Like he’d done ever since they were dating, he waited until she was in her car and turning on the road before pulling out of the parking lot himself. In her rearview, Amy watched his truck getting smaller and smaller, finally disappearing in the opposite direction. There’d been no touch or hug or goodbye kiss.
Somehow, they were right back where they’d started.
*
As he’d expected, the cell records hadn’t shown up. Providers were notorious for taking their sweet time with requests. Like it really mattered, since the records had simply been his excuse to be anywhere but at home for a little while. Back in his truck, he drove slow circles on back country roads, trying to approximate the routes he and Troy Lee had driven the past couple of days. He needed time, time to try to focus on the puzzle that was Brittany’s story, time to not think about that kiss.
Time to definitely not think about the last time he’d been in bed with his wife and how that had ended up.
He took that memory and boxed it up, shut it away in his mind. Tonight’s kiss too. He didn’t need that one, either.
Damn it all, why had he listened to Troy Lee anyway? They’d been fine, or rather he had… Being numb had its advantages. They could have simply kept going along until Amy figured out for real that he wasn’t what she wanted, although hell, what difference would that make? She was worried about her mother’s reaction to a divorce.
Not his. Not her own. Her mother’s.
But one thing he knew was Amy and her family, and Charlotte Mills would want what was best for her daughter. Amy was resilient—strong and smart and a planner. If he was out of the picture, she’d simply make a new five-year plan and move on.
His headlights illuminated a street sign in the hovering dusk. Long Lonesome Road. Freaking perfect. He didn’t remember it from the hours in the car with Troy Lee, but what the hell?
After a couple of miles, the two-lane blacktop widened to a concrete bridge over the river. Rob pulled his truck to the shoulder and killed the engine. Gravel crunched under his shoes, the smooth concrete making little noise as he walked to the railing and peered over at the brown water. The river whispered rather than rushed, a deceptively slow-looking slide that concealed dark depths and wicked currents. A swimmer going in on this stretch would be nearly a mile downriver before realizing what was happening.
If he made it that long without going under for good.
Hands clasped before him, he leaned on the handrail. Somewhere he’d read that drowning was the easiest way to die. A simple act of letting the water take over, letting the water close around—
He rested his forehead on his clasped hands. What he really needed was to talk to his dad. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the sudden burning there. He’d held off crying this long, hadn’t cried over any of it, although heaven knew he’d wanted to plenty of times.
“Crying doesn’t change a thing.” The river caught the whisper and carried it away. That had been his dad’s motto after they’d lost his mom.
Jesus above, he didn’t know how to do this, to do any of this, by himself. The longing to sit on the back porch overlooking Long Pond and rock awhile, talking through his problems with his father, made his chest hurt.
On the other side of the river, thunder rumbled in the clouds piling high atop one another. He blew out a breath. Feeling sorry for himself wasn’t changing anything. Maybe he could step back and put on some objectivity, look at their marriage the way he would a set of interviews, piece the story together that way.
She didn’t want a divorce. She said she was proud of him. She didn’t see him as a bad husband. She wanted him to kiss her more often. She wanted to take things slowly.
It all added up to a woman who wanted things to work. It added up to a woman he loved who would be hurt if he let himself go under.
What he had to do was find a way to get his head straight so he could meet her halfway. In the past, whenever he needed to sort out his thoughts on anything, that meant time on the porch with his dad. He simply had to figure out how that process was going to work in the present, with his father gone.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Should have left it in the truck. With a sigh, he straightened and pulled the cell free to read the text from Troy Lee. Still owe you that beer but not tonight. See you in the AM for a run.
Maybe tomorrow he’d find out how good a listener Troy Lee could be and start finding his way back from there.
The rain broke on his way home. Sheets of silver blew sideways across the road. He parked next to Amy’s little BMW in the drive and ran for the side door, clothes plastered to his skin. He stopped in the laundry room and stripped to his briefs. She’d kill him if he trailed water all through the house. He snagged a towel and rubbed most of the moisture from his hair and skin.
The house was quiet and mostly dark, lamplight spilling from the living room. He padded through the dim kitchen and dining room. “Amy?”
She slept, curled into one end of the couch, head resting on her bent arm at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. He leaned down and picked up her tablet where it had fallen to the floor. He reached out to shake her awake and checked the movement. Even in slumber, her mouth had a pinched, unhappy slant. He smoothed his thumb across her lower lip, memories tumbling through him. He’d put that look there.
With a gentle hand, he hooked glossy brown hair behind her ear and leaned down to lift her into his arms. She stirred, looped her arms around his neck and rested her face against his throat. Her soft sigh whispered across his skin. “Mmpf. Rob?”
“Yeah.” He skirted the couch and angled them down the hall toward the bedrooms. Heaven above, it felt good to hold her again, and he stopped himself from pressing her nearer.
“What are you doing?” She played with the edges of his hair with lazy, drowsy movements.
“Putting you to bed.”
She shivered against him. “Your skin is cold.”
“It’s raining.” Even now, the rain pounded the metal roof.
