Brett traced the picture with his finger. “With drawing abilities like that, no wonder she’s famous. That’s amazing.”
“Crazy thing is, she’s not famous for drawing. Evidently, that’s not really her talent. She paints. Something about ‘complex color combinations.’” The chief snorted. “Whatever. I fully admit I know nothing about art.”
“Trust me. I know even less.” The only artwork Brett had ever owned, outside what had been left to him from his parents, was two small paintings someone had given him right before he left Portland after graduating high school. He didn’t know who’d left them on his doorstep, just knew that something about them had always made him feel better even after losing his family.
Adam stood. “I’d appreciate it, as both the chief and your Uncle Adam, if you’d make time to talk to Paige Jeffries. See if there’s possibly anything that was missed in her case. Talk her down from whatever ledge she gets herself on with the governor’s wife and then makes everyone’s life here more difficult.”
In other words go talk to someone whose drama level was off the charts. An artist, no less. Second only to cheerleaders for their high-maintenance temperaments.
“And see if I can use our old high school memories to help.”
Adam smiled. “From what I understand, the QB always gets his girl.”
“That was a long time ago, Adam.”
“You do this and I’ll get Ameling off your case.”
Brett shook his head. “I do this and you just leave Ameling and me to work out our own issues.”
“Deal.” They shook on it. “I’ll expect your report by EOB tomorrow.”
Brett nodded as the chief walked away and picked up the file again. He didn’t know what the hell was going on with Paige Jeffries’ claim that she had drawn herself before the picture had even been taken. Obviously there had been some miscommunication. Or whoever interviewed her had talked to her while she was still in some sort of traumatized state.
Or… she was really looking for any attention she could get. Brett grimaced.
Damn it was good to be home.
Chapter Three
Brett had wanted to research Paige Jeffries before the interview, had wanted to know everything there was about her. He had even planned to call Randal and Terri to see if they remembered any details about her from high school.
Captain Ameling had other ideas, bringing Brett on four current homicide cases. Brett was glad the man wasn’t going to keep Brett in cold cases the rest of his career, but getting up to speed had taken all day yesterday and today.
When Brett told Ameling that he had to step out from the station to interview Paige Jeffries, it had actually been their first time seeing eye to eye.
“You don’t have time to be looking into an A&B cold case just because the vic happens to be a famous artist demanding attention.”
Brett nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. This is a one-time favor, then I’m out.”
Ameling didn’t have to ask who the favor was for, just pursed his lips and nodded.
So Brett was on his way to Paige Jeffries’ house with only the file he’d looked over with Adam yesterday and was attempting to glance at again when he got to red lights. The further he had to drive out of the city to get to her house, the more pissed off he became. Her house was beyond the city limits of Portland, past even the suburbs, up on an overlook.
Obviously privacy was important to Jeffries given the length of the private road leading to her house. Finally he pulled up to a guard house that controlled a massive gate leading into the main drive. A security guard checked his identification and badge, then allowed him through.
While the house was nice, it wasn’t ostentatious. There was a warmth to it. And the view of the Willamette River and overlook of the city was worth the miles of windy driveway. Given the location, size, and view of her home —not to mention full-time security— Brett had to assume that a career as a world-renowned painter provided a pretty hefty paycheck. Definitely no starving artist here.
Brett parked his car to the side of the house and knocked on the front door. He waited so long for a response he would’ve assumed no one was home if a guard hadn’t just let him through the gate. Brett raised his hand to bang on the door again when it opened.
Paige Jeffries. Brett recognized her immediately from high school. If he’d been able to research her case even the slightest bit —one regular photograph where her face hadn’t been covered in vicious bruises— he would’ve recognized her.
He hadn’t known anything about her then. He’d been a senior to her freshman. But they’d had one class together… an art class, ironically. He’d needed it for some sort of elective credit and it had been in the middle of football season so the coach had worked something out with the teacher. Brett had been absent more than he’d been present.
But every time he’d been there, Paige had been too. With those eyes as crystal blue then as they were now. Like the sea off the coast of an uninhabited island or something. That clear of a blue.
He might not have remembered anything about her, but he remembered those eyes. Gorgeous.
And they were becoming more wary by the second. She backed up from Brett’s intense gaze, looking at him like she couldn’t quite place him.
Guess not everyone recognized the great high school QB. Randal would laugh his ass off.
Brett took a step back also, not wanting to cause her any alarm, but couldn’t force himself to look away. It wasn’t that she was so striking a beauty. Or even that she was his usual type. Confident, casual, busty and/or leggy blonds were Brett’s normal poison.
The woman in front of him was none of those things. She was tiny, no more than 5’3 to Brett’s 6’1. Soft, golden brown hair that flowed past her shoulders and down her back. But damn if he could look away from her, and vaguely recognizing her from high school had nothing to do with it.
“Paige Jeffries?”
