by Debra Webb
“Have you decided what you’re doing next? Is there a chance you’ll be going back to Nashville or someplace like that?”
He pulled into a parking slot at the courthouse. “I’m not sure yet. Just taking my time and considering my options.”
“Hopefully this won’t take long.” She reached for the door.
“Why don’t I go with you?”
She searched his face for a moment. “Okay.”
He got out and met her at the hood. There was a distinct possibility he was taking the protective thing too far. He opened the entrance door and followed her inside. A chance he was willing to take. In light of the trouble that kept showing up, he wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight. He knew who had slashed her tires because he had been watching. The question was, why would her brother do that?
Levi was supposed to be the only one who cared about her.
Deacon watched as Cece showed the letter to the lady behind the counter. He noted the way the other woman looked at her, as if she were nothing—not worthy of standing in their midst. If Cece noticed she pretended not to. The clerk seemed reluctant to accept the cash Cece placed on the counter. Maybe she feared she had just printed it or earned it on the street corner selling drugs or herself.
By the time Cece finished her business and they walked out, he was fire-breathing angry on her behalf.
“Anything else you need to do while we’re here?” He had to work at keeping his tone even.
“I think that’s it other than the battery.”
“There’s a new diner in town. I’ve heard good things about it. After we pick up the battery, why don’t we go for a late lunch and celebrate?”
“What’re we celebrating?”
She looked so uncertain and yet so hopeful. He wanted to pull her into his arms and promise her it would all work out just fine.
What the hell was wrong with him? He had lost all perspective. But the real problem was that he no longer cared.
“Surprises,” he offered. “Life is full of them.”
Chapter Ten
The diner wasn’t really new. It was the same one that had been in Winchester as long as Cece could remember. She had worked here when she was a teenager...before she ended up in prison. Of course Deacon had no way of knowing that. The place had shut down ages ago and only recently reopened under new management.
When they had placed their orders, Cece said as much. “Working here was my first job.”
He surveyed the place. “Well I’ll be damned. Here I thought I was bringing you to someplace new.”
The shiplap walls were white now instead of the stained wood color they had been when she was a kid. The red booths with the gold-speckled white tables were the same. The black-and-white tile floors were a little shinier. The long counter that served as a bar was still fronted by red leather-topped stools.
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” She lifted her soda and took a sip. Tried to relax but that wasn’t happening. Part of her worried that someone who remembered her would walk up to their table and make a scene. If it hadn’t meant having to face the public every hour of every work day, she would have asked if waitresses were needed. Picking up where she’d left off would have been easy enough and maybe even allowed her to work her hours around a class schedule at nearby Motlow College.
“You started working here when you were in high school?”
He had the brownest eyes. Kind eyes. Not dark and cruel like her father’s had been. She blinked away the thought. “Yes. My dad kicked me out and I didn’t want to take advantage of my grandmother’s kindness so I got a job here after school and on weekends. Bought my own clothes. Paid for my lunch at school. She said it wasn’t necessary but that it was a good idea since staying busy would keep me out of trouble.”
Too bad that part hadn’t worked.
“Sounds like your grandmother was a really cool lady.”
“She was. A fiery redhead like me and my mother. Green eyes, too.” Cece smiled, remembering. “Smaller than me. She swore she was five feet tall but she wasn’t. Maybe four-eleven. But she wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone.”
Except her father. Cece knew her grandmother had worried about the bastard trying to drag Cece back home before she turned eighteen. Two tough years. Cece hated that she had been the cause of those worrisome weeks and months for her grandmother. But Emily Broward had sworn she wouldn’t have it any other way. She wanted Cece with her. To hell with the rest if they didn’t recognize what an evil snake their father was. Her grandmother had truly been one of a kind.
As much as it pained her, she had thought Marcus was just as evil as his father. Sierra was too young and too much of a follower to understand, her grandmother had insisted. Levi waffled between sleeping over at their grandmother’s and crawling back home. Cece had understood. He’d wanted the approval of his father and his older brother. Most young boys did. He hadn’t recognized what they were. She hoped he did now.
She didn’t want to lose Levi, too.
“I have a feeling you’re a lot like your grandmother,” Deacon said.
Cece smiled. “Maybe. Either way, I consider that a compliment.”
“You said this man, K.C., came to your grandmother’s house. Do you think she knew him? Maybe he talked to her when you were at school or at work.”
She hadn’t considered the idea. “It’s possible, I guess.”
“It seems too much of a coincidence that he was coming around about the same time your father was murdered. He may be related somehow to what happened.”
She had wondered about that since she’d suddenly remembered him showing up those times. “I should start going through more of the files my attorney sent.”
“I can help with that, if you’d like.”
