by Cate Ashwood
“It ain’t her,” he whispered to himself. His one protest, his one hope.
Marty held his hat in his hands and didn’t look up when John came over to them, but Belinda found his face. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face white. She looked like she’d been dancing with the devil and had finally lost her soul.
“John,” she said softly, as if she didn’t have enough breath to move words from her mouth anymore.
He set his hand on her shoulder, barely aware of the way he held on to her. “It ain’t her, right? They found someone else?”
Belinda shook her head, and John didn’t know what she meant.
“She ain’t—”
“She is,” Belinda whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s her.”
John heard the words clear as day, knew what they meant. But everything in him disagreed. He found himself gripping Belinda’s shirt more firmly in his hand. “No,” he said, all the air in his lungs leaving him, his chest burning as he tried to remember how to do this, how to breathe, how to live in a world where Chloe no longer existed. His blood rushed in his ears, a solid thrum, a roar as he forced a breath. “That ain’t her,” he said, more firmly now, almost angry. “That ain’t her. They don’t know what they’re talkin’ about, Bell. Just. It ain’t her.”
When had he fallen to his knees? When had he buried his face against Belinda’s soft belly? When did he start screaming? He couldn’t hear the sound, but he could feel it in his throat, the strain, the raw air dragging over his vocal cords.
Belinda held him tight, so close he might suffocate. And in that minute, that was all John wanted in the world.
After a long moment—an hour? A year?—he could finally hear Belinda’s voice again. Her soothing way, her shushing. “Hush now, son,” she whispered, pressing kisses into the top of his head. Her tears spilled down and ran through John’s hair. He could feel them trail over the back of his neck, hear her sniffling with him. “We can’t do this. Not right now.”
She was right, of course. But she would know, wouldn’t she? John couldn’t imagine how hard this was for Marty and Bell. They’d been to this rodeo before. They’d already endured the pain of losing Billy, already survived it. But this? Their little girl, their only remaining child on earth. He didn’t understand how they could bear it, but he’d be damned if he’d make it worse for them. “I’m sorry,” he said, his words shaking out of him on ragged breaths. “I didn’t mean to….”
“Don’t you apologize,” she said as she held him again. John realized she was clinging to him just as hard as he clung to her. “You’re all we got left now,” she whispered, more tears falling. “You gotta hold it together.”
Marty still hadn’t said a word. Instead, he got to his feet and walked slowly toward the door. When it stuck, didn’t swing open for him, he did the only violent thing John had even seen him do. Marty kicked it so hard one of the hinges gave up. The door slammed against the wall and then hung there, useless.
John tried to pull away from Bell, tried to follow. In the back of his head, he wondered if he and Marty could find something to beat on together, something to tear apart, leave in rubble. But Bell caught his hand and held on to him. “You just let him go,” she said. “Best not to chase after him right now.”
John sat next to her, still holding her hand. He had so many questions, he didn’t know what to ask—who to ask—first. “What now?” John leaned back, rested his head on the cool brick wall behind him. If he let himself think too hard, let himself replay any more memories, remember the last conversation he and Chloe had, or the last time he hugged her, he knew he would fall apart and never be able to put himself back together again.
“I don’t know, son.” Bell sounded like she’d already fallen apart, like there weren’t enough pieces left of her to try. Even her voice sounded hollow. “Andy’ll be out here in a minute,” she said softly. “He’s talkin’ with… whoever he’s talkin’ to. But he’ll be out here to ask us a bunch of questions we’ve already answered, tryin’ to figure out who did this.”
John nodded as if he understood, but something Bell said slowly clicked into place, made a connection in the fragments of his brain. “What do you mean, who did this?” Up until that moment, John had assumed Chloe had been in some sort of accident, hit by a drunk driver or swerved off the road trying not to hit a deer, or… something.
Belinda swallowed hard before speaking. “Marty didn’t tell you?” The look on John’s face must’ve answered for her because she went on. “She was murdered, John. Someone….” Belinda closed her eyes. More tears escaped, and her breath came in a stilted rush. “Someone murdered my baby girl.”
It was John’s turn to hold her now. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as Belinda collapsed into him, sobbing.
Murdered.
Chloe had been murdered.
They didn’t know who it was.
Everything she’d said boiled and churned in John. He’d thought losing Chloe was the worst thing he could imagine, but he’d been wrong. This was so much worse.
Part of him didn’t want to know what happened, couldn’t bring himself to wonder how badly she’d suffered or why someone would hurt her—of all people—like that.
But there was another part of John. The part that understood for the first time in his life the meaning of the word bloodlust. That part of him wanted to know every detail, wanted to go out and find them himself. John didn’t want justice. He wanted vengeance. He wanted to skin them while they were still alive and then deliver their remains to Bell and Marty himself, like a gruesome offering. And even that seemed too good, too kind for whoever had brought this misery to all of them.
