Then he turned, kicked the man out of the way, and walked out.
Knox scrambled after him, not sure what had just happened.
The man in the chair had vanished, his green apron sitting in a puddle on the floor.
Tate pushed outside. Stood there and blew out a breath.
Knox came out beside him. Said nothing for a long while. Finally, “So I guess that’s what you mean by just talking.”
“Mmmhmm,” Tate said.
“What did you do while you were in Vegas? Because I know you didn’t learn that in the military.”
Tate glanced at him, shook his head, his lips tight. “Nothing I want to talk about.”
Fine. “So now what?”
“Now, we go back to Rayburn and see if he can help us dig up Harris.”
And do more talking, Knox supposed.
He followed his brother down the street as Tate pulled up his Uber app.
Three hours later, as the sun began to drop through the towering Manhattan buildings, they were looking at the recent morgue photo of one Bradley Harris.
“How was he killed?” Knox said as he leaned over the computer.
Rayburn sat on the table in an interrogation room. “We’re still investigating. We found him beaten to death in an alley near the halfway house where he was rooming.”
“The same halfway house that Russell listed as his address. Where he hasn’t shown up at for three weeks.”
Rayburn nodded.
Knox got up, and now he wanted to utter the word that Tate let slip earlier.
“Listen. I’ll call—who was it you mentioned?”
“Torres. He’s with the San Antonio FBI.”
“Yeah. I’ll send him Russell’s picture. See if it matches anyone at the arena. In the meantime, I think this is a dead end.”
Knox whirled around, just stared at Rayburn, who lifted his shoulder.
“Seriously? Kelsey is living with what this man did to her. Every. Single. Day. It’s in her head, in her life. And now he’s loose and we haven’t a clue where he might be?” He swept up Russell’s file, grabbed his mug shot, laid it on the table, and snapped a shot with his phone. “I’m not leaving New York City until this guy is found.”
He left the rest of his intentions to himself. Because he wanted to do a lot more than talk.
Tate followed him out into the night, the air pungent with the day’s trash, cigarette smoke, the raucous sound of traffic. Across the street, a pizza joint beckoned, his stomach nearly as angry as he was.
Tate had said nothing so far, and now he glanced at the pizza joint, shrugged, and went in.
They ordered, then sat down at a table with their slices.
Tate pulled out his cell phone. Put it on the table.
“Hoping AJ will call?”
“I’m not holding my breath.” Tate folded his pizza like a sandwich. “But Glo keeps texting me. Nonstop for three days. I told her that we were fine, but she’s…”
“In love with you.”
Tate looked at him, frowned. “Hardly. She is…she’s my boss.”
“Whatever.” And it was the first smile he’d gotten from Tate in three days.
As if Glo might be able to sense their conversation, a text rattled his phone. He picked it up, swiped. “What—?”
Knox leaned over. “What’s going on?”
“They’re setting up to play at some gig tonight.”
“What—and you let them go?
“Take a breath—no! They went without my permission, but it’s local.”
“Where?”
“Montana—in Mercy Falls. Apparently, Benjamin King set it up. It’s impromptu, and King has his own security, I’m sure. Glo says it’s low-key, just a couple songs at a local bar and grill.”
“Should we be worried?”
“Probably not, but I’m not thrilled. The sooner we track down Russell, the better.” Tate turned his phone around and showed Knox a picture of Kelsey and Glo decked out in jeans, boots, and T-shirts that said Pony Up. The next one had Kelsey at the mic, her smile curving around her words.
All Knox wanted to do was go home. To be in the audience, for her to wink at him as she sang. To sneak backstage and maybe give her a good luck kiss. Or a hug. Or even just a high five, but yeah.
By one look at Tate’s expression as he took back the phone, he wanted to suggest the same thing.
“We have to find him,” Knox said.
Tate nodded. Sighed.
They finished the pizza, then took a subway to their hotel right off Times Square. Knox stood at the window, watching as theatergoers emptied into the square. Tate was channel surfing the late-late shows.
