by Alexa Verde
Unanimously, they positioned themselves on the two sides of the white door, in case bullets greeted them instead of words.
Apparently, they were right to do so.
The door opened, and Gwendolyn flinched at the gun barrel pointing from its crack.
Mr. Cohen looked worse than in his photos. His wrinkled shirt and pants hung off his gaunt frame as if several sizes too big for him while his tousled hair probably hadn’t seen a comb in a while.
Even worse, his pale eyes were wild. “How dare you to show up here?”
Vera didn’t flinch. “I’m Vera Clark, and I’m a former police officer. I currently hold a PI license, and Gwendolyn here is my client.” Vera lifted her hands in a placating gesture, then showed him her ID. “People know where we are, and the police will be patrolling this street. I strongly suggest you put the weapon away and join us for a talk. No one needs to get hurt.”
Vera must have nerves of steel, because Gwendolyn was trembling at the desolate look in Mr. Cohen’s eyes. A desperate man couldn’t be trusted. She and Vera might have great reactions, but no one could outrun a bullet.
Conner stepped forward as if trying to shield her again. Maybe it was a mistake to allow him to come with her. She didn’t want him to get a bullet.
“Please,” Gwendolyn added, ready to drop on the ground and roll if the man didn’t listen to reason.
“Who are you?” The guy gestured to Conner.
“I’m Gwendolyn’s boyfriend,” he said calmly.
Whaaaat? Boyfriend? Her jaw slackened, but she put it back in place.
“I was going to ask you today,” he mouthed to her.
A shadow passed over the man’s face, but the gun lowered. “Why should I talk to you?”
Time to choose her words carefully. “My father held you in high regard. Talk to me at least to honor his memory.” Gwendolyn met his gaze head-on. “Besides, I believe we both need some answers.”
“I’m sure you’re armed. But then, I don’t have anything to lose.” Mr. Cohen waved them inside. “Place your weapons on the coffee table and take off your coats and boots.”
The growl of a motor announced a car’s arrival. True to Vera’s words, a police cruiser parked on the opposite side of the street, making Gwendolyn grateful for Vera’s connections.
Vera placed her hand on her hip, close to her holster, as she stepped inside first. “Or we can wait for the police to question you. We already have proof the threats were sent to Miss Gwendolyn from your laptop.”
He chuckled as he closed the door. “You wouldn’t go to the police with that. It’s not in your best interests.”
Gwendolyn eyed him, her brows puckering. “Why would you say that?”
His shoulders slumped. “Because you wouldn’t want anyone to know you killed your father.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Gwendolyn blinked and then blinked again. “What?”
No doubt, she’d misheard.
The man shuffled to the window, his worn slippers whispering against the hardwood floor. He peeped through the blinds, probably checking whether the police cruiser was still there. “Well, either we can start shooting each other and give the police something extra to do, or we can start talking.”
Vera narrowed her eyes. To her credit, the guy’s shocking statement didn’t faze her. “Your gun goes onto the coffee table, too. The same time as ours.”
She and Gwendolyn exchanged looks, and Gwendolyn gave her a barely perceptible nod. Mr. Cohen appeared gaunt and weak while she and Vera were trained in hand-to-hand combat. They all placed weapons on the table, and Conner helped her and Vera take off their coats. They did draw the line at the boots, though.
Mr. Cohen gestured to the cheerful floral-patterned sofa mocking the grim mood. It wasn’t a social visit, but Gwendolyn might as well sit because her legs didn’t seem to want to hold her up. Conner claimed the spot near her, a protective arm on her shoulder giving her much-needed strength.
The sculptor lowered himself into an armchair matching the sofa. “I only wanted justice for a man who became a friend to me.” His voice was as hollow as the gun barrel he’d been pointing before. “I tried to call to your conscience, Gwendolyn. It doesn’t look like you have one.”
As a shiver racked her body, she tried to speak. But no word left her dry mouth.