It took Belinda several minutes to cry herself out, collect herself as best she could. All the while, John held to the one thing that didn’t hurt him—pure, refined hatred. The only thing he needed was a target and all would be right with his world again. Holding on to that, holding on to the hot, naked rage was the closest he could get to sanity, so it would have to do.
“You sure I shouldn’t go check on Marty?” he asked, trying to unclench his jaw so the words didn’t come out angry.
Bell nodded and dabbed her eyes on a handkerchief. “I’m sure,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I know my Martin. He won’t leave me for long. He just—we—just need to find a way to cope with this is all.”
That didn’t seem likely to John. He sat there in silence, unable to think, unable to do anything with the tidal wave of emotions chasing through him. All of a sudden, his entire life seemed completely meaningless, pointless. All the lies he’d told, all the time he’d wasted. So much of Chloe’s life wasted on him, helping him. He’d always told himself it was mutual, that she didn’t want to deal with dating and assholes and heartache, that she wanted to figure herself out first, but now, looking back, John could admit it. He had to. She’d sacrificed everything for him and in return, he couldn’t even keep her safe from the world.
Just as he was about to run out the door—run away, just like he always did—Andy stepped into the hall from the dark recesses of the morgue. The shock on his face was clear when he saw John sitting there with Bell.
“Miss Belinda,” he said quietly, as if talking too loudly could make things worse, make them more real for Bell. “I thought I asked you not to talk to anyone or make any calls….”
Bell held John’s hand tighter. “He’s kin, Andy. He should be here.”
Andy scrubbed his hand over his face, looking like he wanted to tear his hair out. “Did you contact anyone else?”
Bell shook her head. “I can’t speak for Marty, but I didn’t.”
Yeah, Andy definitely wanted to kick something, scream. John could relate, but probably for completely different reasons.
Andy stooped down in front of Bell and caught her eye. “I know y’all need to grieve and be together right now, I do. But… we’ve got procedures for a reason, ya understand?”
“I understand,” Bell said, her ton
e sounding like she was dealing with a particularly slow child. “But John is kin, and I know you understand that.”
“I do.” Andy seemed to realize this was a battle he couldn’t win. He looked at John and said, “I’m gonna have to ask you some questions soon, John.”
John nodded in response. All those damn lies came back to haunt him now. He knew they’d unravel, knew they had to just so Andy could make sense of things. Right then, though, it didn’t matter much at all. John would tell him anything, out himself in front of the whole damn town if it meant finding Chloe’s killer. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Carl’s waitin’ outside,” he said. “You can just follow him on down to the station, all right?” Andy stood, his brow furrowed. “We’re gonna need to take your prints and DNA. Just protocol, eliminate yours from anyone else’s.”
John didn’t like the sound of that, didn’t like that he suddenly felt he was being handled by Andy, but he couldn’t care. John knew he was innocent, and he knew the faster they cleared him, the faster they’d catch the son of a bitch who did it. “Can do,” John said. He didn’t like to leave Bell and Marty, though. “Make sure Miss Bell gets home, though, please.”
Andy’s face softened, and he nodded. “I’m gonna escort them home myself, then I’ll meet ya down at the station.”
John knew he should go, let them get things going, but he didn’t want to let go of Bell. He hugged her tightly as he whispered to her, “I’ll stop by tonight, all right?”
“You better,” she said, letting out another of those broken breaths.
Standing up from that spot and walking out of that little corridor was maybe the hardest thing John had ever done, but he did it anyway. He probably looked like a bull ready to charge, with his hands balled into fists, his jaw stiff. Hell, he felt like a bull. He wanted to hit something, but he didn’t. Instead, he shielded his eyes from the glaring light of the living world and went to find Carl.
Chapter Sixteen
MATT STARED at the suspect list Andy had handed him one more time. His eyes felt gritty and unfocused, but even through hazy vision, the name at the top of the list couldn’t have stood out harder if it had been written in massive neon lettering.
John Turner.
The man Matt was falling for—had fallen for. The man who did things to his heart no one else had ever done. The man who Matt knew was as honorable as they came. He wanted to crumple the sheet in his hand, to squeeze it tightly in his fist until the ink smudged, make it unreadable, as though that might erase what had happened. But he couldn’t ignore the events that had unfolded, and he couldn’t ignore their repercussions either.
Bell and Marty’s devastation had haunted him since he’d seen them. It was his first time meeting them, and more than anything, he wished it had been under different circumstances. Matt imagined John’s grief came close to theirs. He’d watched Bell fall apart in the arms of her husband and then gone back to the crime scene, hoping to find something—anything—that could help. He needed some distance from the grief, something to focus on. Unfortunately, it made Matt impatient to see John, to soothe away some of his sorrow if he could.
But no. Instead of pulling John against him, brushing back his hair, kissing his pain away, he would be forced to stand there as an impartial agent of the law and interrogate the man he knew was torn to pieces by the loss of his best friend.
Andy’s mouth was pressed into a tight line as he gripped the steering wheel of the cruiser with both hands. “The boys’re still processing the crime scene, but we’ve got a few interviews this afternoon.”
