Jolie closed the file and sat back. There was no possible way Grace, at the age of twelve, would have run away. Why had Dad decided that was the outcome? Where did the proof to verify this ruling come from? None of that information was in the file. The only thing Jolie noticed as being off, besides the ruling, was the mention of a woman at The Golden Slipper. What did that dive have to do with Grace?
Grabbing a notepad, she started jotting reminders to herself. Top of the list: a talk with her dad. Like it or not, he had some questions to answer. With that done, she began to add what she knew about Sarah.
Child of divorce, parents separated because of her dad’s drug use; there was a protection order against him to prevent contact with Sarah. She wasn’t into sports but loved being creative, whether it be drawing or painting or making things out of clay. Sarah had joined a local folk art group, the same group Farran O’Hanlon was a part of. Jolie scribbled talk with Farran on her list of things to do. The shop where the art classes were held was the last place Sarah was seen. Because money was tight, Wendi Kruger had only one vehicle, which was with her at work that day, so Sarah spent a lot of her time asking for rides from fellow artists to get to and from the shop. Another group to look into, as Jolie was certain the sheriff and Con had covered them already, so there should be reports. Like Grace, Sarah had called her mom to alert her she was leaving the shop and heading home, but when Wendi arrived at the house, her daughter wasn’t there. And, like Grace’s, Sarah’s phone had been turned off. A dead-end as far as being able to track her.
Jolie paused in her writing and brought her trembling under control. Someone had known all of this and used it to their advantage. Had that someone been Clint? If so, why hadn’t Sarah been there when Jolie found Xavier and a dead Clint?
Sighing, she set the pen down and rubbed her eyes. Damn it, Jennings was right. The key to figuring this part out was with Xavier. And as of right now, that information was locked up tight inside his brain. Yet, it still didn’t explain the person Jolie caught watching them in the park who took off when she went to question them.
Placing the notepad and pen on the desk, she stood, tugging the chain to turn off the lamp. Doused in darkness, she lingered in her spot, hand resting on the notepad, her mind whirling with unanswered questions. Was this how a true investigator thought? Her fingers curled like she was grasping an imaginary baton. She had not once considered a role as a detective when she’d decided to be a cop. It had always been what Daddy wanted, to set her up to be the next sheriff. Was it possible this was not her path?
Jolie rapped her knuckles against the pad. Only one way to find out. Follow the leads on these two missing girls and see where it took her. In the end, Jolie would either exonerate Xavier or convict him.
• • •
The darkness had a way of bringing out the worst of his demons, making sleep nearly impossible.
It was nearing four in the morning, and here Xavier sat on the screened-in back porch, staring at the trees lining the rental property, yet not seeing them. Sweat beaded on every area of his exposed skin. He was standing in The Sandbox on his last mission with his squad, whole once again and antsy. He could sense it. Something was wrong.
A hot wind whistled through the deserted buildings, kicking up small dust devils that buffeted his uniformed and armored body. Xavier shifted the weight of his M4 into one hand and tapped the side of his helmet to alert his crew. All halted in their tracks. Like a curtain coming down on their jovial moods, the group of men went into alert mode. Even the MWD knew something was up; her head was lowered, teeth bared, and her shoulders hunched.
Xavier cued his mic. “Anderson, we’re in a hot zone. Keep the package back.”
“Roger that.”
He gave his point men the signal to fan out then signed the command for the dog handler to put her on task. Xavier didn’t want to send the dog in, not with the bounty on her and her handler’s heads, but she was the best at what she did. If there were combatants hiding in any of these buildings, she’d flush them out. Releasing her from her leash, she went to work, nose partially off the ground and skittering from one side of the street to the next.
Gripping the translator’s shoulder, Xavier noted the slight tremble in the man’s body as he forcibly turned the man to face him. The translator couldn’t hide the terror in his eyes. And it was then Xavier knew they were all dead.
“You fucking bastard.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the MWD gave a snarling bark as she crashed through a half-broken door three buildings down. Gunfire rattled from every building on the street, and the world around Xavier erupted into chaos. Men barked commands and directions. A sharp yelp from the MWD sent her handler barreling in after her. Xavier shoved the tip of his gun into the translator’s stomach and forced him into a nearby doorway.
Screw the little fuck! If he got shot, too bad. That’s what he deserved for turning on the people helping him.
The traitor began screaming in Dari and Pashto, his hands flailing in the air. Didn’t help him. His body flinched as bullets riddled his back. Xavier used the man’s falling body to return fire and dive for an overturned table.
Outside the chaos continued, the noise rising to near a deafening level. Punching the mic button, he demanded support, returned fire, and ducked down when bullets plowed through the heavy wood. He felt the thuds against his body armor.
Shit! He had to get out of here. Yanking a grenade out of his utility pouch, he pulled the pin with his teeth. Hopping onto his feet, he made a mad dash for the door, throwing the grenade.
The heavy metal cylinder clunked to the floor, there was a flurry of screaming fighters, and Xavier dove outside as the small bomb detonated. The concussive wave slammed into him, sent him rolling and crashing into a concrete wall. His helmet slammed hard, and he saw stars.