Conner tightened his arm on her shoulders, bringing her closer, and whispered in her ear. “I believe you. We’ll figure this out.”
His trust warmed her.
“What made you suspect Miss Gwendolyn?” Vera’s voice was even as she spoke. “Some recent discovery?”
“I... I finally had the courage to go through my daughter’s things in the attic. I discovered her journal. That night...” He stopped and rubbed a shaky hand over his face.
“Take your time.” Surprising softness accompanied Vera’s words.
“That night, Brea escaped from the house after I went to sleep. The woman who was supposed to be watching her fell asleep, too. It was all my fault. I should’ve hired a substitute bodyguard when your father wanted a few days off. I should have...” He closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead, his shoulders slumping forward.
Despite Mr. Cohen’s hostility, Gwendolyn ached. She could relate to grief and self-blame more than she’d ever wanted to. “No need to blame yourself. You did what you could.”
“Brea went to buy drugs. She parked away from the place and went on foot to the abandoned warehouse. Yes, this was crazy on her part.”
But addicts cared about their fix more than they cared about their lives. It sounded logical so far—unlike his shocking accusation. Her thoughts in havoc, Gwendolyn leaned forward and nodded to encourage him.
“Her dealer was running late, so she had to wait. She saw your father’s car pull up to the parking lot. She thought he’d tracked her down and hid inside the building. Then another car arrived.” Mr. Cohen’s gaze lifted, his glare slamming into Gwendolyn. “She saw you stand close to your father. My daughter was relieved he wasn’t there because of her, though she didn’t understand why he’d meet you there. Then a shot fired, and he crumpled to the ground. You rushed into the car and took off.”
Any compassion seeped out of her.
His words—his daughter’s words, if Gwendolyn were to believe him—didn’t make sense.
At all.
“This can’t be true.” Conner brought Gwendolyn closer still.
Moving his glare to Conner, Mr. Cohen set his jaw. “It is.”
Vera lifted her hand in a peaceful gesture. “It was dark. How could your daughter recognize Gwendolyn, especially from a distance?”
Wow. Good thing Vera had an analytical mind—good thing she’d visited the scene recently, too. Gwendolyn recalled the files she’d read and calculated the distance from where her father was found to the abandoned building. It was significant.
That glare wavered, and the furrows on his forehead deepened. Was that doubt in his eyes? If so, it disappeared as his chin jutted out. “The headlights were on.”
“Even if the lights were on, distinguishing facial features enough to say for sure...would be difficult,” Conner said.
“Stop trying to defend your girlfriend!” The sculptor started rising from his seat, one finger shaking at Conner. “Gwendolyn visited our house several times. She wore the same color pants, jacket, and boots that day.” His accusing finger jerked to Gwendolyn. “My daughter had a good visual memory. The person who shot your father had the same height, the same build, the same clothes and footwear, even the same hair and face as you. How do you explain that?”
She couldn’t.
At least, not yet.
Vera crossed her arms over her chest. “What if he was only wounded? Brea didn’t check on him?”
“She was too scared.” Mr. Cohen slouched forward, shaking his head at the ground. “You’re trying to take me away from the point, but you won’t be able to.”
“Why didn’t your daughter go to
the police?” Vera mimicked the man’s slumped shoulders and vocal tone.
“According to what Brea wrote, she didn’t think anyone would believe a drug addict. Besides, she didn’t trust the police. But from the journal, that decision plagued her for years. She realized she’d made a grave mistake by not speaking up.”
Vera had once told her investigations would be so much easier if people didn’t lie or withhold information. How right her friend was!
“We’ll need a copy of the journal.” Gwendolyn drew her eyebrows together. “We’ll also need other samples of your daughter’s writing.”
He shrugged. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide.” He didn’t add “unlike you,” but he didn’t need to.
Gwendolyn’s gut twisted. All this time she’d been looking in the wrong places.
“Why didn’t you take the journal to the police when you discovered it?” Vera asked.
