Reign of Error (The Worst Detective Ever Book 2)

by Christy Barritt

  My heart nearly stopped.

  I’d seen that cross before. I knew exactly where.

  Anastasia had been wearing it in one of her pictures.

  This connected Douglas Murray/Max Anderson/Mark Hamill to Anastasia’s murder.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” a deep voice asked behind me.

  I’d been caught.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Jackson, I’m sorry. I can explain—”

  He snatched the phone from my hands. “Save it.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “I realized I’d forgotten my phone and came back to get it. It’s a good thing I did.” He scowled at me again, but this was a different kind of scowl. This was an honest one, one full of hurt and anger. And I deserved it. I more than deserved it.

  But even knowing that didn’t make the icky, awful feeling in my gut go away.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Joey.” He shook his head like a disappointed father. “I’ve got to take Ripley out.”

  He stormed out the door, and I felt like roadkill. Worse than roadkill. I felt like the flies that ate on roadkill. Worse than the flies. I felt like the maggots left behind by the flies that fed on the roadkill.

  “Everything okay?” Phoebe asked, coming back into the living room. “I thought I heard something heated out here.”

  I swallowed hard, unsure what to even say. “I think I messed up, Phoebe. Again. I mess up. A lot.”

  She squeezed my arm. “We all do.”

  “I appreciate you asking me here, and I really hope I didn’t ruin all of this. But I may have, and for that, I’m really sorry.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jackson left his phone, and I saw a picture from a crime scene.” I shook my head. “I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. But, Phoebe, it connects the murder of Mark Hamill—”

  “Mark Hamill died?”

  I shook my head. “I mean Douglas Murray—no, Max Anderson!—to the disappearance of my father.”

  “You looked on his phone?” It was like she didn’t hear the second part of what I’d said. Which made sense. Because to her, the first part would be way more important. It showed my lack of integrity.

  “I shouldn’t have done it,” I repeated.

  I waited for a lecture. For her to scold me. I deserved every moment of it.

  “He’ll get over it.”

  I blinked, certain I hadn’t heard her correctly. “What?”

  She shrugged. “Jackson. He’ll get over it. Give him time.”

  “I betrayed his trust.”

  She leaned closer. “Joey, I haven’t seen his eyes light up around someone like they do around you since Claire.”

  Her words almost knocked the wind out of me until I remembered the truth. “He doesn’t like me like that, Phoebe. He barely likes me at all. Especially not now.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  Silence.

  Sometimes I could appreciate it, and sometimes I hated it.

  Right now was one of those times that I hated it because it was awkward and heavy and filled with tension. Not even Ripley panting at my neck could make anything better.

  “I am sorry,” I finally muttered somewhere on the middle of the sandbar with a road running over it.

  Jackson didn’t say anything for a moment and then, “I’m just not sure I can trust you.”

  Heat warmed my cheeks. Yes, I deserved that comment. But the fact was that Jackson hadn’t proven himself to be all trustworthy either. He was keeping secrets from me. Sure, maybe there were professional boundaries in place. I got that. But he wasn’t totally innocent.

  It was so hard to keep that to myself. To not blurt it out, to point out the hypocrisy of it all.

  Don’t show your hand.

  It was what I kept telling myself. I hoped it was the right move.

  Jackson glanced in his rearview mirror again. He’d done that several times.

  I looked behind us.

  The black sedan. It was back.

  “It was following us earlier,” I muttered. I hadn’t been losing my mind.

  “It’s definitely been behind us for a while.” Jackson’s words were controlled, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

  “Coincidence?” I asked, knowing my words were absurd.

  “Doubtful.” His gaze flickered to the rearview mirror again. “They’re gaining on us.”

  “Why would they do that?” I grabbed the armrest, my blood pressure skyrocketing. I knew the answer, and it wasn’t that the driver was going to pass us.

  “Your seat belt is on, right?” Jackson asked.

  I nodded, feeling tension stretch throughout my entire body. “It is.”

  “Hold on.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just trying to keep us alive.” He accelerated.

  I glanced in the side-view mirror. The car behind us accelerated also.

  Then it moved into the other lane. The lane with oncoming traffic—only no one was there right now. Were they going to pass us? That had to be it. This was all a mistake. They’d get in front and be on their merry way.

  When they were beside us, Jackson tapped the brakes, slowing down. The other car seemed to anticipate his move. Instead of charging forward and becoming leader of the pack, it rammed into us from the side.

  Jackson righted the steering wheel. But before we could fully get back on track, the car rammed us again.

  I looked up and realized we were careening right toward the enormous sand dune.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As the sand dune got closer, I could only think of one thing: Ripley. I had a seat belt. That poor dog didn’t.

  So I did what any decent human being would have done. I threw myself in front of him. I used myself as a seat belt, the best I could.

  The truck collided with the sand, which might as well have been a ten-foot-thick brick wall.

  The air bags expanded, sending white powder into the air.

  Ripley lunged forward. Into my arms. Fur covered my face. Claws dug into my legs.

  The wretched sound of metal mangling and scraping and crushing filled the air. Momentum lunged us forward. Glass broke. Jackson yelled something.

