.”
Matt cleaned the cuts with soap and water, closed them with butterfly strips, and covered them with Band-Aids. “This tattoo is beautiful work.”
“Thanks.” She studied it for a second.
Matt looked closer. Underneath the ink, two jagged lines of raised skin were barely visible. The tattoo artist had done an amazing job. “The tattoo covers a scar?”
“Yes.” She paled, her brows dropping into a troubled line. “That’s where I was bitten. It left an ugly mark. Before I got the tattoo, I never wore shorts or dresses.”
Matt touched the scar. It was thin, but jagged in places. “How many stitches?”
She flinched at his touch and swung her legs off the counter. “I’d better check on the kids.”
She moved to leave the kitchen, but he blocked her with a hand on each side of her body. “Does the fact that you called mean you’re willing to work with me?”
She lifted one eyebrow. Her hazel eyes met his gaze without blinking. “I’m tired. I wanted another adult in the house to keep the kids safe tonight. I preferred someone solid who I was reasonably sure could handle himself. I thought of you.”
“I’m flattered.”
She tilted her head. Despite being more than a head shorter than him, she yielded no ground. “Does your helping me tonight come with strings attached?”
“Of course not.” He took a step backward, regretting the dick move. What had made him think he could intimidate Bree into a loose partnership to investigate Erin’s death and Justin’s disappearance?
“Good.” She ran a hand over her scalp, not to smooth her hair, but as if her head hurt.
Selfishly, beyond the investigation, Bree appealed to him. She was an attractive woman, but he knew plenty of those. He was old enough to want more than sex and a pretty face from a relationship. Something made her different. Complexity. Resilience. Fate had thrown marbles under her feet. She’d scrambled but kept her balance. Her straightforward attitude was refreshing too. He’d been an ass, and she’d called him on it immediately.
And because he’d been an ass—and he still wanted to work with her—he should be the first to offer information.
“When you called, you didn’t disturb me. I wasn’t home in bed.” He explained about his visit with Justin’s father and the information on a potential drug dealer.
“Maybe Justin owed his dealer money.” She rubbed her eyes. “I hate to think he was using again, but it makes sense. If he wasn’t, Erin would have taken him back. She wasn’t good at ending relationships.”
Something stirred in the front room, and Bree headed for the doorway. “Sounds like one of the kids is awake.” Glancing back at him, she said in a low voice, “We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow, when my brain is functioning. I’m going to try to get the kids to go to bed.”
“You should get some sleep too.”
“I’ll try.” She nodded. “There’s a guest room.”
“I can bunk on the couch.” Matt wanted to stay closer to the doors, where he would hear an intruder. “Brody will keep guard.”
“Thanks again.” She left the room.
Matt filled a glass with water and drank it. In the morning, he’d follow up on Justin’s drug dealer. Matt would love to give the chief deputy an alternate suspect.
He considered the camping gear. Why would Justin run and hide? Was he afraid of the man who had killed Erin? Or the police?
Or both?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He sat back in his vehicle and stared at the small farm through the telephoto lens of his camera. The house was dark, and there was an extra vehicle parked out front. He took a picture of the big SUV. The lamppost in front of the house illuminated the license plate.
There’d been a news report on Erin’s death and her family history. They’d shown pictures of the family, including a current photo of Erin’s sister entering the sheriff’s station that morning. The sister was a homicide detective from Philadelphia. She was going to be a problem. He could feel it. She was going to get in his way, just like Erin had.
But what could he do about her?
Fury roiled inside him, rising as rapidly as a flash flood. Erin had thought she was so smart. That she had his number. That she could interfere with his life. Well, she’d learned a hard lesson. The memory soothed him. He’d taken care of her. He would not allow anyone to fuck with him.
No one was taking what was his. Not the dead bitch. Not her sister.
He’d killed once, and he was more than willing to do it again, though the sister was a cop and would be harder to kill. He touched his pocket and felt the reassuring bulk of the gun. As he’d demonstrated Tuesday night, a bullet to the chest at close range took a person down fast. A gun truly was the great equalizer.
A curtain moved in an upstairs window—Erin’s window—and a dark figure moved into view. Was the sister looking out? Could she sense him watching her?
He snapped a picture. She seemed to be looking right at him.
