Once he’d started the truck, he turned up the radio, hoping she’d take it as a hint that he didn’t want to make small talk.
To his relief, she stared out the window and listened to the music. When a George Strait song came on, she began making snuffling sounds and he realized she was trying to hold in tears.
Crap.
Scratching the back of his neck, he shot another glance at her. “Uh, Zoe? You all right?”
She nodded. “Yes. No.” Sniffling, she wiped at her eyes. “I don’t want to mess up my mascara. But this was Shayna’s favorite song.”
“Oh.” He snapped off the radio. “Sorry.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Shayna had moved past old-school country and into hard rock.
“What are you planning to ask, exactly? The sheriff already interviewed that Mike guy. While he was the last person that we know of to see Shayna that day, we don’t have proof that he did anything to hurt her. The field where she was found is close to the lake, true, but Mike’s roommate vouches that Mike was home shortly after eleven. There’s no evidence that he did it. The trail ends there.”
“Not really,” Zoe said. “We don’t know if she called someone else to give her a ride. Obviously, she tried to call you. When you didn’t pick up, she might have tried somebody else. I wonder if the sheriff got Shayna’s phone from Cristine.”
“He did, and he’s subpoenaed the records from the phone company just to make sure. The phone showed there were no outgoing calls other than the one to me.” He cleared his throat. “That was one of the reasons Roger was so interested in talking to me. He wanted to know if I went out there and picked her up.”
She sniffed. “Someone must have. Does he still have the phone?”
“I believe so. You know, if Shayna was really drunk and couldn’t get a hold of anyone, I wouldn’t put it past her to have hitchhiked.”
Zoe bit her lip. “I’d thought of that,” she admitted.
They pulled up in front of the bar. Even though they were early, the parking lot was still packed. “They must have good happy hour specials,” Brock said, as he drove slowly up and down the aisles looking for a space to park.
“I guess so.” She shot him a sideways look. “Are you ever going to tell me why you don’t drink?”
He took a deep breath, suddenly realizing he was tired of secrets. But to tell her this...
Swallowing, he met her gaze and began to speak.
“I developed a drinking problem.” The words hung there, bald and unadorned. Damned if he’d explain the reason he’d started drinking in the first place. After all, Brock considered that to be glaringly evident. “When it got out of control, I joined AA, got sober, and that’s that.”
Though in his mind, that was a perfectly good explanation, he had a feeling she’d ask for details. Women always wanted more than just the bare facts.
To his immense gratitude, she pointed instead. “Over there. An empty spot.”
After he’d parked, he couldn’t get out of the truck fast enough. No way did he plan on going into details of his slow decline into drunkenness or how long he’d stayed there.
Hurrying around to her side, he opened the door for her and helped her out. The pulse of the music echoed off the surrounding brick walls.
Arm tucked firmly into his, Zoe took a deep breath. “Isn’t this sort of thing difficult for you?” she asked. “Going inside bars, being around the atmosphere, the alcohol, all of it?”
“Yes.” One word conveyed the truth.
Slowly she nodded. “I completely understand. If I’d known, I never would have asked you.”
“Don’t be like that.” Though he knew he sounded curt, he couldn’t help it. “I don’t need or expect to be treated differently than anyone else.”
“Why’d you keep it a secret from me?” she asked. An instant later, she colored, realizing what she’d just said.
“For the same reason you don’t tell me everything,” he said, feeling the need to be blunt. When she looked away, he sighed. While he’d love to know what she wasn’t saying, now was not the time to try to find out.
They’d almost reached the front door of the bar. He held it open for her. Letting her precede him, he steeled himself and followed her into the dark, smoky room.
This time, since Zoe wasn’t dressed like a woman looking for action, their arrival didn’t cause a stir. Brock saw a few of the male patrons checking her out, but one hard look from him had them glancing away.
Spotting Mike sitting at the same place at the bar, Zoe made a beeline over to him.
The instant Mike saw her, he looked sick, as though he wished he were somewhere else. Brock found himself wondering if the guy actually knew more than he’d revealed.
Mike stood, downed the last of his beer and slapped a twenty on the bar. He shook his head at Zoe, and then tried to brush past her. When she grabbed his arm, he raised his hand as if he meant to hit her.
Brock moved fast, pinning the other man’s arm at his side. “One more move like that,” he growled, “and I’ll deck you.”
“Then tell your girlfriend not to touch me,” Mike snarled, not backing down.
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “I only wanted to have a word with you.”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say.” Voice definitely unfriendly, Mike took a step back. “Not only have I talked to the police several times, but my whole life has been messed up because of that woman.”
“You mean Shayna?” Zoe’s tone dripped ice. “The woman you had sex with right before she was killed? My best friend? That woman?”
Mike had the grace to look abashed. “Look, I’m sorry about your friend. But believe me, I didn’t have anything to do with her death. The police have cleared me.”
“I know,” Zoe said. “I just wanted to ask you if you remembered anything else about that night?”