They should go home. Because what if Russell wasn’t here, but somehow had found them in Montana, and was right now sitting outside, in the parking lot, waiting to, as he put it, finish what he’d started.
Knox pressed a hand to his gut. That pizza wasn’t sitting right.
Especially when Tate’s phone buzzed again, this time on the nightstand next to his bed. He picked it up, and his gut knotted when Tate’s eyes widened, his mouth opening.
“What—?”
Tate looked up. “We’re going home. Right now.” His face turned grim and hard as he stood up and stalked over to his suitcase. “Their tour bus was bombed.”
9
She simply had to figure out how to breathe.
“Kelsey, are you okay in there?”
The knock came through the closed bathroom door to where Kelsey sat on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in a clean bathrobe, courtesy of Kacey King, super country star Benjamin King’s wife. The tub had filled, the steam rising off it, lavender lifting from the scented oils Glo had insisted on adding.
She should be sliding in, closing her eyes. Trying to let go of the trauma.
And most of all, thanking God that they hadn’t been inside the bus sleeping when the fire started.
Instead, they’d been onstage at a country-western bar and grill, Kelsey singing her heart out to a sold-out crowd, feeling like she might actually find her feet again. Not a huge crowd, but enough for her to step onstage without the panic of the big stage. No special effects, just Kelsey and Glo at the mics, their voices mingling in a set of their favorite singles.
She remembered wishing that Knox sat in the audience, grinning at her, and hoping that she hadn’t scared him off.
Then, right during their last song—boom!
The propane tank that fueled their stove had shot out of the top of the bus, landing in the parking lot, setting off car alarms.
Thank God no one had been hurt.
“Kelsey!” More banging.
Kelsey sighed, looked at the water. The temptation to sink under the depths felt too powerful for her to risk it. She pulled the plug. “I’m fine.”
“Hurry up. There’s a cop here and he wants to get your statement.”
The one she didn’t give last night as she’d stood hollowly staring at her home, the flames curling around the bus, licking into the sky.
The Mercy Falls fire department showed up to douse the travesty, but Kelsey couldn’t move, the realization finding her bones.
Russell had found her. This was no random event—how could it be? But how had he tracked her down in Montana?
Except, and of course—because it came to her as the crowd spilled out of the bar, snapping pictures on their phones.
Instagram. Didn’t Glo say fans had found and tagged them at the Bulldog? And probably Glo, in her usual social media PR, had invited people to come out and see them at the Gray Pony.
It wasn’t Glo’s fault that a murderer wanted Kelsey—and by proxy, Glo—dead.
Still—why had she left the Marshall ranch? The question dogged her even as Ben and Kacey had collected her and Glo and brought them home to sleep in their beautiful log home on a ranch outside of town. She met their daughter, Audrey, who looked just like Ben, concern in her blue eyes as she showed them down the hall to a guest room.
A palatial guest room with a bed the size of Texas. And Glo got the one next door.
Clearly, they needed to sell more albums, or charge more for their gigs.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t slept more than an hour in the four-poster bed, under the thick cotton quilt, in the Egyptian cotton sheets. She was standing at the window in the bathrobe when Glo came in with coffee. Took one look at her and drew her a bath.
Now, Glo banged on the door, clearly expecting her to have completed her bath.
“I need to jump in the shower. I smell, and my hair is sticky.”
“For pete’s—did you even get in the bath?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Fine. Put your hair up. I’m leaving some yoga pants and a T-shirt on the bed. Kacey bought us packages of clean underclothes, too.”
Oh, that was completely embarrassing. But incredibly thoughtful.
“I smell like smoke.”
Glo paused, then quietly, through the door, “I know you. I know you’re just sitting there looking out the window trying to figure out what to do next. Formulating a plan.”
