Raven's Cove. Jenna Ryan
are your drugs, Rogan. For Daniel it’s the thrill of the hunt.”
“Like your mother.”
“Yes, except she’s chasing mythical creatures, not crime lords, terrorists and power-hungry third-world generals. I met Daniel while I was in college. The whole Bohemian-rebel-fight-for-a-cause idea intrigued me. It was challenging, and at the same time it seemed worthwhile. Then reality hit, and I realized there were less radical ways to make a statement than by jumping off metaphorical cliffs into the middle of international drug rings.”
“Jumping can work,” Rogan said.
The fact that she knew he was trying not to grin drew a warning sound from her throat. “You believe that because you’re all about shadows and intrigue.”
“You make me sound like a WWII spy.”
“There’s cause for comparison. Daniel has the pseudo-hippie vibe. You’ve got the mystery. Well, and the law.”
A blast of wind pummeled the truck as Rogan traded the interstate for a bumpy off-ramp. “Big gun doesn’t hurt, either.”
“No, it doesn’t, but I don’t think that’s my point.”
Despite the thickening shadows, she felt his eyes on her face. “What is your point? That under the surface I’m a lot like Daniel?”
“God.” She laughed. “You are so not. In fact, you’re as unlike as two people can be, jumping-in tendency aside. You see and act. Daniel hears and reacts. You think. He emotes. You consider. He fixates. Still not my point, though.”
“And that is…?”
“More people are going to die. More than the ones who are already dead. I don’t blame Daniel for that, I’m just tired of being dragged back into a life I tried to say goodbye to three years ago. It stands to reason that I’ll know someone who gets killed before this ends. It could be Daniel, it could be a person I meet in Raven’s Cove, it could be Boris.” She ground her teeth. “It could be you.”
Using the mirror, Rogan eyed the German shepherd, curled up and sleeping behind them. “I trained Boris at the safe house. It’s his job to protect you, and you can believe me when I tell you he knows how to take down an armed adversary.”
“Yes, I’m sure you showed him the moves personally, and you could probably dodge a hundred bullets between you. But there’s always that random shot, the one fired by the guy you didn’t see. Maybe that shot kills you. Maybe it doesn’t, and you can get to a hospital in time. But it could also hit and not kill you right away, yet you know death’s imminent because there’s no one around to help you.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “You’re thinking about Dukes, aren’t you?”
“Partly,” she admitted. “Dukes was that teddy-bear uncle you automatically love. Captain Ballard said they never found his body.” Her heart gave a painful twist. “There were only two days left before Daniel’s court appearance. Forty-eight hours. Then the wind changed, a storm blew in, and Wainwright’s men came out of the night like cockroaches.”
“There were only twenty. And we expected them.”
“It didn’t matter, though, did it? Two police officers still died. And we’ll never know what happened to Dukes. Well, yes, we will, because—what was it you said to me when he didn’t come back? A missing cop is a dead cop. Which means Wainwright’s people took him, and whether he lived long enough to be tortured, or died before they could question him, he’s gone.” She pushed on her throbbing right temple. “This isn’t helping, is it?”
“You have feelings, Jasmine. And yours are more compassionate than some. Dukes’s mother thought Daniel should have been sent up alongside Wainwright for blundering into the investigation.”
“Making her not the warm-and-fuzzy aunt people automatically love.” Thunder rumbled, but it was a distant sound. “I didn’t anticipate a return visit to hell, Rogan. I pictured all of us moving forward with our lives.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he remarked.
“It will unless I take it in a more philosophical direction. I’ll work on it,” she promised when his lips twitched. “But don’t expect a miracle in two hours. My museum friends tend to be more pragmatic than the ones I had in San Diego. It rubs off.”
“I met some of your San Diego friends. You’re on a safer path in Salem.”
Probably true, she thought. Then she set her head on the leather rest and told herself not to question what his definition of safe might be.
The highway resembled a long, wet snake, complete with serpentine twists, shadowy dips and slippery rises. Rogan’s musical taste ranged from Clapton and Thorogood to remastered Louis Armstrong. As eclectic and unpredictable a mix as the man himself. Layer in the cloak of mystery he wore so well, and how could she have avoided tumbling into love? The question was, could she tumble back out? Because Rogan was absolutely not the kind of man who stuck around.
An hour ticked by. In that time, they traded the local highway for a two-lane back road and eventually a pitted sliver of asphalt barely wide enough to support a single vehicle.
“I’m told it improves,” Rogan said, reading her mind.
She pushed at her damp hair and peered into the murky nothing that stretched endlessly out in front of them. “So if the potholes shrink from the size of lakes to the size of ponds, we’ll know we’re on the right track. Uh…” She pointed, winced, then breathed out when he avoided a huge expanse of rippling water. She swiveled her head. “Did I see a sign floating in that puddle?”
“It said Welcome to Raven’s Cove. Population 976. Tortured souls and ravens not included.”
She shot him a dry look. “You’re a great help. Look, I know all men believe they have tracking systems built into their DNA, but do you actually know where we are?”
“Still in the continental United States isn’t good enough for you, huh?”
“Still on the continent will do for now.” She watched a large stand of pines bend almost in half. “Is this what they call a nor’easter? Because if it isn’t, I do not want to experience one.”
“Forget the weather. We need to find a cottage called the Bird’s Nest, and like Raven’s Cove, it’s not on the GPS.”
“Good luck to us then, because either there are no lights in this town or the power’s out from here to, well, wherever here leads.”
They were bouncing through a series of bone-jarring ruts when the headlights revealed a fork in the road. And a fence, Jasmine realized. A sagging, possibly white fence missing several pickets.
“There’s a sign on the gate.” She tipped her head and tried to read the wildly blowing plaque suspended from the gatepost by a chain. “It says something Nest. And there’s a huddled black building to my right.”
Rogan halted the truck, but snagged her wrist before she could move. “Daniel’s name is Leonard Grant. He goes by Lenny or Len. He teaches English at the local middle school. His hobbies are bird-watching and cooking. He does Sunday dinners for seniors. His ex-wife, Sally, lived in Tulsa until her death four years ago. Brain aneurysm. No kids, no pets. I’m a football buddy from Michigan State. You’re my wife of seven years.”
Torn between laughing and making him go through it all again just for the hell of it, Jasmine opted for boggier ground and offered a guileless smile. “Interesting.” Leaning in, she stroked a fingernail from his cheek to his mouth. “Tell me, are we happily married?”
His slow grin caused her pulse to jump. “Do you want us to be?”
“It would be a new experience.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’re playing with fire, love. I hope you know that.”