Matt nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Gemma was sure if her smile tried to widen any farther it would get stuck that way. She held his hand a little tighter.
“Young lady.” Gemma hadn’t heard the chief approaching, but here he was behind her. “You are one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. And I don’t know what happened ten years ago, which of our officers dropped the ball and didn’t believe your recollections of the crime were all accurate, but I want to apologize on their behalf. A murderer could have continued to go free if it wasn’t for you coming home and being willing to help us bring him to justice.” The chief glanced in Matt’s direction. “I know you were a part of some of the investigating, informally, while Matt was protecting you. And I appreciate what you did. I appreciate what both of you did, and while it was a bit...unorthodox for the two of you to be as close as you were while being involved in a case together, I think in the end everything worked out.” He turned to Matt. “Go out tonight, celebrate. But I expect to see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning to wrap this thing up. This is your case, O’Dell. Probably always should have been. And I’d be proud to have you finish working it.”
Matt nodded. Gemma thought he might have stood a little taller. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”
She smiled up at him.
They stayed in the woods for another hour, giving statements and retelling the events of the day as best they could remember them. Finally, they were both cleared to leave.
“Want to come to my house for dinner?” Matt asked. “I called when I had a minute earlier and invited a couple of people who I thought would want to come, too.”
Gemma nodded. Celebrating with friends sounded perfect. It did good things to her heart to realize there were people who wanted to celebrate with both of them. Together. Here in this crazy little town where both of them had once been defined by mistakes that hadn’t been theirs. “I’d love to.”
He swung her by Claire’s house, and Gemma ran inside and changed into a turquoise sundress. Maybe a bit overdressed for a backyard cookout, but she wanted to look good, mostly because she felt good. Felt free.
Felt as if she could finally be the Gemma Phillips she’d always wanted to be. The one God wanted her to be, with His help.
Matt’s appreciative gaze when she climbed back into the truck made dressing up worth it.
The drive to his house didn’t take long, and when they got there several people were already milling around. She recognized Adam Cole, the pastor of one of the churches in Treasure Point who was also Shiloh’s husband, at the grill. There were her parents talking to Mary Hamilton—who Gemma still needed to talk to about the museum. There was Claire. A few officers she’d recognized as Matt’s friends, including Clay Hitchcock.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to run in and change.” Matt grinned. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She didn’t, just grabbed a can of Coke and started mingling. She was overwhelmed at the number of people who had come to share their excitement over solving the case. Even Cindy Anne was there—the first Gemma had seen of her since that awful interview—and she gave Gemma a small smile and made a comment about her doing a good job at the museum that could almost be considered an apology. At least, it was probably the closest Cindy Anne would ever get to issuing one.
After a short time, she caught sight of Matt walking out of his front door. As he walked toward her, everything got a little quiet. And everyone looked at him.
Then at Gemma. Expectantly. And her breath caught a little in her throat, for once in a good way, as she wondered if she was right about what was going to happen next...
He walked onto the porch, then down the steps and straight to Gemma, the grin on his face widening with every step he took. In the time it took for him to move closer, she looked him over. His hair was wet, as though he’d taken a quick shower, and he was wearing khakis with a blue shirt that made his eyes look even more full of life than they ever had—or maybe finishing this case had done that.
Then again, maybe God had done it. He’d certainly made Gemma feel lighter—more free than she ever could remember feeling before.
“Gemma Phillips.” He focused his smile on her, lowered himself to one knee.
And then her breath wasn’t catching anymore because now she was holding her breath entirely, afraid if she moved at all, she’d ruin this moment, realize it was a dream or something. Only it wasn’t, it was real and it was happening. To her. To them.
“I’ve thought you were the most special woman I’ve ever known for at least the past decade, and for the past few weeks you’ve proved that to be true. You’re brave, you’re strong and just like you’re the woman I want by my side for the rest of my life, I want to be the man by your side for the rest of yours. Will you marry me, Gemma?”
She nodded, broke into a grin. “Yes. Yes, Matt, I would love to.”
He slid the ring on her finger—a gorgeous diamond in a vintage-inspired setting, classic Southern style. She watched as he did that, then as soon as it was on, he stood. She lifted her face to his.
And their lips met in a long, slow kiss.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from PROTECTIVE DUTY by Jessica R. Patch
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Dear Reader,
I loved being back in Treasure Point for this book and I hope you did, too! There’s something about the southern Georgia coastline, with the way the ocean breeze whispers through the Spanish moss, that has always felt both comforting and mysterious to me. That’s why it’s one of my favorite places to set a book. I wish Treasure Point were a real place so that I could visit—and you could, too!—but if you get to spend time in Darien or Savannah, Georgia, I think you’ll find that they are pretty similar.