She nodded. “You’re Brett Wagner. I didn’t really pay attention to the name when I got the message that someone was coming to question me again. I didn’t realize you worked for the police department.”
So she did recognize him.
Paige opened the door far enough to allow him to enter. “Please come in, Officer Wagner.”
“Detective.” He decided to try charm. “But please call me Brett. We went to high school together, right?”
She nodded, wariness not leaving her eyes, as Paige stepped back and allowed him to enter. Brett walked through, giving her a wide berth. She didn’t look like she wanted him coming anywhere close to her. “Yes. But I doubt you remember me.”
He smiled. “Actually, I do.” He hadn’t remembered the name, but definitely remembered those eyes. “Art class.”
“You weren’t there often enough for you to call it a class.” Paige closed the door behind him, and on the reminiscing. “The chief of police must have a meeting with the governor soon.”
“Actually, he does. What makes you say that?”
The corner of her lips turned up in the barest hint of a smile. “I’m the governor’s wife’s pet project.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t say that. Melissa is my friend. She feels bad about what happened to me and wants the person who did it to be caught. So every time the chief and governor are meeting, someone like you shows up to see if there’s anything new to be found with my case.”
Paige turned and gestured down the hallway. “Kitchen, okay?”
“Sure.”
Brett followed Paige through the hall, noticing the huge windows that seemed to dominate every wall on the first floor. It was almost as if the house completely opened up to the forest behind it. Natural light flooded the entire house. Brett stopped, transfixed by the beauty.
“Wow. That’s pretty amazing. The windows and light.”
Paige stopped and turned back. “We don’t have an overabundance of sunny days here in the Pacific Northwest, so I like to allow as much natural light in as I can.”
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“Because you’re an artist?”
Paige looked at Brett for a moment before answering in her soft voice. “I guess so. But mostly because I’m just a person who likes light. Those windows were the main reason I bought the house.”
Brett followed her into the kitchen. “I don’t blame you. How long have you lived here?”
“Since my art career took off nearly five years ago.”
Brett tried to remember where she lived in high school but couldn’t. He really hadn’t known much about the quiet, shy girl she’d been.
Paige walked to a bar stool at the massive granite island situated in the middle of her kitchen and gestured to the other one for him. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Sure, just some water if that’s okay.”
Paige looked almost surprised at his acceptance of her offer. Brett had found over the years that taking whatever food or beverage a witness offered helped them to open up. Made him seem like more of a guest, less like someone to be nervous around.
Paige walked to the refrigerator and removed a couple bottles of water. “You’re not like the other officers that have been here.” She handed him one of the bottles.
“How so?”
“They were always trying to get in and out as quickly as possible. Ask their questions so they could check them off their list and be able to report back there was nothing new with my case. They never took water. Never mentioned the lighting.”
Brett frowned. “Do you think the other officers were ignoring facts pertinent to your case?”
“No. I just think they didn’t want to be here. It was always like they had drawn the short straw or something.” Paige shrugged. “Did they send you because we knew each other in high school?”
She was definitely smart. Or wary enough of the department to know their tricks. Brett side-stepped. “I don’t think the couple of sentences we spoke in art class would constitute knowing each other.” And honestly, after his family died, he’d never thought of Paige Jeffries or her blue eyes again until today.
Blue eyes that held shadows. She looked like someone chased by demons. Bone-weary exhaustion from trying to outrun or fight them. Maybe he and the chief had been wrong. She certainly didn’t seem like she was some sort of attention seeker.
“I’m sorry if you feel like anyone at the Portland PD was not putting their best effort into the case.” And that was the honest truth. No matter what anyone felt about Paige, whether she was putting undue demands on the department or not, she was still the victim. Everyone should be trying to do whatever was in their power to catch her attacker.
Brett didn’t even let himself focus on the fury building inside him at the thought of what had happened to Paige. At what she had suffered. That jaw poking out at him had been broken, her face hit so hard one of her eye sockets had collapsed. Her nose shattered.
So if she wanted to stand outside the department with a bullhorn and picket signs demanding they do more to catch her attacker, Brett wasn’t sure he’d blame her.
“It’s not that I don’t feel like they’ve tried their best,” Paige said softly. “I think I made them uncomfortable. Like they didn’t know exactly what to do with me. Go ahead and ask your questions,” Paige said, sitting on a barstool across from him. “Or… actually I can probably answer your questions without you even asking them.”
“You think?”
She took a sip of her water, then continued, holding up her fingers as she ticked off the questions. “No, I have never remembered anything about my assailant. Even though I must have seen him at some point, I can’t remember anything about his features at all. How am I doing so far?”
Despite her slightly defiant tone, Brett could tell these were still hard statements for her to make. “Yes, definitely questions that were on my list.”
Paige stared down at her water bottle, all of the fight seeming to suddenly leave her. Her voice was much softer as she shrugged. “I’ve never remembered anything more that would help. It would almost make you think some part of me doesn’t want to catch him.”