Gwendolyn wanted to know that, too. Could the journal be fake?
“I didn’t think it was enough proof.” His gaze moved to Gwendolyn. “I wanted you to confess.”
“I had nothing to do with my father’s murder,” Gwendolyn said the words quietly but clearly. “You withheld useful information and went on a rampage of vengeful self-righteousness.”
His face crumpled. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I miss my daughter so much. Despite my art’s success, life without her is meaningless.”
“I’m very sorry,” Gwendolyn whispered. “I really am.”
His gaze sharpened. “I’m asking again. How do you explain my daughter’s words?”
Gwendolyn gathered a few ideas, but it was too early to share them with the guy. Especially since—with all her heart—she hoped she was wrong.
“We’ll find the explanation.” Conner’s voice was firm.
Vera rose to her feet. “I suggest you give your evidence to the police.”
Closing his eyes, Mr. Cohen hesitated, then opened them and looked Gwendolyn in the eye. “I will, but I’ll honor your father’s memory and give you a chance. I give you twenty-four hours to turn yourself in. Don’t try to do what you did with your father. If I’m found dead, the evidence goes straight to the police.”
Gwendolyn staggered to her feet, thankful Conner’s hand held her up. She was right. He would help her when she fell down or fell apart.
Repeating her innocence was no use. She exchanged glances with Vera and Conner, determination set deep in her friend’s and—wow!—boyfriend’s eyes.
They understood each other without words. They had twenty-four hours to find the killer and get the proof. Otherwise, Gwendolyn might be arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.
* * *
Rest was overrated, especially when one’s life could come to a screeching halt.
Reeling from the accusation, Gwendolyn followed them into the mansion. Even the children’s loud greetings, meeting them in the hall, did little to cheer her up. Conner helped her shrug out of her coat while Vera’s husband did the same for her.
Feeling weak with fatigue, Gwendolyn forced a smile. She hugged each of the children, careful since this time Danica and Daisy held up the large cat.
Conner hugged and kissed his daughter, then talked to her about something that barely registered in Gwendolyn’s mind.
Gwendolyn petted Marshmallow, the cat’s smooth fur calming something inside her.
The animal meowed unhappily as if sensing her mood. Liberty took one look at Gwendolyn and herded the children to the kitchen. “How about everybody wash their hands, get some cocoa, and then help bake cookies?”
The children gave an enthusiastic yelp, but the cat meowed again as if not excited by the prospect of cookies.
Conner placed another kiss on his daughter’s head. “Sweetie Pie, are you okay to stay with Miss Liberty, Danica, and the others while I talk to Miss Gwendolyn some more?”
“Yes, Daddy. I like it here.”
Conner’s face twisted up, half-wounded and half-grateful.
When Vera led them to the same office they’d used earlier, he pulled out a chair for Gwendolyn. “Are you okay?”
“What do you think?” Her voice sounded sharper than she’d intended, and she cringed but had no strength to say anything else.
“Yes. Sorry.” He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. “God will make this right. The Clarks started a prayer chain for you.”
“Yup. He asked us.” Vera nodded as she stepped close to the board.
So he’d gone to the family and asked them to pray for her, though his half brothers were still somewhat hostile.
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn whispered before sinking onto the chair while her legs felt like cooked noodles. Then she rocked back and forth while studying the photocopy of Brea’s journal he’d given them.
“I’ll have Heather run this through some computer program to verify the writing is authentic.” Vera’s voice was soft as if she didn’t want to inflict any more hurt.
“Thanks.” Gwendolyn found the passage Mr. Cohen had told them about. “He said the truth.”
It was all in the journal, and Gwendolyn blinked fast before the pages could blur.
“There should be some explanation to this. There should be.” Conner moved behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders.
She touched his left hand with her right one, needing the bond with him more than ever.
Then she peered at the journal as if she expected the words to disappear, but they were still there. Was this what a horse felt when she was led in a direction she didn’t want to go but wasn’t given a choice?