Briefly shielded from the onslaught, he lay on the ground, trying desperately to pull his scattered mind together. Muscle memory clicked in, and he found himself rising. Stumbling, he adjusted his hold on his weapon, which, amazingly, he had not lost in the blast. The ringing in his ears intensified, throwing off his equilibrium. Shaking his head, slapping his helmet, Xavier worked to clear his senses.
The sound of his boots crunching made him look down. Instead of gravel underfoot, he was standing on a bed of leaves and twigs. What the hell?
Gunfire rattled around him. His weapon was up at the ready, and he was mowing down enemy combatants. Moving, moving, never stopping. Shoot, kill, shoot again, kill. Stop the attack, reach his guys. Get the hell out of here in one piece.
Xavier came up on the corner of a building, smoke billowing from the blown-out windows. He inched forward; ready to check around the corner for threats, when he heard the click. It was loud, echoing in his head. He fell back, and the IED went off.
“Xavier?”
The ground was damp, cool against his back.
“Xavier? Oh my God, Xavier?”
His eyes fluttered open. A medic hovered over him. “Stay with me, bro.”
A hand on his arm. “Xavier?”
Movements born of fear and awareness kicked in. He grabbed the hand and jerked the body forward, throwing it over his. Flipping up and over, he pinned his attacker to the ground.
“Xavier, stop!”
He snapped to, staring down into the face of his brother. A mixture of anger and fear swirled in Zac’s eyes. Xavier realized then that his arm was raised. He lowered it, seeing the clenched fist. Scrambling off of his brother, he fell to the earth and sat there, breathing heavily.
Ariel rushed to Zac’s side, but he thrust off her offered help. Easing onto his knees, Zac glared at Xavier.
“I can’t believe it. You had another flashback. You told us they were taken care of.”
Xavier cupped his head in both hands and ravaged his hair with his fingers. “They were.”
“No, they weren’t. You just thought they were.” Zac struggled onto his feet, wincing.
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Xavier’s chest constricted, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d hurt his brother. “Zac, I’m s—”
“Save it for someone who gives a damn.” With that, Zac gimped back to the house.
Dawn was arriving; how long had he been out of it? And how did he get so far—from the porch to where he was now? He’d gone nearly one hundred yards. He closed his eyes and hung his head. If he’d encountered someone other than Zac or Ariel, what would he have done?
“X, maybe you were getting better. But whatever you’re messed up in now is going to bring it all back. You need to get help for that.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Ariel.”
“Actually, it is. You continue down this path, you’re headed for a very ugly, deadly encounter.”
He lifted his gaze to peer at her. He was the reason she’d chosen the career path of a mental health counselor; his problems were what drove her to help those who couldn’t afford doctors or refused to see them because of their fear of being prescribed drugs that wouldn’t help. But the one person Ariel wanted to aid was the one person by law she couldn’t do a damn thing for: him.
“I won’t let it go that far.”
She leaned down, took his chin in her hands, and stared him in the eyes. “That’s what they all say until the pain, the flashbacks, the voices get to be too much. You’re not a superhero; you can’t fight this battle alone.”
Freeing himself from her grip, he rocked up onto his feet and stood, looking down at his sister. “There are some things that even family can’t understand.”
“Then find someone who can.” With a crisp about-face, her dark hair flying, she marched back to the house.
Xavier sighed, releasing the last of the tension from the flashback. Ariel was right. He had to find someone who knew, who understood. And the only person in this tight-knit community who fit that bill was a caustic, powerhouse woman with two kids. The woman married to the very man trying to prove or disprove Xavier’s involvement in a homicide. That would not go over well with anyone.
Taking a step forward, his right leg hit the ground awkwardly, and he stumbled. Regaining his balance, he peered down at the offending appendage. The glint of metal sent his mind reeling. The crash of memory choked him. He’d stepped on an IED in that firefight.
This was the part after a flashback he hated the most—reliving the pain of losing his limb and realizing he wasn’t a whole man. And he’d never be, in body or mind.
He was a splintered piece of shit not worthy of anyone’s care or love. And that’s how he would remain.
Chapter Twelve
Jolie parked next to Farran’s SUV in the back lot of The Killdeer Pub. She knew the woman always went in early to prepare for the day’s business. This would be the perfect time to talk with her about Sarah.
Usually, Jolie would spot Xavier’s truck. But today his spot was empty. Would he come into work today? She suspected the sheriff would put her back on duty watching Xavier—which was why she wanted to get these conversations out of the way—but she’d really like to take her rotation at the fair. Some time away from the Aussie might help her sort out these wildly inappropriate feelings she was having for him.
A perplexed Farran answered her rap on the back door.
“Jolie, what’s up?”
“Can I talk with you?”
Farran gave a nonchalant shrug and beckoned for her to enter, then led her to a small pedestal table with tall stools. On a counter attached to the wall behind the table was a small, single-cup coffeemaker with a basket of different types of coffee to choose from, an electric kettle with every Irishman’s favorite brand of tea—Barry’s—and a mug tree.
“Want a cuppa?” Farran asked.
“Sure.”
Farran went about getting the water heated for the tea. “What did you want to talk about with me?”