Kelsey said nothing. Because yes, she had been staring through the window at the grand landscape behind Ben’s house for twenty minutes. To the jagged scrape of granite mountains along a pristine blue sky. To the herd of red Holsteins grazing in a nearby pasture—which only reminded her of Hot Pete and the baby bull, and then Knox, and—why had she left the Marshall ranch?
It was possible, however, that for the first time, she hadn’t a clue what to do next.
“Or, you’re contemplating running.”
That thought had crossed her mind too. A crazy desire to just get in a car and drive. Anywhere. Destination fresh start. Again.
But even that option held her hostage, because she had no car, no money, no clean clothes. She could hardly breathe through the overwhelming rush of loss.
Glo knocked again. “Please, Kels, let me in?”
Kelsey got up and opened the door.
Glo stood on the other side, no makeup, her hair back in a bandanna, wearing a pink T-shirt with PEAK SAR on the front. A pair of black leggings showed off her curves, and she ran her bare feet into the carpet. She crossed her arms over herself, gave Kelsey a sad smile. “Want to talk about it?”
Kelsey looked at her, then shook her head, her jaw tightening. “Nope.”
“Kels—”
She drew in a breath, held it in check. “No. Because I’m right back there, Glo. I’m the girl waking up after twelve days in a coma, blinking and confused and bereft. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next.” She pursed her lips. “Russell has beat me.”
Glo touched her arm. “No. No he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know the woman I know. The one who had to learn how to walk and talk and read again. And who did it, and even went on to not just survive, but live.”
“Looking over her shoulder, waiting for him to show up and make good on his threats. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for a decade…and I don’t know how to let it go.”
“By not letting him beat you,” Glo said, catching her hand. “Right?”
It sounded right, so Kelsey nodded.
“C’mon. You look fine.” She gestured to the clothes on the bed. “I’ll draw you another bath after you talk to Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Ben’s friend. He’s a cop, and he’s really nice.”
Kelsey walked over to the clothes. Picked up the shirt. Orange, with black lettering over the pocket—PEAK—with a tiny mountain logo over the top.
“Ben has a huge collection of them. Apparently, it’s part of some fundraiser they’re having for a local SAR team.”
“Ben? You’re on a nickname basis now??”
Glo grinned, heading for the door. “I know he’s famous, but he’s super nice. And his daughter is pretty talented. She’s been playing me a few of her songs. There’s actually a slew of people here, making breakfast, hanging out. It’s like a reality TV show.” She stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.
Kelsey changed clothes, pulled her hair up, and washed her face. At least she didn’t have makeup stains down her cheeks.
By not letting him beat you.
Maybe he already had. Maybe she went down years ago.
She followed the sound of voices and padded down the hallway, past a workout room, and into a soaring great room with a giant picture window that overlooked the magnificent view of the mountains she’d seen from her room. A deck with Adirondack chairs extended from the window.
A long chandelier dangled from the ceiling, and under it, two leather sofas faced each other, flanking a tall stone fireplace.
“Hey, Kelsey,” said a male voice, and she turned to see Ben walking toward her, holding coffee. “How are you feeling this morning?”
So many answers, none of them the right one, so she opted for, “Better. Thank you.”
He smiled, and she could see why he’d won Entertainer of the Year. He was quite possibly even more handsome in his regular clothing, jeans, a T-shirt, with that dark brown hair all morning-tousled, those sculpted shoulders. She’d bet he worked out with the hanging bag in the workout room. A smile quirked up one side of his face, like Aw, shucks, we’re all friends here.
Indeed, it looked like Glo had settled in, sitting on a high-top stool, now pouring syrup on a stack of pancakes.
A petite woman with short black hair came out of the kitchen holding a tray of blueberry muffins and set it on the dining room table in the corner of the room. Maybe Ben’s cook. But she picked one up and handed it to a man dressed in a uniform, probably Sam, here to interview Kelsey. He was talking to an older gentleman with short graying hair, who sort of reminded her of Harrison Ford with his quirky facial expressions.