“Are you up for a discussion?” Vera’s eyes were concerned, too.
Gwendolyn gathered her strength, reaching to Conner to borrow his.
But first, she needed to reach to the Lord. Even with Conner’s help, she couldn’t get through this without Him.
Lord, please help us.
“Let’s sum up what we know.” Vera started writing on the board fast as if their time was almost up, which it was. “Brea’s father vouched she was with him at the time of the murder. He lied to protect her. So no alibi for either one of them. I guess Cohen paid the female employee to confirm his daughter’s alibi. Opportunity: Brea was at the crime scene at the time of the murder. Motive: Brea wanted to be rid of the person standing between her and drugs.”
Gwendolyn did her best to think straight. “Let’s say my dad returned to his job because I canceled our dinner, saw Brea escaping, and followed her.”
“Right.” More confidence filled Conner’s voice. “At the scene, he asked Brea to go back. Instead, she pulled his gun and shot him. Then she came up with the idea to pin it on you. And that’s one of the angles the defense might use if... well, you know.”
Gwendolyn flinched. “Yes, I know. Then why didn’t she go to the police with her fake statement?”
“Her father answered that. She realized her credibility might be questioned.”
Made sense. “Fair enough. Now let’s imagine she wrote the truth. Which means someone of my height and build impersonated me.”
They went through the suspects again before Conner patted her shoulder and pushed from his seat. “You need something to eat—we all do. I’ll be back.”
While he stepped out to make sandwiches, Gwendolyn scooted closer to her friend and took a deep breath. Time to face it. “I have an idea.”
They discussed that version until he returned carrying a tray of turkey and cheese sandwiches from the kitchen.
Gwendolyn didn’t feel hungry but ate at Conner’s insistence, though she couldn’t taste anything.
After sipping her tea, Vera pinned a new photo to the board. “That’s Brandy.”
Gwendolyn perked up a little. “You found her? That’s awesome.”
“She has the same height and build as you. With a wig and the right clothes and boots, she might pass as you at night, though it would be a stretch.”
“How much did you gauge from your talk with her?�
� Conner asked.
Vera grimaced as she wolfed down her sandwich and wiped mustard from her lips. “Not much, sorry. Brandy admitted blaming your father for her dad’s death. But she was at her friend’s wedding at the time. I’ve sent a request to check her background and her alibi.”
“What about Uncle John’s and the sculptor’s backgrounds?” Gwendolyn waved toward their pictures.
“Pretty clean. And so were their hands when the police checked them for gunpowder residue. Though, admittedly, some time passed, giving them opportunity to wash them.”
Gwendolyn’s phone pinged with an incoming text, and she reached for it.
“It’s my sister.” She opened the text. “Vanessa just arrived in Cowboy Crossing. She wants to see me first thing in the morning.”
Vera shot her a concerned look. “We have very little time left. Not enough, frankly.”
“Yes.” Gwendolyn’s heart squeezed. “And I have little in the sense of family. I have to go and see her tomorrow.”
“Then get some sleep.” Conner hugged her, helping the broken spot inside her.
Lord, please help us.
“Will you stay up?” Gwendolyn studied her friend, torn between gratitude and guilt.
Vera nodded. “I need to try to put this puzzle together. I’d like to keep you alive and around. I’m selfish that way.”
“If I can help in any way, please count on me.” Conner’s gaze was sober as he walked Gwendolyn from the room.
She knew he meant it, too. This was a guy who’d do everything for her.
At her bedroom door, she wrapped her arms around his neck, staring into his eyes. Would she dare to tell him about her feelings?
She started, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, you and Daisy. I want to tell you—”
Her phone beeped with an incoming message. Tensing, she wanted to ignore it.
“Check it. It might be important.” He snugged his arms around her waist, his voice understanding.
She reached into her pocket, then stared at the screen as blood seemed to drain away from her head.