Brett could read her frustration with herself. His hand itched to reach out and touch hers, to comfort her in any way he could. He ruthlessly tamped the feeling down. This was not the time or the situation. Plus, the questions were only going to get harder.
But the desire to touch her, to comfort her, was almost overwhelming. She looked so little and lost sitting on that barstool, clutching her water bottle.
“It’s okay not to remember,” Brett offered, feeling it was the least he could do. “It’s your mind protecting itself. No one would ever blame you for that.”
Paige nodded shortly, but Brett could tell she wasn’t convinced. It didn’t seem to matter if others blamed her. Paige blamed herself.
“And you want to know about my picture,” she continued, her voice even more quiet, if possible. “The one I drew.”
“Yes,” Brett responded gently. “It’s in your file, directly behind the photograph taken of you at the hospital.”
“That picture is the reason why nobody wants to come up and talk to me, you know.” Paige stood and walked over to the counter by the sink, as if she needed to put distance between them. She turned and leaned against it. “It’s never the same person twice. How did you get so lucky to be the one chosen if it wasn’t because we went to high school together?”
“I volunteered.” Brett shrugged, not elaborating.
One dainty eyebrow raised. “You volunteered to take my case?”
“Yeah. Plus Chief Pickett is my friend.”
“Ah, so he had to play the friend card to get someone up here.”
Brett shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. I’m pretty good at cold cases so the chief wanted my opinion. I didn’t mind coming here, even when I didn’t think we knew each other at all in high school. Maybe I can find something other people might have missed. Fresh eyes.”
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “But that’s right now. In a few minutes you’ll get to your questions about the drawing of myself. Then your fresh eyes theory won’t be so viable.”
Brett could feel his eyebrow raise at her quiet skepticism. “Is that so?”
If possible, Paige’s smile was even more sad. “You’ll be the latest one who has to tell the poor woman who was attacked and almost beaten to death that she’s a liar or just plain crazy. So, congratulations: short straw.”
Chapter Four
Mic drop. Paige out.
Neither of them actually left, but he probably wished he could. Probably wished they’d never had that art class together in high school.
She remembered him from school, of course. She doubted there was anyone who wouldn’t remember the charming, handsome quarterback with a quick smile for almost everyone. He was older now, his brown eyes more jaded, his smile not as quick. But he was still ridiculously handsome, tall and fit, with a strong jaw and cheekbones, a slight dimple in his chin. Not to mention a lock of black hair that still fell over his forehead like it had in high school.
All the girls had had a crush on Brett Wagner —QB to his friends and teammates— back in the day. Heck, probably a lot of the guys too.
Paige hadn’t.
Or, more accurately, she’d known there was so little a possibility that the senior football star would ever even notice her that she’d never even thought of him in that way. Paige had been closer to Brett’s younger sisters, twins, who had been a year younger than Paige. Lydia and Audrey had been so friendly and outgoing —like miniature, non-athletic versions of their brother— people couldn’t help but be drawn to them, shy Paige included.
She’d even painted them after their deaths. Left the paintings for Brett outside his door. She doubted he still had them now if he remembered them at all.
And she doubted he wanted to be here, despite the fact that his friendly QB smile remained on his face.
Paige had been through interviews with the police enough times to
know that the next question Brett would ask would be about her drawing. She would insist she drew it weeks before her attack, which she had, and things would rapidly go downhill from there.
Liar or crazy. Those two options were always what it came down to for the investigating officers. Paige was either lying to get attention or suffering from a form of traumatic delusion, thinking she’d drawn the picture weeks before the attack, could be possible.
Paige wished she had never shown the drawing to the police in the first place. And she darn well wished she’d never actually drawn it. Actually, them.
All of them. All the dozens and dozens of pictures she’d drawn over the last two years.
Paige sighed to herself. She was tired. Last night had been yet another night of haphazard sleep. Every night was. Even the nights where she didn’t awake huddled on the floor so exhausted she could barely move, like she’d been beaten.
Today she hadn’t woken up with sunken eyes and blood dripping out of her nose, fingers cramping and head pounding from drawing something she couldn’t remember.
But that didn’t mean she’d gotten a good night’s sleep. Just because the crazy hadn’t happened didn’t mean the normal nightmares had taken a break. She had plenty to fear in the dark.
So Paige didn’t really want to do this. Didn’t want to be called a liar or crazy —however dressed up the terms were— by Brett Wagner, charming hometown hero.
Who was still so attractive it sent little flutters through her stomach.
The thought caught Paige off guard. She hadn’t thought of anyone as handsome in a long time. Two years to be exact.
“Crazy or liar, huh?”
Brett’s question brought Paige’s attention back to their conversation. “That’s usually how it goes once the questions start about the drawing.”
“Because of when you claim to have drawn that picture that is remarkably similar to the one taken of you in the hospital?” Paige could tell he was trying to keep his voice neutral and eliminate any trace of incredulity. She appreciated the effort.
Critical Instinct Page 2