  At once, everything stopped. The silence was resounding and mighty. A buzz filled my ears, and I reminded myself to breathe.

  Then came a pop and a sizzle from the hood.

  I glanced over and untangled myself from dog fur and limbs. I drew back until I could see the canine’s face. “Are you okay, Ripley?”

  Ripley licked me, and I released my breath. Then my gaze fell on Jackson. A small trickle of blood crept down his forehead, but he appeared to be otherwise okay.

  The car had passed us and zoomed over the bridge, but there was no way we would be catching up.

  “You okay?” Jackson muttered.

  “I think.” I did a quick self-evaluation and couldn’t figure out anything specifically that was wrong. Except that I hurt all over. And my right arm throbbed. Despite my seat belt and the air bag, I’d somehow rammed into something hard. The dashboard? The door? I didn’t know. Broken glass littered my hair like a twisted confetti of sorts.

  Jackson grabbed his phone and called in the incident. The Dare County Sherriff’s Office promised to have someone out within five minutes.

  I drew in a deep breath, my heart racing. That had been close. Too close.

  A strange smell filled the air. Was that . . . gas?

  As soon as the thought crossed my mind, alarm washed over Jackson’s features. He grabbed my hand. “We need to get out of here, Joey. Now.”

  I didn’t argue. I tugged on the door. It wouldn’t budge.

  I tugged harder. Nothing happened.

  Panic tried to seize me.

  “I can’t get out, Jackson.” My pitch climbed higher than a kite in a windstorm.

  He threw his door
open and grabbed my hand. “Come on.”

  I pressed my seat belt release. Nothing happened again. No clicks. No give. Nothing.

  The lifesaving strap continued to hold me in this truck that could burst into flames at any minute.

  Fear—real fear—flashed through me. Again and again. My head spun as I grabbed at the strap around my waist. Why wasn’t the seat belt coming off?

  In three seconds flat, Jackson reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, and cut the seat belt off. He grabbed my arm and hauled me out of his truck. I wasn’t sure if he was carrying me or if everything was happening as if in an alternate reality, but somehow we flew across the sand. Ripley stayed on our heels.

  Just as we got twenty feet away, fire exploded from the truck. Jackson shielded me, pulling me to his chest to keep away any flying shrapnel. Ripley barked at our feet, staring at the wreckage as if he knew something bad had just happened.

  “Are you okay?” Jackson asked.

  I felt too dazed to answer. My ears were ringing. I could feel the heat from the flames.

  What had just happened? Was this real? Or was I on the set of Relentless? Or was this a dream? A dream about Relentless?

  “Joey?”

  I looked up and saw Jackson staring at me. I finally nodded, even though I had no idea if I was okay. I knew he just needed a response, that he needed to know I heard him.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  I glanced down at my right arm. Sure enough, a huge gash cut through my sleeve and into my flesh. Blood rushed out at an alarming rate.

  My head spun at the sight.

  At once Jackson stripped off his shirt, revealing a white undershirt beneath. I tried not to stare, thankful that the blood gushing from my arm could distract me. He stepped closer and wrapped his shirt around my arm to stop the bleeding.

  “Help should be here anytime now,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle and calming. Gone was the bitterness from earlier.

  But when I looked at his bicep—because I couldn’t help but look—I saw a tattoo. Of a skull and crossbones with words in a different language beneath them.

  My heart nearly stopped.

  That was the same tattoo a waitress had told me a man had. A man who’d met with my father before he disappeared.

  That man had been Jackson.

  “You met with my father,” I muttered.

  Jackson squinted. “What?”

  I pointed to his tattoo, outrage rushing through my blood. “You met with my father before he disappeared. It was you. In Fatty’s. Erma told me he met with someone. I didn’t realize it was you until now.”

  “Joey—” He reached for me.

  I jerked back, throwing myself off balance and nearly tumbling into the sand in the process. “Don’t try to tell me that I’m wrong. I know more than you think about your involvement with my dad.”

  He raised a hand, as if to say slow down. “Joey—”

  “Save your cockeyed excuses! You have a police file on my dad. You met with him at Fatty’s. And you even met with him at some dark warehouse one night,” I rushed. “Yet whenever I talk about him, you act like you don’t know a thing. Now who’s the one who’s untrustworthy?”

  He stopped trying to reach for me, to placate me, and locked his jaw in place. I saw regret in his eyes. I didn’t care. It was too late for me to care.

  “Are you a part of this? Did you have something to do with my dad’s disappearance? You and the chief?” All the things that I’d bottled up inside for so long escaped from me like the eruption created from mixing Coke and Mentos.

  Ripley whined beside me and nuzzled my hand. But not even my furry friend could calm me down.

  Jackson opened his mouth, and I knew what he was going to say. Deny, deny, deny. I was over it.

  “Don’t even tell me that I’ve got it all wrong,” I said. “I have evidence. Pictures. Witnesses. I saw your file with my own eyes at the police station.”

  Before he could say anything—not that he would and not that there was any good excuse—a sheriff’s cruiser pulled up, followed by an ambulance. Nine one one had arrived.