His breath locked in his chest. Though he was certain she couldn’t see him, he slid farther down in his seat. He lowered the camera. Without the help of the telephoto lens, she was no longer visible.
His lungs loosened.
If he couldn’t see her, then she couldn’t see him.
Anger flashed again, heating him from the inside out. He shouldn’t have to worry about this. Like Erin, the sister would bring on her own demise. A cop would never be able to mind her own business.
He needed to kill her, but he wasn’t prepared to do it tonight. Killing a cop would take planning. The sister was armed, and she’d be wary, trained. He’d have to take her by surprise. He’d planned Erin’s death, and it had gone off like clockwork. Well, almost like clockwork. But he would make use of the one deviation from the plan. He’d take the same amount of care with the sister’s death.
He raised the camera again. The figure in the window had disappeared. Had she gone back to bed?
He’d watched Erin too. Her behavior had been pathetically routine, almost OCD. With thoughts of planning in his head, he picked up a notepad from the passenger seat and wrote down the time the figure had appeared in the window. If she didn’t sleep well and was often up at night, he needed to know.
The house remained quiet for the next fifteen minutes. He started the engine and eased off the shoulder of the road.
The anger in him had diminished, but it never went away. It simmered in his chest like a pilot light waiting to ignite a larger flame.
The sister had better not interfere, because he would do whatever was necessary to keep what was his.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The house was silent Thursday morning as Bree worked her way through some sun salutations. She placed her head on her mat, lifted her hips, and slowly straightened her body until she was in a headstand. Yoga had taught her body and breath control, and the concentration required to not fall flat on her face cleared her head. She finished with a forearm stand and five breaths in the inverted V of downward dog. Then she showered, dressed, and crept down the stairs. The kids were both still sound asleep, but they hadn’t gone to bed until three, and then only after Matt promised that Brody would be there all night.
From the bottom step, Bree could see Matt sleeping on the couch. On the floor at his side, Brody lay on a folded quilt Kayla had insisted he use as a bed. The dog’s head was up, his big brown eyes focused on Bree. She paused, fear nudging her pulse.
She inhaled deep into her lungs and controlled her exhale. The dog will not hurt you.
That phrase was going to be her new mantra. She took a second slow breath and forced herself to walk past the living room, hating the relieved scurry in her step a
s she left the dog’s sight.
In the kitchen, she brewed a pot of coffee. The sun streamed through the windows. Outside the sky was a brilliant winter blue. Bree checked the time. Nine o’clock. The horses needed to be fed. She shrugged into Luke’s jacket and her sister’s boots and opened the door. The cold hit her face like a wall of ice. She glanced at a thermometer mounted on the back porch. Nine degrees.
She stepped off the porch, patting the pockets of the coat and finding gloves. Sunlight gleamed on the frozen yard, blinding her. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she made her way into the barn. Three horses poked their heads over their stall doors. Kayla’s chestnut pony, Pumpkin, occupied the first stall. He eyeballed Bree from under his bushy flaxen forelock. Luke’s bay quarter horse, Riot, kicked his door. The last animal, a pretty paint Erin had named Cowboy, nickered softly for attention. The horses rustled their bedding. The air smelled of beasts, hay, and manure. Bree hadn’t lived on a farm since she was eight, but the scents and sounds felt familiar in a way she couldn’t deny, no matter how much she wanted to.
She used the plastic scoop to measure feed and gave each horse hay. Ice had formed in their water buckets overnight. Bree broke the ice with a hammer and refilled the buckets. The barn water supply was insulated and heated to prevent freezing. She slipped into each stall, straightened blankets, and checked each animal over in the daylight. They seemed fine.
Ironically, thousand-pound animals that could easily squash her didn’t frighten her at all.
She patted them on the necks and went back to the house. Luke could muck the stalls later. She crossed the yard and opened the door to the kitchen. The smell of coffee was bliss, and the heat prickled on the frozen skin of her face.
Matt stood at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. Instinctively, Bree looked for the dog. Brody lay under the kitchen table, his face on his paws, his eyes on Matt. She couldn’t prevent the quickening of her step as she passed him.
“Good morning,” Matt said. He was rumpled and messy-haired, and his reddish-brown stubble seemed to have sprouted into a tight beard overnight.
CROSS HER HEART Page 9
