The Marshal. Adrienne Giordano
mouthy blonde?”
“Seriously,” Brent said, “you did not just say that.”
Oh, he sure had and Jenna couldn’t help smiling at the spot-on description of her boss. “That’s her. She’s one of my bosses.”
Brent glanced at her. “Sorry. They were asking me about Penny and I was trying to describe her. I didn’t mean it the way it sounds.” He went back to his uncle. “Jenna is helping on Mom’s case. The sheriff came by with files.”
“Good to hear. I’m glad you’ll get some help on this.” Brent’s uncle addressed Jenna. “We need to get her justice. She was a good girl.”
His uncle gripped Brent’s arm, clearly a gesture of affection and support, and something kicked against Jenna’s ribs. Brent’s father may have abandoned his family, but his uncle sure hadn’t. These poor people. All these years they’d been struggling with loss and heartbreak and injustice. “Brent, do you mind if I talk with your uncle a bit?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
But Brent didn’t move.
“Alone?”
For a moment, he continued to stand there and then he blinked. There we go. Slowly, it all registered. “Gotcha. I’ll walk outside with the sheriff. Get those files for you.”
“And, hey,” his uncle said, “head over and see your aunt. She misses you. Jamie is there. Catch her before she goes home.”
Jamie. Brent’s cousin. He’d mentioned her on the ride over.
On his way out, Brent waved in that yeah-yeah-yeah way people used when being nagged. The front door closed and Jenna moved next to Herb. He focused on her face, which she’d give him bonus points for. “Thanks again for helping,” Brent’s uncle said.
“No need to thank me. Brent is a good guy. I had no idea about his mom. It’s...well...tragic.”
“It is. But Brent, he turned out to be a damned fine man. Taking care of his sister the way he did. A lot of boys would run from that. Not him. He latches on.”
He sure did. “So it seems. May I ask you some questions regarding the night his mom died?”
“Whatever you need. But the sheriff has it all in his notes.”
Of course he did, but hearing it and reading it were necessities. “Yes, but since we’re here, I was hoping you could walk me through what went on when you got here.”
He took in the room, studying the now-uncovered furniture. His gaze landed on the floor in front of the sofa. Slowly, he ran his hand over his face, a gesture so similar to the one she’d seen Brent use it sent a chill up her arms. Like father like son, only this wasn’t the father and Brent wasn’t the son.
Finally, he looked back at Jenna. “She was a mess. Poor thing. I found her right here. Right where I’m standing.”
The exact spot Brent had indicated. “When did you first see Brent?”
“He came to the house, ran inside—we never locked the doors back then—screaming and crying. Scared the hell out of me.” He shook his head. “Long as I live, I’ll never get the sound of that boy’s screams out of my system.”
It was hard to picture. Strong, solid Brent at five, terrified and begging for help. She hated the thought. Hated the idea that he’d dealt with that trauma. “What time was this?”
“Just after midnight. Maybe 12:10.”
After checking her notes and confirming the time with what Brent told her, she pointed at the front door. “You came in this way?”
“Yes, ma’am. Usually we come in the back. Cheryl always kept that door unlocked. That night, Brent must have run out the front door because it was open when I got here.”
“Brent was with you?”
That might have been a trick question—no might about it—because she knew where Brent had been. He’d told her. Still, it never hurt to let the witness give his own assessment.
“No. He was back at the house. Poor kid was howling something about his mom and blood. My wife called 9-1-1 and I came back to check on Cheryl and get the baby—Brent’s sister. We always call her the baby.”
Staying focused on the scene, Jenna moved to the entryway. “So you’re on the porch and the door is open.”
“Yeah.” He walked over and opened the door, letting a burst of cool air in as he pushed it back against the wall. “It was like this when I came in.”
Jenna faced the living room, accessing the layout—sofa blocking her view of where the body would have been, the end table and side chair that could have hindered the murderer—all of it part of an investigation that had gone nowhere in twenty-three years.
Herb walked back to the sofa and pointed. “She was right there. Kind of curled up, but not really. Her hair was all bloody.”
Head wounds bled more than others due to all the blood vessels. Jenna had learned that from her dad.
She drew a map of the room, marking an X where the body had been found. “Were these chairs here back then?”
“Yes. They may have moved them when they were living here, but Brent put everything back when he started working on the case.”
“Then what happened?”
Herb scratched his cheek and then gestured to the floor. “I leaned over her, checked her pulse. I couldn’t find one, but I’m no doctor. By then, Barnes—he was a deputy then—had pulled in. I ran back to get Camille before she woke up.”
More notes. He’d left the body so he could get Camille. Parental instinct would be to protect the child. Made sense. “The sheriff arrived and you went back to your house with Camille? Did she see the body?”
“No. I covered her eyes when I carried her out. I took her next door and came back. My wife was trying to get hold of Mason.”
“Brent’s father?”
“Yes, ma’am. She wanted to warn him, but we didn’t have cell phones back then, and he’d already left work. I waited for him to pull up while the paramedics were in here with Cheryl.” He flipped his palms up, and then let them drop. “Helluva night, that one.”
The heaviness in his voice, weight saddling his vocal chords, drew her gaze. For her, this was a job. For them, she couldn’t imagine. “Do you need a break?”
“Maybe I do.” He started for the door, but then stopped and gestured to the floor. “All these years I’ve been thinking about what my nephew saw. I don’t know how a boy recovers from that.”
Jenna’s guess was the boy in question hadn’t recovered. All he’d done was bury the pain deep enough that it would allow him to go forward, to keep searching, to get justice.
Only problem was, all the anger he’d stuffed inside him would eventually go boom. And that would cause an emotional landslide.
Obviously wanting to be done, Herb turned toward the still open door. “Do you need anything else?”
“Not right now. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s all right. I want to help. If we solve this, it’ll give Brent and Camille peace. Maybe then he’ll sell this damned house.”
“It must be hard living right next door.”
He shrugged. “If someone lived here, gave the house some life, it wouldn’t be so bad. Now it’s just an empty place where my sister-in-law died. It’s a damned morgue.”
* * *
OUTSIDE, THE GARAGE spotlight illuminated the driveway, and Brent spotted his aunt Sylvie marching across the patch of grass separating