He had made the offer to help before. He certainly gave the impression of being sincere about it. But he still hadn’t told her what he did for the federal government. Was it possible he did the same thing that man—the one who went by the name K.C.—did?
“Do you know that man? K.C.? Is that why you’re asking about him?”
He held her gaze for a long while before answering. Cece felt her world shifting. She needed this man—this stranger—to be the real deal. A nice guy who lived next door. She absolutely did not want to learn he was some kind of creep or just some investigator using her for his own purposes. He’d admitted to having done some private investigations. Uneasiness started a slow crawl through her.
“Maybe. We have reason to believe he was someone else. A man we’ve been trying to find for a very long time.”
There it was. The cold, hard truth.
“Is that why you’ve been so nice to me? So helpful?” Her heart pounded twice for every second that elapsed before he smiled and shook his head.
“Cece, I had no idea you’d ever met the man until you brought him up.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just so used to being let down.”
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his own, sending warmth firing through her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was looking for him when you first mentioned his alias.”
“Alias?” She felt suddenly cold despite the warmth he had elicited.
“K.C. is an alias he used for going undercover.”
“What’s his real name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“But you think he was working on something related to the Resurrection doomsday preppers or whatever they are?”
He nodded. “We think so. Whatever he was doing, he’s been missing since around the same time your father was murdered.”
“Wow.” She tried to remember the man’s face, the words he’d said. “Do you think he’s dead, too?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
The
waitress arrived with their burgers and fries. Deacon drew his hand away and Cece wished he was still holding onto her. The idea that she was in way over her head had her digging into the food in hopes of ignoring the new tension flooding her. Honestly, she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she smelled the food. She poured on the ketchup and devoured the fries first.
She caught Deacon watching her and felt embarrassed. “Sorry. I was starving and maybe trying to comfort myself.”
He grinned. “Nothing wrong with that.” He popped a fry into his mouth and chewed. “We all need a little comfort now and then.”
She was suddenly afraid. Three days. She had known this man for three days and already she felt close to him, dependent on having him back her up. On him being here...with her.
She was a complete idiot.
She stared at her burger and suddenly felt sick. What if he wasn’t who she believed he was? What if he was lying to her? Everyone except her grandmother had lied to her. She knew better than to trust.
And yet, somehow she trusted this man.
Not smart, Cece.
Apparently she had never been as smart as she should have been, otherwise she wouldn’t have ended up spending most of her adult life so far in prison.
She watched Deacon as he bit off a chunk of his burger. He had great lips for a man. Classic square jaw. Perfect nose, not too big, not crooked. He was handsome and sexy and so nice.
Really nice.
Her grandmother had always said when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.
Was this man another mistake? He surely seemed too good to be true.
* * *
DEACON SHUT OFF the engine and climbed out of Cece’s old blue truck. “You are good to go.” The new battery had taken care of the problem. According to the gauge on the truck, the alternator was charging. “You shouldn’t have any more trouble.”
“The guy at the tire shop said the brakes were still good.” She stood watching him, her arms crossed over her chest.
He closed the driver’s-side door and moved toward where she stood just outside the entrance to the makeshift garage that was actually a part of the barn. “You got something on your mind?”
“I was thinking we should go through those files. If your offer to help is still on the table.”
He moved beyond the doors, pushed them shut. “Sure.” He dropped the crosspiece into place that held the doors closed. “If you’re certain you want me to help. I feel like you might have some doubts or misgivings about me.”
No point allowing her uncertainty to build. He had made a couple of missteps and he needed to rectify the situation while it was still salvageable. Whatever else he thought about this woman, she was still his only connection to Jack. She could very well be one of the last people to see him before he disappeared. If she or anyone she knew had information that would help find him, Deacon had to pursue that route. No matter the cost.
That last part didn’t sit right in his gut. He didn’t want to be another of the people who’d hurt this woman.
“I trust you, Deacon.” She smiled and he hated himself a little more. “I’m grateful for any and all help.”
“Okay. Let’s get to it.”
She led the way inside the house. That he watched her hips sway with far too much interest was another reason to hate himself. But he was human. She was a gorgeous woman. Petite with soft curves. All that red hair that made him long to tangle his fingers in those silky curls. He wasn’t alone in his fascination. She looked at him with a similar yearning. He had thought as much, but the way she’d stared at him in the diner had confirmed his instincts. She was attracted to him.
But then she was lonely. To let this mutual attraction go any farther would be taking advantage of her vulnerability and he did not want to go there. In his ten-year career he had never used sex as leverage or influence.
This was the first time he’d ever longed to do exactly that, whether it proved beneficial to his investigation or not.
