by Jane Porter
“So it’s really a moot point.”
“If you’re trying to keep peace in the family.”
“You don’t think I should.”
“Not saying that at all. I can’t advise you on this one. I have never grown up having to please a big family.”
Or any family, she added silently.
“I don’t want you in the middle,” he said after a half-beat. “I do mean that. So forget I asked. We’re going to pretend there was no invitation. You know nothing about my trip to Flathead Lake.”
Jet clutched her mug, smashing the disappointment, smashing the wave of hot anger and resentment she felt each time she bumped up against Harley’s rules.
Harley hadn’t laid down any rules since Jet was a very young girl and Harley would be left in charge of the younger ones, and so Jet was finding it almost impossible to tolerate being issued with rules and edicts now, in part because she’d been on her own several years now, and in part because she just didn’t agree with Harley’s point of view in the first place.
“You’re still going to go, though?” Jet asked, hoping she didn’t sound as woebegone as she felt.
“I need to. There are things I want to ask, and these things are always better in person.”
“Do people open up more in person than on the phone?”
He hesitated. “With me, yes. Some journalists and researchers prefer emails and phone calls. It allows them to get back to their keyboard faster.”
“How do you use interview?”
“Old school. Notepad, pen, and tape recorder.”
And now he was sounding like Sean Finley and not Shane Swan and Jet found herself really, really wanting to go to Polson, Montana, which sounded like the most fascinating place on earth at that moment in time. “And it’s a pretty drive?”
“Incredible drive and incredible scenery when you get there.”
“You’re torturing me now.”
“No, if I wanted to do that, I’d drag you to a couch and kiss you until you—” He broke off, listening to something. His brow furrowed.
Then Jet heard it. A truck hurtling up the driveway.
“Sounds like we have company,” Shane said.
Jet went to the kitchen sink and looked out the window and spotted the big, red truck parking in front of the house right next to Jet’s car, which was actually Harley’s car.
“It’s Trey,” she said huskily.
Shane took a sip of his tea. “This could be interesting.”
But Jet was panicked. “That’s an understatement.”
Shane leaned against the kitchen counter and took another sip of tea. “Don’t worry. I’m—” He was cut off by the sound of a fist hammering on the front door, followed by another hard series of thuds, one, two, three.
Jet set down her tea with a thunk. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Shane shrugged. “Do you want to head out the back and escape while you can?”
“I’m not in danger, Shane. And hopefully, neither are you.” But her voice wobbled as she said it and she hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.
She must not have been very convincing because Shane just laughed.
Shane was aware of Jet on his heels as he headed for the front door. He would have preferred for Jet to stay in the kitchen, but she was here, and he was determined to keep things calm, and controlled, for her sake if nothing else.
But opening the front door, Trey’s anger was immediately palpable. “I want to see,” Trey said roughly. “Show me.”
“Show you what?” Shane asked coolly, not at all surprised to see Trey here, just surprised it had taken Trey this long to make an appearance. Cormac and Troy had been in Shane’s face for awhile. Had they only recently told Trey about Shane’s book?
Trey pushed past Shane, and his narrowed gaze fell on Jet. His jaw hardened. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said to Jet, his deep voice a rumble. “And maybe you think you’re somehow helping—”
“We’re friends,” she said. Her voice was soft, faint, and yet she stood tall, chin lifted as if letting him know she wouldn’t be cowed.
Trey seemed to struggle to hold back the first words he wanted to say. Instead, he quirked a brow. “Odd choice for a friend.” And then he focused on Shane. “You can either walk me to the dining room, or I’ll take myself there. But I want to see it. The bulletin boards. The newspaper clippings. The book. All of it.”
Shane turned around and led the way. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He stepped aside once in the dining room so Trey could see.
Trey entered behind him and then froze.
Shane watched Trey—a man that was apparently his full biological brother—as Trey’s gaze swept the room.
Trey looked at everything, taking in the transformation from dining room to office. The antique sideboard had become a printing station. A laptop with stacks of folders was adjacent at the end of the table. The rest of the table was covered with piles of books, notes, reams of printed pages, while the walls behind were lined with bulletin boards with shocking headlines.
Local Family Slain in Home Invasion. Slaughter of Innocents. Tragedy in Marietta. Montana Manhunt.
Trey said nothing for a long time. He just stood there, reading the headlines again and again, arms loose at his sides, and yet his hands were clenched. He was not as calm and collected as he appeared.
“So it’s true,” he said finally.
Shane didn’t answer, certain there was more to come.
Trey turned around and faced him. “You’re using my family home to profit from my wife’s tragedy?”
“The house was for lease. I needed a place to work. That’s why I’m here.”
“And you couldn’t have found another house in Paradise Valley?”
“Maybe, but this was the closest to the crime.”
“And why was that so important?”
“I don’t just sit and write. I explore myself. I’ve walked the Douglas property, and up and down the easement road a dozen times now.”
“I bet you would have broken into Douglas house if it was still standing.”
“Probably.”
Trey shook his head, disgusted. “How much are you getting paid to do this?”