“John?” Matt asked quietly, unsure if Andy would even hear him over the sound of the engine. He knew it was coming, but he needed Andy to say so.
“We gotta.”
Matt closed his eyes for a moment and lowered the paper onto his lap. Andy was right. It was protocol. First rule of a murder investigation: the significant other is suspect number one. But in a town where everyone knew everyone else so intimately, certain concessions should be made. Andy knew John wasn’t capable of hurting Chloe, that John was the last person they should need to question. “What about that online group she was supposed to meet up with? They seem more likely than John.”
“I think so too,” Andy said as he hit his turn signal. “We’re trackin’ all of them down, but they’re in different states. It’s gonna take a little doin’.”
Right. Matt knew that. But still.
“At least he’s cooperating,” Andy said as he pulled up in front of the station. When they got out of the car, Matt saw John’s truck parked in the visitor lot and his heart sank.
MATT SLIPPED into the break room. He grabbed the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. The bitter smell and lack of steam coming from the coffee meant it was probably hours old, but he didn’t give a shit. He just needed to take a minute to gather his thoughts before he faced John in front of Andy.
“Turner’s in interrogation room two,” Andy said, poking his head in through the door and effectively shattering Matt’s attempt to calm himself. “I’m heading there now.”
“I’ll be right there,” Matt said, hoping to God Andy couldn’t hear the slight tremor in his voice. Emotions warred with levelheadedness, apprehension overshadowing his resolve. He couldn’t begin to fathom how John felt, losing his best friend, then being hauled down to the station to be questioned. It was far from the first time Matt had been present during an interrogation—he’d done hundreds of them, for Christ’s sake—but it had never felt this personal before. Reassuring himself that everything would be fine, that Andy would take it easy on John, Matt pulled open the door and stepped through.
The fluorescent lights seemed harsher than Matt remembered. John sat behind the metal table in the center of the room. He looked up when Matt entered. His eyes were red rimmed, his hair a mess. He looked utterly broken, and in that moment, Matt broke too.
Matt stood, his hands shoved in his pockets to keep from reaching out. It would be impossible to be objective, not that Andy would be able to manage any more detachment than he could, but Matt was grateful he wasn’t forced to take the lead.
Andy cleared his throat as he took his place in the chair across the table from John. He looked nearly as tense as John did. “So you know, you’re not under arrest at this time, but anything you say in here is admissible in court, should it come to that. Do you understand?” Andy sounded more official than Matt had ever heard him, but his voice was soft, gentle, as though he was speaking to a child rather than one of his friends.
John nodded, the movement restrained. If Matt hadn’t been staring at him, searching for any reaction, he might have missed it.
Andy folded his hands in front of him on the table. His posture was ramrod straight, but the expression he wore was one of understanding. Even so, a sense of foreboding settled over Matt. Call it a cop’s intuition, but whatever it was, he had a very bad feeling about this.
“You wanna tell us when the last time you saw or talked to Chloe was?” Andy asked, focused strictly on John.
John let out a huff and closed his eyes. “I don’t know, Andy, we talk damn near every day.”
Rather than say anything, Andy waited silently. John gave up and tried again.
“She came by a few days ago to drop some stuff off for Birdy and Mel—I think it was Wednesday. We had dinner together the next night after she got off work….” John’s stern expression faltered, a tortured look in his eye. “She called me Friday evenin’ on her way outta town, but I dunno what the exact time was. Lotta texts in between.”
“That’s okay,” Andy said. “We can check your phones to verify. Can you tell us where you were yesterday evening about eight o’clock?”
John leaned forward, glanced at Matt and then at Andy. “Home. Just got back from fishin’. Did a little work in the yard.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“That’s your job, ain’t it?” John asked, sounding exasperated, annoyed. “One of my neighb
ors might’ve seen me? I don’t know.”
“Maybe Mel saw you? Or Birdy?” Matt asked, hopeful.
“Mel was coverin’ a shift down at the diner,” John said, frustration punctuating every word. “Momma and Daddy took Birdy for the day, went to the petting zoo and out for dinner…. I’m not sure when they got back, but my truck was there.”
“Not a soul can verify you were home? That’s what you’re tellin’ me?” There was nothing hostile in the way Andy spoke to John. In fact, he was gentler than most cops would have been in dealing with a suspect—grieving or not. Nevertheless, Matt’s blood was pumping faster, as though his heart thought the harder it pounded, the quicker the situation might resolve.
“No,” John said, an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. “What I’m tellin’ you is that I have no idea who might’ve seen me workin’ in the yard, seen my truck parked out front.”
Matt stepped forward. “John was with me yesterday afternoon.”
He watched John’s face, searching for a change in his expression—some sort of clue as to what he was feeling—but his furrowed brow and clenched jaw didn’t give much away. Matt wasn’t certain if their fishing trip was meant to be kept a secret—there was nothing damning about spending the afternoon catching fish—but he had to do something. John could not be raked through the muck, beaten down worse than he already was over this.