When I finished my first book, Treasure Point Secrets, I knew that Matt O’Dell would need his own happily-ever-after. It took some time to figure out what the perfect woman for him would be like, but once Gemma developed as a character, I loved the way their relationship played out. Matt and Gemma’s story is one that has been in my mind for a long time, but because of some difficult seasons in my own life, it has taken longer than usual to get it on paper and into your hands. Thank you, Reader, for reading it, and for letting me tell you this story.
God teaches me things through the stories I write, and I have to say that I learned a lot while I was writing this book. Like Gemma, I learned to look toward the future instead of letting the past define me, and I also learned a lot about God’s grace. While I hope that the story has entertained you and provided a fun break from laundry, dishes or whatever your “real life” looks like, I also hope that you learned something through it, and that maybe God will use it to draw you closer to Him.
I love hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you! You can get in touch with me through email, [email protected], or find me on my personal blog: espressoinalatteworld.blogspot.com.
Sarah Varland
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Protective Duty
by Jessica R. Patch
ONE
Bryn Eastman refused to think about the bullet that had pierced her abdomen. She would not fixate on how her attacker’s gloved hands had wrapped around her throat or how she’d let down her guard and almost died a year ago.
Her nerves pulsed anyway as she slid into her FBI windbreaker. Her first case since the shooting.
Slivers of October moonlight snaked between the autumn leaves. Yellow crime scene tape beckoned her toward the grove of towering trees. Blue lights slashed the dark as flashlight beams swiveled across the ground. Camera crew vans lined the parking lot, morbidly eager for a story.
Special Agent in Charge Towerman had brought Bryn up to speed CliffsNotes-style. She hadn’t been back in Memphis long enough for the detailed version. Tonight’s victim made number four. She’d been left in Overton Park for families, children—the world—to view. An ache thumped in Bryn’s gut and spread into her chest.
She stared at the frenzy.
Would the lead homicide detective welcome FBI assistance? Welcome a female’s assistance? Experience told her he wouldn’t, but she hoped so anyway. This was a man’s world she maneuvered through. And while there were many who accepted her as an equal, there were just as many more who didn’t think a woman had any business in law enforcement.
She’d spent almost a decade validating that she was able, strong and brave.
Until Ohio had shaken her to the core.
This string of murders had Memphis, and the mayor, in a panic. Victimology was Bryn’s expertise. So here she was, even though SAC Towerman had been reluctant to send her in.
She needed this chance to confirm that she was still capable. Still brave. Still strong. Bryn yearned to bring justice for the victims whose lives had been tragically taken, and she needed to be in the field to accomplish that.
The question was, could she rise above the jitters and insecurity and give the grieving families her very best? She owed it to them. And she needed to prove herself to SAC Towerman. Then she could stay in the field, not chained to the desk where he’d planted her the minute she stepped foot in the Memphis field office.
She locked her car, squared her shoulders and strode across the parking lot toward the crime scene. Pausing as she neared the tape blocking civilians and the news crew, she swallowed a hard lump in her throat and stifled the eerie sensation of being watched.
This wasn’t Cleveland.
Showing her creds to the uniformed officer, she slipped under the crime scene tape, ignoring the caterwauls of the news crew begging for information. FBI on the scene had their mouths salivating and their heads spinning.
Did they even know this latest victim was the morning talk show host for Wake-Up Memphis? She strode toward the tree line. The crime unit was in place. A man dressed in jeans and a fitted black leather jacket accenting his broad shoulders—his hair as dark as the jacket—stood near a woman examining the body. She hadn’t admired a man in a long time. Shouldn’t be admiring one now, but he was hard not to notice.
A stocky older man with gray hair stepped from the shadows. Pug nose and potbelly. He held up his badge. Deputy chief of investigative services. “Agent Eastman?”
“That’s me.” She smiled and corralled her flimsy windbreaker. “We appreciate you calling us in. Whatever we can do to help, we will.”
He extended his hand, and she shook it. “We’re glad to have you. Your reputation precedes you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to be so young.”
She was only twenty-eight, but some days Bryn felt ancient. “I’m up to the task.” She had to be. Lives depended on her. No room for failure.
“I believe you, and we’re ready to work in tandem. Let us know what you need.” No indication he was blowing smoke. But it wasn’t the chief she had to work with directly. It was the lead detective who she now suspected might be the man in the leather jacket—the man whose hair and physique caught her eye and quickened her pulse.
The deputy chief motioned for her to follow him. Yep. Guy in the leather.