“Let me introduce you to Sam Brooks. He needs your statement about last night,” Ben said. “I’m sorry my wife isn’t here right now. She’s a chopper pilot for the PEAK team—” He gestured to his shirt. “She got called out this morning to help with a hospital transport.”
Kelsey followed him and got a good look at Sam when he turned and held out his hand to her. The most riveting blue eyes she’d ever seen, brown hair, a look on his face that suggested if anyone could get to the bottom of last night’s attack, it would be him.
“Glad to meet you, Kelsey,” Sam said.
“And this is my father, Chet King,” Ben said.
Chet’s hand enveloped hers, worn, warm, and solid. “Sorry about last night.”
“By the way, we’re doing a little clothing drive for you two, just within the PEAK team, so if you want to give me your sizes…” This from the petite cook who had added a bowl of fruit—strawberries and blueberries—to the table.
“This is Sierra. She’s the PEAK team administrator. And sometimes she feeds us out of the goodness of her heart,” Ben said. He reached over and grabbed a strawberry from the bowl.
Kelsey’s stomach awakened, began to stir.
“We’re trying to figure out how the bus blew,” Sam said. “We’ve called in some arson specialists, but we need some help.” He directed her over to the sofa and started with background information, how they’d gotten the gig—to which Ben filled in the gaps.
“I called Carter to check on the Belles. They were pretty shaken up after the bombing in Texas, and Kelsey lost her voice—”
“You were in the San Antonio bombing?” Sam asked. He’d put his phone on the table to record their conversation.
“Yeah,” Kelsey said. “And uh, yeah. We were pretty shaken up. Our bodyguard suggested we hang out at his ranch—the Marshall Triple M— for a few days. But then Carter called and said Ben had invited us to sing at the Gray Pony.”
“And you brought the house down, by the way,” Ben said.
“Before we blew up the parking lot,” Glo added, turning in her chair.
Kelsey frowned at Glo’s attempt at humor.
“Too soon?” Glo said, and Kelsey nodded.
“Do you have any reason to think someone would want to harm you? A fan maybe? Or—”
“Yes,” Kelsey said quietly, drawing in her breath. “I think someone is trying to kill me.”
The entire room went quiet.
Then, succinctly, and without inflection or drama, Kelsey told her story. She left out the rape, the extent of her injuries, just hit the high points, the threats, the fact that Russell was free.
And apparently, keeping his promise.
When she was finished, Sam just swallowed, his expression pained. “I’m sorry, Kelsey.”
“It’s okay. I’ve lived with this a long time.” But retelling it had knotted her breath in her chest. “I guess I never thought…really…that he’d come back. I’m just tired, you know? Tired of figuring out how to get back up, keep going.”
“Your soul is thirsty.”
Her gaze went to the voice, and it landed on Sierra, who had added scrambled eggs and sausage links to the table and now approached the sofa, wrapping her hands along the back. “You’re parched and you’re weary and your soul needs a drink.”
Kelsey looked at her, frowned.
“There is only one source of that kind of water, Kelsey. Only one thing that will satisfy. And that’s God’s love.” She moved her hand to Kelsey’s shoulder. “He very much cares about you.”
She glanced at Glo, who had raised an eyebrow, then a shoulder.
But then again, Glo had been around Dixie’s family enough to hear Dixie’s father preach the same thing. Only God can satisfy.
Except where, exactly, had God been when she lay in the weeds? Or when she was crumpled in the debris of a Texas arena? Or watching her world go up in flames?
Where was God when she was trying to find her feet, scrape out her future?
And maybe it wasn’t fair to blame God. Maybe in fact, she simply wasn’t important enough to protect.
At least, it sort of felt that way.
But she nodded to Sierra anyway, because really, she meant well. And Kelsey was too tired to do anything else.
“I think what Kelsey—and we both—need is to go home, back to Wisconsin, and regroup.” Glo said. “We have insurance on the bus, on our equipment, and frankly, maybe this is a sign, right? Maybe God is showing us that we need to just…go home.”
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