  Medics began checking me out, and I threw one last scowl toward Jackson. I’d gotten it wrong before. I’d believed Zane when I shouldn’t have. But there was no way I had it wrong now. Jackson had betrayed me, just like every other man I knew.

  As the medics led me toward the ambulance, the only thing I regretted was not saying goodbye to Ripley.

  I lay in a curtained-off room in the ER, listening to beeps and unseen footsteps and murmured conversations taking place just out of sight. I felt alone and mad, and my head hurt. I had too many bad memories of the hospital. Memories of my car accident. Of Eric showing up and acting like the perfect spouse while everyone watched. Of the lies and insults he’d whispered when no one was listening. When would I ever forget them?

  At that moment, a shadow appeared on the other side of the curtain, and a deep voice said, “Knock, knock.”

  I supposed that was what you did when there wasn’t a door.

  Metal scraped against metal as the hooks attached to the partition slid to the side. Jackson appeared.

  The one person I didn’t want to talk to. Not by a long shot. But I couldn’t go anywhere, thanks to the IV hooked to my arm. Stupid IV.

  “How are you feeling?” Jackson paused beside my bed. Tension radiated between us, like the eerie calm in a nuclear aftermath.

  “I’ve been better. Six stitches and a concussion. Yay for me.” I rubbed my arm where a bandage had been placed over my stitches. “Where’s Ripley?”

  It seemed like a safe enough topic.

  “Phoebe came and got him.”

  I finally pulled my gaze up to him. “And how are you?”

  I almost didn’t want to ask, but I did anyway out of common decency.

  “I’m okay.”

  He glanced at my uninjured arm, his eyes zeroing in on an old scar there. It was deep, running from the underside of my arm, above my elbow, halfway down my forearm.

  “What’s that from?” he asked.

  My throat went dry, so dry that I could hardly swallow. Did I tell him the truth? That I’d cut myself on a broken vase when Eric had pushed me down the stairs? That the police never noticed because I’d been in a car accident while driving myself to the hospital?

  “Car accident,” I croaked. I couldn’t tell him the truth. Wouldn’t. He already thought I was incompetent. Hearing about Eric would only make me seem weaker. I’d already felt like less of a person since our marriage and divorce. There was no need to add to the feeling.

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed, as if he doubted my words.

  How did he know? Did he have an internal lie detector?

  But this wasn’t a discussion that we needed to have now. Not when there were so many other things hanging between us.

  Jackson cleared his throat, his features still tight. “I did meet with your father a couple of days before he disappeared.”

  My heart pounded in my ears. Nothing else mattered except this conversation. “Did you know him from church?”

  “Not really. I’m unable to do a lot with the church because of my schedule. I do participate in a Bible study, but he wasn’t a part of it. We met at Fatty’s because of my police work.”

  “Why hadn’t you been able to tell me about this before?”

  “It’s complicated, Joey.” He shifted, his face still pinched. “I know that explanation isn’t going to satisfy you. If I could answer your questions, I would.”

  “It’s not an explanation. Why can’t you say more?” My voice climbed higher, and I leaned toward Jackson, desperate to reach through his double-talk and hear the truth. “You’d rather see me suffer through not knowing what happened to my dad?”

  His features squeezed at my words. “It’s not like that. It goes deeper than you think, and it would put an entire operation at risk.”

  “An entire operation? What does that mean?” I didn’t know, but
I didn’t like the sound of it. Fear shot through me as worst-case scenarios bombarded my thoughts.

  Jackson opened his eyes, and I saw the pain there, the agony of desire versus obligation. “I can’t tell you. Can you understand that? Can you try to understand that?”

  Compassion tried to win, but anger took first place instead. “This is what I understand. You know information that you refuse to share. Meanwhile, I’m going through sleepless nights wondering about my father. Not knowing is like a curse.”

  His jaw flexed, and he remained quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, Joey.”

  He was trying to end this conversation, but I wasn’t ready for that. “Somehow my father was involved in a police investigation—I’m sorry. You called it an operation. That must mean he was in trouble. You have to tell me more.”

  “I’ve already said too much, Joey.”

  “Hardly.” My voice sounded surprisingly hard. “What about that necklace you found at Max’s place? It belonged to Anastasia. Is she connected with all of this . . . this . . . madness?”

  Jackson remained quiet a moment before nodding. “We believe she is. Somehow. Whatever Max caught on camera, we think is connected with whatever got Anastasia killed. In fact, we believe he may have unwittingly stumbled upon her killer.”

  Silence more awkward than someone asking for your autograph under a bathroom stall stretched between us. If he wasn’t going to give me answers, then I had nothing to say to him.

  “Do you want me to drive you home?” Jackson finally broke the silence.

  I shook my head. “No, I’ll find another way.”

  “Joey . . .” His voice sounded pleading.

  It made something snap inside me. “Look, I know you’re doing your job. I realize you have limitations. But this is my father’s life we’re talking about, and to me, his life is more important than any operation you have going on.”

  His throat visibly tightened, and he stepped back. “I understand. Are you sure you can get another ride home?”

  I nodded. I wouldn’t accept a ride from him. Even if it meant somehow signaling my stalkers to do it instead.