In the bedroom, the small lamp on the dresser cast a golden glow across the bed. He set her gently on her feet and flipped the covers back. She swayed into him, arms still about his neck. “Where’ve you been?”
“Riding around. Thinking.” He brushed his mouth across her brow and tipped her onto the mattress. He reached for the covers.
Her hand on his forestalled him. Some of the drowsiness cleared from her dark eyes, a small frown bringing elegant brows together. “I hurt you earlier somehow, didn’t I?”
He stilled under the sweetness of her gaze. “Yeah, a little. But it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” The sorrow on her face was unbearable. She reached for him, one arm about his neck, a hand curved along his jaw. She pressed her lips to the corner of his. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. I’m fine.” He cupped the back of her head, hair silky against his palm. She could hurt him all she wanted if this nearness was the payoff.
“I am so sorry.” She moved, seeking his mouth with hers. Against his lips, her mouth was warm and wet, and she tasted of honey and spice. He began to sink into her and stilled once more. Planting his hands on the bed, he levered away, gaze locked with hers but no physical contact between them.
He swallowed. “We’re waiting, remember?”
“You said you’d kiss me more often, remember?”
The sassy rejoinder drew a smile from him. “Yeah, but if I kiss you here, I’ll forget all about waiting.”
He straightened and reached for the covers again. She wrapped her fingers around his as he drew the duvet to her waist. With gentle movements, he settled her against the pillows and leaned down to brush a kiss across her lips. “Sweet dreams.”
“You too.” Her breathless voice stayed with him all the way back to the couch, where he was destined for anything but sweet dreams.
*
The rain, driven by the bands of an outlying tropical storm in the Gulf, didn’t let up. Troy Lee, as Rob discovered, di
dn’t allow a little, or even a lot, of rain deter him from running his miles or working traffic. Following another five-mile run, they’d tried and failed to track down Mike Smithwick at his home or work. After Troy Lee had written his fourth ticket of the morning and returned to the car, water dripping off his rain gear, Rob tapped his watch. “We need to head back to the station. Brittany Jenkins is supposed to be in at ten for an official interview.”
Troy Lee nodded and turned around at the next break in the median. He grinned. “Looked like you two were doing okay last night when I left.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” Troy Lee’s brows rose.
Rob tapped a finger on his knee. “I did some thinking last night.”
“Yeah?” The Charger swayed a little on the rain-choked highway, and Troy Lee flexed his hands on the wheel.
“I really think she wants this to work.”
“That’s good. What’s the ‘but’?”
“Who says there’s a ‘but’?”
“Your tone of voice and the way you’re beating the hell out of your knee over there.” Troy Lee grinned. “So what’s the ‘but’? You decide you don’t want it to work?”
“No, heck no. Not that.” He tapped his knee again. He’d only known this guy two days.
“Bennett, spit it out, man.”
“I’ve got to figure out how to straighten out everything that’s in my head, you know, so I don’t let it screw us up any further.”
“Everything that’s in your head.” Troy Lee nodded, changing lanes and slowing for the red light before the chicken plant. “Like finding out about the infertility, being laid off and losing your dad, all in the space of a couple of months.”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“Yeah, because I can’t imagine any of that messing with a guy’s mind.” Troy Lee actually laughed. “Dude, you’ve got to keep it together in this car, though. You can’t go getting me shot.”
“No worries. I have no intention of getting either one of us shot.” Rob stretched. “I was a little more worried about you getting me shot, what with you being the resident screwup and all.”
“Funny.” Troy Lee shot him the finger, and Rob chuckled. “Any ideas about how to get your head straight?”
Rivulets streamed across the passenger window, the day as gray as it could possibly be. Rob cleared his throat. “I used to talk to my dad.”
“Me too.” Troy Lee fiddled with the squelch on the radio. “I miss him a hell of a lot some days.”
“Yeah.”
“You need somebody you can trust. Not Stringham.”
“Hell, no.”
“Eight hours every day is a long time to spend in a car with one person.” Troy Lee flipped on the turn signal. “Guess we’ve got to talk about something. Might as well be your issues.”
Rob relaxed into the seat and released a slow exhale. “Might as well.”
*
Rob shifted the sign outside the interview room to occupied and closed the door. Brittany Jenkins bent to remove a hair tie from her bag and pulled her blonde hair back into a loose ponytail. She fussed with the zipper on her purse, not looking at him.
He settled in the other chair pulled up at the table and ran through the routine of time, date and case number for the video. With the preliminaries out of the way, he scratched the time and date across the top of his legal pad and smiled at Brittany. “Thank you for coming in to see me today.”
Brittany jiggled a tanned leg. “Did I have a choice?”
“You did.” The immediate animosity surprised him. He leaned back in the chair, his arm hooked over the back. “You still do. You’re not under arrest, you’re not in custody, and you are free to walk out that door at any time.”
She looked away. “You don’t know my mama.”
“Your mother was very concerned about you.”
With a harrumph, she pinned him with a glare. “If she was really concerned about me, she’d let me—”
She bit the words off and fiddled with the end of her ponytail.
“Let you…?”