“It’s about Sarah Kruger.”
“That poor girl. Has anyone made progress on finding out what happened to her?”
“We’re still searching. Farran, can you tell me what your thoughts are about Sarah, since you’ve worked with her at the folk art shop?”
The kettle whistled—it was one fast bugger—and Farran busied herself with turning it off and pouring the water over the tea bags in their respective mugs. As the tea steeped, Farran placed her hands on the table, folding them as she looked at Jolie.
“Sarah was a wonderful girl and brilliant with paint and clay. I’ve featured some of her clay art in my booth at the fair this year. We’ve never had a problem with her in the class.”
“I was told she would get rides from fellow attendees at times.”
“Yes, it’s usually Rena Chapman. When Wendi’s at work and can’t drive Sarah, Rena will pick up Sarah and take her home. The two formed a bond. But on occasion, Sarah would get rides from some of the others if she needed it.”
“Did anyone seem to bother Sarah when she was in the class?”
Farran poured a generous amount of heavy cream in her mug. “Not that I’m aware of. Most of the artists are longtime members.” She blew on her tea.
“Would it be all right if I got a roster of sorts from you, a list of who attends?” Jolie mimicked Farran to cool her drink and then sipped.
“That’ll be fine.” Farran frowned. “Hmm, that’s odd.”
“What?”
“I just remembered. Rena wasn’t there the day Sarah went missing. In fact, she’d been sick.”
“Do you know who took Sarah home?”
“Actually, I don’t have a clue. She was on the phone with her mam the last time I remember seeing her and stepped outside. When I finally left the shop, she was gone. If you have time, you could ask a few of the other artists if they saw anything as they left.”
“Do you recall who was there?”
Farran gave Jolie a pained smile as she reached for a pad and pen. “Yes, I do.”
• • •
Jolie struck out big with the short list of people Farran gave her. No one remembered seeing Sarah leave. A few mentioned that they saw her standing outside the art shop talking on her phone as they were driving out of the lot, but not a single person could tell Jolie if they saw anyone out of place loitering around the building.
With a fresh twenty-ounce cup of coffee to fuel her, Jolie made her next stop: the home of Wendi Kruger.
The woman who answered the door wasn’t Wendi. Standing before Jolie was a chubby blonde with piercings in her nose, all up the lobes of her ears, and tattoos on both ankles. And if Jolie didn’t miss her guess, she spotted another tattoo peeking out from under the thick strap of the tank top the woman wore.
“Can I help you?”
“Is Wendi home?”
The younger woman glanced around the edge of the door then leaned out toward Jolie. “She’s here, but she’s not doing so good. It’s why I’m here.” She held out her hand. “I’m Rena Chapman.”
“Oh.” Not how Jolie pictured Sarah’s friend who gave her rides. “I’d like to talk with Wendi, if she’s up to it.”
“Why don’t you come in, and I’ll see what I can do?”
Jolie stepped inside the cool, dark interior of the living room. In her despair, Wendi had closed all the curtains in the house and left the lights off. What light Jolie could see was coming from a room at the back of the house. Before Rena closed the door completely, Jolie scanned the room quickly; she was standing next to a large couch that faced a small flat-screen TV secured to the opposite wall. A home video of Sarah was playing on the screen, with no sound.
Rena shuffled around to the front of the couch and crouched down in front of it, hiding her body from Jolie’s view. “Wendi, honey, there’s a deputy here who wants to talk with you.”
“Unless they’re here to tell me where Sarah is, I don’t want to talk to them.”
Jolie’s heart ached at the ragged, croaking voice on the other side of the sofa.
“You can’t be giving up.”
“W
hy not? Everyone else has. Sarah’s gone, and they haven’t even bothered to look for her.”
“That’s not true,” Jolie said. Holy fudge! Had she just used an authoritative tone? Wow.
Rena backpedaled as Wendi popped upright. Twisting at the waist, she turned to glare at Jolie. About half of Wendi’s muddy-brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing an overly large T-shirt that hung off one exposed shoulder. Jolie wasn’t sure because of the blanket wrapped around Wendi’s legs, but if she had to hazard a guess, the woman was probably wearing sweatpants or yoga pants. This was the picture of a depressed woman.
“If it’s not true, then why the hell are you standing here and not out there searching for my daughter?” Wendi’s voice cracked, causing her to start coughing.
Jolie glanced at Rena, who shook her head and sank into a rocking chair. Xavier’s pep talk from yesterday would come in handy now: Be decisive. Even at this point, that man invaded her thoughts. Then again, it might be a good thing.
Rounding the couch with all the purpose in the world, Jolie positioned herself next to Wendi and sat. Reaching behind her, Jolie flicked on the tableside lamp. “That’s better. Now”—she clasped her hands in her lap—“let’s talk.”
“Are you insane?”
Jolie shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe. But, Wendi, holed up in here in the dark, refusing to face the world, isn’t how you help your daughter. If Sarah were my child, I’d be out there beating on doors, harassing the police, making calls, searching for her day and night. Never giving up, and never letting anything stop me. What you’re doing here is going to kill you.”
Sins of the Father Page 10