“That’s not why I do it.”
“And you’re going to tell me you’re not making a lot of money from this book? Because I heard your last book was on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year. A year. Now I don’t know a lot about publishing, but I’d suspect that being on a list like that for a year means you sold a lot of copies, and you earn a hefty percentage from each copy sold.”
“I wouldn’t say a hefty percentage,” Shane answered.
“But you make good money.”
“I’ve been successful, yes.”
“And this book, the one you’re writing, when do you turn it in?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“April.”
“Don’t. Don’t finish it. Don’t do it. Don’t put McKenna’s family on the New York Times for a year. Because I’m sure you’ve discovered all the things that our local law enforcement managed to keep from the media and there is no need to sensationalize what happened that afternoon eighteen years later. I love this ranch, but I don’t live here because my wife still has nightmares about her dad being tortured, and her mom being assaulted, and it didn’t happen here, but close to here, and we all lost so much that day. Every one of us.” Trey’s hands flexed and balled. His chest rose and fell with deep breath. “I’m sure you uncovered all the juicy tidbits, and I’m sure you’d like to write a whole chapter on a good woman being raped in front of her children and dying husband—”
“There’s not a chapter on it. I’m not trying to sensationalize anything,” Shane interrupted harshly. “I’m telling what happened, and talking about the bungled investigation after, and focusing on who that person might have been, and why that person was never held accountable. Tha
t person should have been held accountable because a good woman was tortured—”
“But doing that, you open deep, deep wounds.” Trey’s voice was hoarse. “And there will be fresh media attention all over again. We don’t need cameras in our faces. We don’t need reporters accosting McKenna, waiting on the doorstep, calling her at work, asking horrific questions over and over just to get a juicy sound bite. Our boy TJ is a first-grader. He doesn’t know anything about this. And he shouldn’t, not until he’s older. Let him have his innocence. Let him be a child a little longer. Don’t finish your book. Don’t make my family your meal ticket—”
“You’re not a meal ticket.”
“You can write other books but this is ours…our horror, our pain…it shouldn’t become a public circus, not again.”
“I have a contract. The book is already in production—”
“They can’t publish something if you don’t turn it in.”
“I do not not turn things in. It would kill my career if I failed to deliver.”
“You’re not allowed to change your mind?”
“Not after I’ve been paid.”
“Give the money back.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“What if you got sick? What if you couldn’t finish it?”
“That won’t happen.”
“What if you were no longer able to write?”
“Is that a threat?”
“I am not prepared to tell my six-year-old that his mother’s family was slain in a bloody rampage. I am not.”
“I’m not unsympathetic—”
“Bastard.” The oath was followed by Trey’s right fist, colliding with Shane’s jaw.
Pissed off, as much by the blow as by the curse, Shane responded with a swift, hard undercut that would have sent anyone else flying, but Trey merely rocked back a step before coming back for more.
Jet was making a racket in the background, yelling at them to stop, but neither of them listened, too busy throwing punches, quick, controlled blows, much like boxers in a ring. Trey was a good fighter, Shane would give him that, but Shane had skills, too.
He would have never survived if he hadn’t learned to protect himself—and others. But right now this wasn’t about protecting himself. Right now this was about establishing himself. Introducing who he really was.
Not some hipster writer from Manhattan, but a Sheenan.
His “brothers” might be tough, but he was just as strong, just as committed. He didn’t just hold his own, he could go the distance.
“What the hell do you want?” Trey growled, slamming his fist into Shane’s gut.
Shane coughed, the wind temporarily knocked out of him, but he came back with a swift fist to Trey’s face. Blood spurted from Trey’s nose.
“What are you asking?” Shane asked, tasting blood from his split lip.
“Tell me what you’re getting for this book and I’ll pay you the same not to publish it.”
“You couldn’t afford it.”
“You’ve no idea what I can afford. You’ve no idea about my finances.” Trey landed a blow on the side of Shane’s head. “Asshole.”
That one made Shane see stars. He blinked and quickly wiped the blood from his lip. “It’s seven figures plus. And then there’s the film deal. And foreign rights. Audio.” He threw a punch at Trey’s jaw, which Trey blocked this time.
“Total it up. I’ll draft a contract. We’ll make the deal.”
“But there’s no deal.” Shane was able to land a low one, in Trey’s belly. “My book and my business—”
“About my wife.” Trey slammed his fist into Shane’s cheekbone, and then a quick second into his nose.
Again Shane saw stars. He was beginning to tire but there was no way he’d give up. Not now. Not ever. “It’s not about her,” Shane gritted, feeling blood on his upper lip now. His nose must be bleeding too, now. “It’s about a crime no one solved, and it should be solved.” He danced back, dodging Trey’s fist. “Unless there’s a very good reason why it shouldn’t…can you think of one?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Maybe a Sheenan was involved. Maybe one of your brothers—”
Trey connected this time, making Shane stumble backwards. He struggled to stay on his feet. “Don’t ever say that again.” Trey gave Shane a hard shove.