Looking from Zoe to Brock, Mike shook his head. “Like I said, I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“I’ll buy you a beer,” Brock offered. “Hell, man. Just humor us. Shayna was not only Zoe’s best friend, but my roommate.”
Brock couldn’t tell if it was the offer of free alcohol or the fact that he’d been Shayna’s roommate, but Mike finally nodded.
“One drink,” Mike said. “Then I really have to go.”
Two beers later, they left Mike happily sitting at the bar, nursing what remained of his brew.
“That was a complete waste of time,” Brock said, taking Zoe’s arm.
“Not really.” Her brittle smile looked forced. “Did you notice he said Cristine was always with Shayna? Yet has anyone asked Cristine why she wasn’t here that night?”
Brock nodded. “I’m sure Roger has. But I’d be interested to know also.”
Zoe stiffened. “Well, I’ll be,” she drawled. “Look who just walked in.”
Even before he turned to look, he knew. Cristine, wearing a skintight minidress and shiny black high-heeled shoes.
A quick glance at Zoe revealed her entire mood had shifted. She noticed him watching her and grinned. “I guess you can see who we’re going to talk to next.”
Resigned, he nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet.” Grabbing his arm, she stopped him. “She hasn’t noticed us yet. I want to see what she’s going to do.”
While they watched, Cristine strutted around the bar, frequently tossing her shoulder-length hair and laughing. She stopped to talk to several individuals, all of them male. When she spotted Mike, still planted on his regular stool, she waved and made a beeline for him.
As soon as Cristine reached Mike, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Mike said something to her, then looked up and began searching the bar. When he’d located Brock and Zoe, he pointed.
Immediately, Cristine
’s formerly animated expression vanished. She pushed away from Mike and strode toward them, parting clusters of patrons with her body.
“What are you two doing here?” she demanded.
Brock spoke up, forestalling Zoe. “What do you mean, Cristine? Zoe and I wanted to get a drink, so we came here. Why?”
Looking from one to the other with narrowed eyes, Cristine appeared to consider her response. “No offense, you two. But the Hitching Post was mine and Shayna’s hangout. Having you here crimps my style.”
Out partying so soon after her best friend’s funeral would have seemed wrong with anyone else, but for Cristine it was par for the course.
“How can we crimp your style?” Brock asked. “We weren’t bothering you.”
“Maybe not.” Cristine pouted up at him. “But Mike says you two were bugging him.”
Ignoring this, Zoe smiled. “We won’t stay long. Hey, I need to ask you a quick question. Since you make it sound like the two of you always came here together, why was Shayna here alone the night she was killed?”
Chapter 14
Cristine reared back, acting as if Zoe had slapped her. “Look, Zoe. I know you don’t have any idea of the kind of lifestyle Shayna and I live...er, lived. But if one of us hooked up with someone, the other often left alone. It was agreed and expected. After all, looking for a hookup was the primary reason we trolled the bars.”
Zoe winced, but she didn’t back down. “So what you’re saying is that you’d met some guy and left with him, and Shayna was here by herself when she hooked up with Mike.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Cristine tossed her hair. “Now, if you’re done interrogating me, I’ve got people to see and places to go.”
Without waiting for Zoe to answer, Cristine sashayed off, disappearing into the crowd.
They both watched her go.
“What now?” Brock asked.
“I want to find out who Cristine was with the night Shayna died.”
“I do, too,” Brock said. “With all the lying and trying to make me look like the killer, I think she knows more than she’s saying about what really happened to Shayna.”
“I agree. While I don’t believe Cristine had anything to do with Shayna’s death, I think she knows who did.”
“It’s possible.” Taking her arm, he steered her toward the door. “Let’s go.”
But she pulled away. “Not yet. There’s an empty table.” She made a beeline for it, securing a seat with a triumphant look that made him smile.
Taking the chair next to her, he eyed her. “What now?”
“I want to have a drink and just watch the bar. You never know who might turn up.”
She had a point. He signaled the waitress. He ordered tonic water with lime and Zoe ordered a glass of Shiraz.
Though they nursed their drinks a good forty-five minutes, Cristine never reappeared.
Despite telling himself repeatedly that he was a fool, sitting side by side with Zoe talking about mundane things like the feed store and the Bells, he again felt the strength of the connection between them. If he let himself, he might almost believe they were just another couple, out for a night on the town.
Finally, Zoe drank the last of her wine. “Are you ready to go?” she asked, leaning close, her breath tickling his ear.
Chest tight, too tongue-tied to speak, he nodded and stood, pulling back her chair and helping her up.
As they exited the bar, she nestled into his side, sending a bolt of heat straight to his groin. To the casual observer, they were a laid-back couple, leaving after enjoying a fun hour at a downtown bar. He had a sudden aching wish that life were that simple, that it could be so.
Making their way through the crowd, he continued to look for Cristine. Evidently, she’d felt they’d so invaded her space that she’d left. He glanced at the bar, noting Mike had apparently taken off, too.
While they walked, he kept watch for either of them, just in case. Judging from the way Zoe kept searching, she did, as well.