“Special Agent Eastman, meet Detective Eric Hale. He’s the lead on the case.”
A needle ripped across one of the many records in her memory. She’d packed that name away. Okay, maybe not packed it away, but she’d definitely not played it on the turntable of her mind in a while. Not since they’d been a serious couple nearly a decade ago. The song was too haunting.
He turned around and she could finally see his face. Time had been good to him. His boyish appearance was masked by a couple of days’ worth of dark scruff gracing his chin and cheeks. It suited him. Appealed more than she’d ever admit. Bryn’s heart skittered.
Guess he hadn’t played her record in a while, either. His eyes were wide and swirling with questions. Bryn had prayed they wouldn’t ever meet again; the pain would be unbearable. Even now she felt the punch, knocking the breath from her. Those prayers, like so many before, had fallen on deaf ears. She’d given up on prayer. Given up on faith. On God. He’d taken too much from her.
She thrust her clammy hand out, hoping for an air of confidence and that Eric wouldn’t refuse it and humiliate her in front of her peers. It wasn’t his style, but he’d have every right to.
Her older brother had murdered his sister, Abby, seven years ago.
Eric glanced at her hand and slowly clasped it. Firm but not crushing. Still warm and encompassing. Her throat dried out. She’d missed his touch.
“Fancy meeting you here.” His eyebrows quirked. Humorous as always, but underneath the light tone he’d tried to pull off, Bryn registered confusion. A truckload of shock. When she’d left Memphis—and him—she’d been on the women’s swim team at Rhodes College thanks to a scholarship. No intentions of ever becoming a cop—like Eric.
But then Abby died, and the world changed. Bryn changed.
She cleared her parched throat and assessed the scene, struggling to find her voice. “Not sure fancy is the right word. But here I am.”
“How?” He scratched the back of his head. “I thought... Weren’t you... Didn’t you... I mean, when?” His brow wrinkled.
“We’ll get to all that,” she whispered, wishing things didn’t have to be so complicated and confusing. “For now, you mind filling me in?” Bryn studied the woman lying atop gnarly tree roots that rose from the sparse grass, fully clothed with hair still damp and clumped to her cheeks. She never got used to this. Hoped she would never become hardened like some agents.
Eric pointed to the victim. “Bridgette Danforth, cohost of the Wake-Up Memphis morning talk show. She appears to have been drowned like the other three women before her. All high profile. The medical examiner will know more when we release the body. A jogger found her. He’s over there if you want to question him. I already have but...”
But was she going to take over his case? Trust him or not? That was the rest of his sentence. “Not right now, no.” She did want to poke around on her own. Besides, she needed the air. Time to process that Eric Hale was about to be her new partner in a sense. Time to escape the enticing masculine smell of soap, cologne and leather that messed with her head.
“But you will want to.” His clipped statement said it all. He had no forgiveness, and the fact she was here to try to solve a case he couldn’t only furthered his irritation. Super.
“I will. And I’ll need everything you’ve got on the previous victims. You can send it over to the FO. I’ll review them in the morning.” She’d rath
er work at the field office. Her turf. New, but still.
His nostrils flared, and he clenched his jaw before he saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
She ignored his sour jab, switched on her flashlight and stalked across the park. The wind bucked up, whistling through the trees. Crescent moon. Eerily quiet. Her feet sank in the soft ground. The smell of winter coming sooner rather than later enveloped her. She shone the light, hunting for anything that might have been left behind. A fairly clean park. Not much litter. A few cigarette butts. She edged toward a hedge of bushes that opened into a dense wooded area. Secluded. Interesting that he placed the victim in a more open area and not here, hidden from the parking lot and nighttime joggers. He wanted her found, and he was willing to risk being seen. Brazen...or stupid. No. Not stupid or he’d have been caught by now.
Something nestled near the tree line. A scarf? Might be the victim’s or the killer’s. She bent over and caught a whiff of cheap, heavy cologne and cigarette smoke.
Hair spiked on her neck.
From behind, an arm coiled around her neck in a python-like grip. He yanked her against him, pulling her farther into the remote wooded area.
She grabbed for her sidearm, but he was quicker and snatched it from the holster.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he growled as his wiry beard scraped against her ear.
Would he shoot her? Shudders rolled down her back as the scene from Ohio chiseled back into her bones. No. He couldn’t be crazy enough to squeeze off a round. Every officer on the scene would come running. They may not be able to see out here, but they’d hear gunfire.
He tossed her Glock several feet away.
“Who do you think you are? Miss High and Mighty-FBI.” His breath smelled of smoke, beer and mints that hadn’t done their job. “You got no business here.”
Cold Case Witness Page 18