Shane pushed him right back. “If you care so much about your wife, find out who killed her family! Don’t you think she deserves that? Doesn’t she deserve closure? Or is she supposed to go through her whole life wondering what the hell happened to her family? What the hell happened to her life?”
It wasn’t until Shane had his hand wrapped around Trey’s throat that he realized Trey was no longer fighting back.
Trey was just standing there, staring into Shane’s eyes. “I don’t want her hurt anymore,” he said quietly, roughly. “She’s been through enough.”
Shane dropped his hand but he didn’t step away. He stayed where he was…which was right in Trey’s face. “It’s not to hurt her. It’s to answer questions no one has been able to answer.”
“And can you? Or are you just stirring things up for a million-dollar contract? Because if that’s the case, I’ll give you the money and you can walk away and we can all get back to our lives.”
“It’s not about money,” Shane retorted impatiently, using the back of his wrist to wipe away more blood from his nose and mouth. “It’s about doing what no one else has been able to do.”
Trey’s gaze burned. He stared Shane down. “You’re not going to drop it, are you?”
“I’m not easily intimidated, Sheenan.”
Trey’s brow creased and then eased. “You just don’t care, do you?”
“I’m not a quitter.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I signed a contract. I’m delivering the book. I don’t accept failure—”
“Even if it causes others tremendous pain?”
Shane couldn’t answer. He didn’t.
Trey read the silence for what it was. “What a piece of work you are,” he muttered, disgusted. Blotting his mouth, he turned away, heading back down the hall for the front door. As he reached for the doorknob, he paused, and looked back at Shane. “You have one week to get the hell out of this house.”
Shane walked down the hall towards Trey. “According to my lease, I have thirty days from notice. The notice came Friday.”
“I don’t care about paperwork. I’m not interested in legalese. I’m telling you, man-to-man, if you are here next Sunday at three o’clock in the afternoon, I will personally throw you out.”
“That’s assault. You’ll serve time. Again.”
“It’d be worth it.”
“Really? Is that your idea of protecting your family? Maybe that explains why your wife almost married someone else eighteen months ago while you were still at Deer Lodge Prison.”
Trey lunged at Shane. Shane answered with a right hook. Trey grabbed Shane around the neck and then froze at the sound of a high pitched scream.
“Stop it! Stop it now!” It was Jet, shouting to be heard over them. “And if you don’t, I’m calling 911 and reporting an assault. Do you hear me? So stop it. That’s enough. Both of you.”
Trey shot Jet a hard, cold glance but released Shane.
Shane moved back but his arms were up, fists clenched, ready for another go.
“Leave, Trey,” Jet choked. “Leave now. Please.”
And to Shane’s surprise, he did.
Chapter Eight
As Trey walked out the front door, Jet turned around and headed down the hall, through the kitchen to exit the small mudroom lean-to.
She walked quickly, desperate to escape the house, the fight, and the horrible, horrible pictures in her head. The blows. The blood. The things said.
McKenna’s mother assaulted in front of her family. Her father tortured. The children dying…
It was too violent, too a
wful to process and yet this was the book Shane was writing. This was what he’d spent the past nine months working on…
Heartsick, she walked and walked, passing the tractor and going around the side of the big, weathered barn. The heels on her shoes crunched clods of dirty ice. She should have brought her coat. She was cold but the frigid winter air cooled her skin, numbing her emotions.
She didn’t know what was worse, either. The things that had been said or the fight. She had brothers. Three of them. And growing up they’d argue and get into it now and then, but they’d never shed blood. They’d never been so physical…so violent.
She disappeared behind the barn and as she came around the other side, a dark red horse with a white star on his forehead appeared at the edge of the corral. Ears alert, he lifted his head and nickered softly, greeting her. When she didn’t respond he gave his head a little toss, tail swishing, and nickered again. She moved towards the railing, welcoming the distraction.
Jet wished she had a carrot or apple, or a sugar cube. Instead she approached empty handed, palm open. He nuzzled her hand, exhaling to blow air on her palm.
“Handsome boy,” she murmured, rubbing the side of his head. He seemed to like it. “Are you lonely out here?” She crooned nonsense words while she rubbed his nose and little by little her heartbeat slowed, settling.
She could still hear the dull thuds of the blows connecting with jaws and cheekbones and hard abdomens. She could still feel the tension knotting in her shoulders and cramping her belly. But she also remembered something else, something that Shane had said. Doesn’t she deserve closure? Or is she supposed to go through her whole life wondering what the hell happened to her family? What the hell happened to her life?
And it struck her that maybe, just maybe, this was why Shane was here, tackling this story, and others like it.
He, himself, had no closure. His past was a mystery. He didn’t know what had happened to his family and this was what drove him to find answers…not just for himself, but for others like him.
And there was something else about the fight that bothered her. The fight was fierce and brutal and yet they’d looked well-matched. They appeared to know how to fight the other, as if they’d fought each other before—which she knew hadn’t happened. They’d never even met until today. But they’d looked similar and they’d even moved in almost the same way…