“I guess we scared Cristine away,” Zoe said.
“Either that, or she and Mike had a rendezvous somewhere.”
“Ew.” Grimacing, Zoe glanced over her shoulder. “Do you really think she’d honestly sleep with the same guy her best friend did?”
“Who knows?” he answered. “The way she lives, probably.”
She nodded, her expression pensive.
They’d nearly reached his truck when a movement to the left of them caught his eye. A man, moving furtively. He was slight, wearing a cowboy hat and a bulky jacket that was way too warm for the night. All in black, which was a warning in itself. Brock had a feeling they were about to be mugged.
“Zoe.” His low tone contained a note of caution.
She froze. “What?” she whispered.
Practically pushing, he hustled her toward the truck. “Keep moving. Don’t look back.”
But then, in the instant before they were able to duck safely between the rows of cars, the man Brock was watching stood up and pointed something at him. Something black. A gun.
Christ. Not mugged. Killed.
“Get down!” Brock shoved her to the ground, diving on top of her. The sharp report of gunfire echoed, and his passenger-side window shattered, sending shards of glass raining down on them.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so.” She’d skinned her elbows. They were bleeding. Just as she tried to push back up, the man shot again.
And Brock’s gun was in his truck. Even though he had a permit to carry a concealed handgun, since the Hitching Post had a sign up forbidding guns, the law forbade him bringing it inside. Right now it was in his glove box. Exactly where it was doing the least good.
“Stay down,” he ordered. “We’re trapped. If whoever that is wants to kill us, we’re not going to make this any easier for him.”
Eyes wide, she nodded. At his words, she’d begun trembling. “We must have hit a nerve in there,” she said. “Did you recognize him?”
“No.” Dragging her with him, he reached the driver’s side of his truck. “I want you to climb in, but stay down on the floor. I’m going to try and start the engine and get us out of here. You got it?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. One. Two. Three.” Yanking open the door, he pushed her inside. Staying down himself, he leaned in and put the key in the ignition. The motor roared to life.
Now. He had to back them up and drive away without getting shot. He could only hope the shooter wasn’t near enough to get them at close range.
Another vehicle pulled into the lot. As it cruised slowly past, he heard the chatter of several women, all excited. Coworkers, most likely. Here for happy hour. They’d probably saved his and Zoe’s lives.
Praying he was right and that the shooter wouldn’t risk being seen, he hunched over the steering wheel, slammed the truck into Reverse, then forward, tires screeching.
No more shots. No more sign of the shooter, either. The car full of women parked and they spilled out, still laughing and chattering happily.
“Get back inside your vehicle,” he yelled. “Someone has a gun.”
At his words, the women screamed, rushing back to their car. Brock waited until they’d started it and peeled off.
Praying they weren’t in any more danger, he pulled into the street. “Call the sheriff,” he ordered, tossing Zoe his phone. “He needs to get someone over to the Hitching Post to investigate.”
She frowned. “Shouldn’t we wait for him?”
“Not as long as some crazy is around taking potshots at us. I’m getting you out of here.”
“Where to?” she asked, apparently agreeing with him.
“We’d better head down to the sheriff’s o
ffice. They’re going to want to take our statements.”
* * *
Zoe guessed she must have been shell-shocked, because it wasn’t until she was sitting in Brock’s truck on the way to the sheriff’s, that she began to shake. Not just shivers, either. No, these were bone-jarring, teeth-chattering, uncontrollable shudders.
A few seconds after she started losing it, Brock pulled over to the side of the road.
“You’re in shock,” he told her, his voice both soft and tough. “Come here,” he said as he unbuckled and wrapped her in his arms.
He held her like that, in silence, until her shaking began to subside. A bone-deep weariness had taken hold of her and, with her head against his strong chest and the masculine scent of him filling her nose, the tension leached out of her.
Finally, she felt normal enough to lift her chin and thank him.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked.
She nodded. “Let’s go give our statements.”
After they reached the sheriff’s office, the dispatcher on duty told them Roger had headed out to the Hitching Post after they’d called in the shooting. One of his other deputies, a man Zoe didn’t recognize but Brock apparently knew, took their statements. The process took a little over an hour. When they’d finished answering his questions, Zoe could no longer hide her exhaustion.
On the way out, a clearly concerned Brock offered her his arm. Grateful, she took it, leaning heavily on him on the way to his truck.
When they reached the house, Zoe apologized and headed to her room. She curled up on her bed, fully clothed, and closed her eyes.
By the time she woke, it was after ten the next morning and the house was silent. Brock had already left for work and Mama Bell was ensconced inside her craft room with the door closed and her little television on.
Nothing had changed. Ever since Shayna’s funeral, Mama Bell stayed shut up in her room. A grim-faced Mr. Bell came and went, barely sparing a word for Zoe as he bustled out the door on his way to his job.
The atmosphere inside the Bell house was so dark it felt suffocating. Grieving herself, Zoe endured it, certain that once Shayna’s killer was caught, everyone would feel better.
Texas Secrets, Lovers' Lies Page 20