In the living room, she settled on her knees next to the coffee table. “He had a copy of everything as far as I can tell. Arrest record. Witness interviews. Not that there were any actual witnesses to the murder, but people who knew him and who knew me.”
“Character references and situational witnesses. That’s the usual procedure when no one saw what really happened. The police build a scenario based on what they can find out about the people closest to the victim. In your case, you were at the scene—covered in his blood—so they started with you.”
“Since they found what they wanted, they didn’t look any further,” she suggested.
He nodded. “From what you’ve told me and what Frasier showed me, it certainly seems that way.”
She stared at the pages and pages lying on the table. “How can any of this tell us anything if it only shows what we already know?”
“There’s always the chance that something someone said in an interview will mean something different to you than it did to the investigating officers or to Frasier or me.” That was his only thought when he’d first reviewed the file with Frasier. The notes and statements provided little else in the way of support for her version of events.
“Oh.” The frown that had creased her forehead relaxed. “I see. I think.”
He wasn’t so sure she did. “Let’s make a list of people you would consider suspects in the murder of Mason Winters.”
Cece shuffled the pages around and found the notepad she had been using. A pen and a pencil lay amid the pages. She grabbed the pencil and wrote Suspects across the top of the page. Her strokes were neat and fine with a dash of unique flair, the way a teenage girl would write. The reality that she’d never had the opportunity to move beyond the writing style she’d developed in high school was another reminder of what she’d lost. Eight years of learning, of becoming who she would be.
He forced away the thoughts and focused on the task at hand. “Who would you put at the top of the list? The person you believe had the most to gain by his death.”
She hesitated only a moment before she wrote Marcus Winters. “He gained the church and most of our father’s followers. He got the house. He has the power now. The admiration and respect.”
“Okay, that’s a start. Who’s next?” He had his own ideas about that one but he wanted to hear her conclusions before he gave his own.
Another of those worrisome frowns lined her brow as she considered the question for a bit. “Sierra. She was a little wilder than me. She didn’t like all his rules, but they had this bizarre daddy–daughter relationship. She was his princess and it was like sometimes she adored him and wanted his attention and sometimes she didn’t. You never knew which Sierra you were going to get.” She wrote her sister’s name next.
Sierra would have been his second choice, as well.
“Was there anyone else among his followers who might have hoped to gain control of the church?”
“I don’t think so.” She tilted her head as if reconsidering. “There was this one man who came every Sunday and sat in the back. He never spoke to anyone. My father made it a point to know all of his followers. He was like a politician, he pretended to be friends with everyone. The fact that he never exchanged so much as a hello with the man was unusual. I told the police about him, but Marcus claimed I made him up.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“I never knew his name, but he came into the diner once. It was the only time I ever saw him in town. He sat at one of my tables.”
She fell silent, remembering.
“He ordered hot tea,” she finally said. “No food, just the drink. He sat there for half an hour or so and watched me.”
“Did you tell the police about this incident?”
She nodded. “I did but they blew it off.” She shrugged. “I suppose it did sound as if I had made hi
m up. I didn’t know his name, and Marcus and anyone else they asked—assuming they asked anyone else—had no idea who or what I was talking about. It was an easy jump to conclude I was trying to shift focus from me.”
“What did he look like?”
“Old. Maybe sixty-something. Heavy gray beard. Gray hair. Medium height, thin.”
“How did he dress?”
“Overalls and plain plaid shirts, the button-up style. Boots. The hiking kind, not cowboy boots like you wear. That was another thing that made him stand out at the meetings. The followers wear very plain clothes, solid colors. The plaid shirt said all that needed to be said. He was not a follower.”
“No hat?”
Her gaze narrowed. “There was a hat. Not a cowboy hat or straw hat. One of the felt kind, like a fedora. A really old one, like you see in those black-and-white movies.”
“Eye color?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I never looked that close. He made me nervous, sort of.”
“He didn’t say anything to you that time in the diner?”
“Just gave me his order.”
“Was that close to the time your father was murdered?”
“Maybe a week before. I can’t be sure. It didn’t seem significant at the time and by the time it did, it was too late.”
A thought occurred to Deacon. “Are there photographs from the trial in these files?” The files Frasier had showed to him hadn’t contained any pictures. Deacon couldn’t be sure, but by the time he’d started to interact with Frasier, his health had been seriously going downhill. There were times when his mind didn’t appear to be working properly. Deacon worried that Frasier hadn’t told him everything, certainly might not have shown him everything.
“I haven’t seen any yet, but we can look.”
Deacon moved to the boxes and began to go through the files. Cece did the same.
“Are you thinking he may have come to the trial to watch?”
“Yes. Killers do that sometimes. As do others who have an interest in how something turns out. If there are photos, we should go over every face present.”