“Nothing. It’s between me and her, and it doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
He drew out a pause, tapping his pen on the pad. She jiggled her leg faster. Finally, he made a bullet point on the pad. “Can you run me through what happened?”
“Are you kidding me?” She blew out a huff and closed her eyes a moment, but not before he caught a glimpse of frustrated tears. “I told my mama, I told Tori Cook, I told that GBI agent yesterday… How many times do I have to tell this story?”
“Let me remind you that you are—”
“Free to go whenever.” Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah. I wish.”
Elbow propped on the table, he rested his mouth against his fist and waited. The clock over the table ticked audibly, and muffled voices engaged in jocular ragging carried in from the hallway.
Brittany bit her thumbnail and sighed. “I broke my phone. I cut my hand, and my car wouldn’t start. I was going to walk for help and this guy stopped down the road and asked if I needed a ride.”
Out there, in the middle of nowhere, as little traveled as those roads were. Sure. He could see that. He scratched a quick summary.
“He wouldn’t take me to the hospital. He drove us over to Haynes County, and when he slowed down for a stop sign, I jumped out and ran into the woods. He drove off.”
She jumped out, holding the baby, and managed to take her purse and diaper bag with her. Yep.
“Is that it?”
“Why didn’t you go to the neighbor’s?” He glanced up in time to see a disconcerted expression flash over her face.
“What?” She gnawed at her thumbnail.
“You have a neighbor across the road. Maybe you don’t get along with her, but you know her. Why not go there for help?”
“I…” Her throat moved in a swallow. “I told you. He stopped.”
He made a show of looking back at his notes. “You said you were already on the road.”
“I meant the road at the end of our driveway.” She bit her bottom lip and straightened in the chair. The belligerent young woman was gone, and in her place was an uncertain girl.
“That was awful convenient.” He dropped his pen. “I have to tell you, Britt, your story doesn’t add up. If you’re protecting your husband—”
“I’m not protecting anybody. Zeke was at work. Check his cell records. Isn’t that what you guys do?” She reached down for her bag. Fine tremors shook her hands. “You said I could go anytime, right?”
“Yes.” He reached for a statement form and slid it before her. He held out his pen. “Before you go, would you write out your story for me?”
She snatched the pen from his hand and scrawled out her statement, then shoved the paper and pen at him. He scanned the document, barely a paragraph long. “I need you to sign it, that this is your full and true statement.”
With another huff and rolled eyes, she grabbed the pen and scribbled her signature across the bottom. She tossed the pen down, grabbed her bag and rose.
“You have Victoria Cook’s number, right?” He pushed his chair back and stood. “At the women’s center—”
“I don’t need it. I’m telling you, Zeke didn’t have anything to do with it.” She shouldered her bag and stared him down, chin tilted in defiance that didn’t belie the lost look in her eyes. “He’d never hurt Emma. He loves her.”
“Right. He loves Emma and he’d never hurt her.” Rob nodded and tapped her statement against his palm. “What about you?”
Her face paled. “Go to hell.”
She stalked out and slammed the door behind her. Rob rubbed a hand down his face. Yeah. That had been completely productive, like everything else he’d done with this case. When had he ever thought he was cut out for this?
*
Amy parked next to Rob’s truck, reached back for an umbrella that wasn’t there, and groaned. She’d left it in the coat closet again,
guarantee it. Rain poured down the windshield, pounding on the roof. She grabbed for her cardigan, prepared to hold it over her head and make a run for the house. She’d come back out for her electronics later, if the monsoon ever decided to let up.
The car door opened, and she startled before she recognized Rob’s familiar frame. He held his golf umbrella in one hand and extended the other. “Come on.”
He tucked her under his arm, and with her huddled against him, they hurried for the side door. In the laundry room, she shook a few stray drops of rain from her hair. “Thanks.”
He leaned the dripping umbrella next to the door and smiled at her over his shoulder. “I figured you’d left your umbrella in the closet.”
“Are you cooking?” She sniffed and walked toward the kitchen.
“Only if tossing a salad and putting a steak under the broiler count.”
A small bouquet of white lilies and roses on the kitchen island greeted her. Their wedding flowers, because they were her favorite, because they’d been the first flowers he’d ever brought her, because they’d been the flowers he’d given her the night he proposed. Tears stung her eyes, and she touched a finger to one perfect petal. “They’re beautiful.”
“I was going to take you out.” He spoke quietly behind her. “But with the rain and everything—”
“No, this is perfect.” She leaned down to breathe in the mingled scents of the flowers for a moment, then turned to face him. Rain dotted his yellow button-down shirt, untucked over faded jeans. He’d kicked off his leather thongs in the laundry room, and those cute feet she loved peeked out from under his jeans. How could the man’s feet be sexy? “This is wonderful.”
“I still don’t know what to do sometimes, honey.” He scuffed a hand across his nape. “What to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. She took a step toward him, wanting to be connected to him the way she’d been the night before. “You only have to be you.”
She saw it then, saw the shutdown start in his eyes, his expression. That was it, whatever it was that kept pulling him away from her. Something to do with what he was, what he felt he needed to be.
Gone From Me: Hearts of the South, Book 10 Page 9
