Seek And Find. Dana Mentink
believed Sterling was a rapist. Fed by malicious newspaper reports, many would never believe he was innocent, even after it had finally been proven that Paige’s accusation was a lie.
The reporter’s actions were bad enough, but what about his? He’d invited Paige into the family, spent every moment with her and loved her with all his soul, or so he’d believed, enough that he’d actually doubted his brother. James Harrison and his flawless taste in women. He kissed his mother and gripped his father’s forearm. “I’m going to protect this family,” he said, throat thick with emotion.
His mother kissed him again. “We know that, J.J.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You didn’t intend for anything bad to happen when you started dating Paige. When you realized the truth, you tried to make it right. God’s clear on that, and so are we.”
His head knew it, but his heart kept tossing up his shame like tumbleweeds tossed up by the desert wind. Sorry, God. Sorry.
Hawk was reluctant to leave the simmering pot of meat, but James insisted. Madison would not waste a moment returning to the story she was sniffing out, and he wouldn’t put it past her to sneak away when his back was turned. That’s right, he decided. He’d treat her like he would a suspect. He would stay wary and play things close to the vest.
He believed God forgave him for his blind devotion to the girl who ruined his family, but he’d never forgive himself if he trusted the wrong woman again.
Just do your job, James.
He’d dig to the bottom of what had happened to Madison Coles and get her safely out of his town and his life.
Case closed.
* * *
Madison was just finishing up a list of questions for the local shop owners when she saw James returning along the narrow path with Hawk. She’d meant to call herself a cab or catch a ride into town with one of the locals, because she sure wasn’t going to ask James for a lift. He might be her reluctant bodyguard, but she didn’t have to let him be her personal chauffeur. A girl had to draw the line somewhere. All well and good, but she was mad at herself for pulling her hair into a smooth ponytail and swiping on a coat of pink lip gloss earlier. Her vanity annoyed her. Why should she care what James thought of her?
Wiping off the lip gloss, she grabbed her bag, shoving in her iPad and camera, and headed out, marching purposefully in the direction of town.
James and Hawk caught up quickly. “Going somewhere?”
“Into town, to do my job.”
“Let me drive you.”
“Why?”
“So I can do mine,” he said, mouth pinched tight. It was obvious he was stewing about something, so she decided not to push the point. She didn’t see what right he had to be upset. She was the one who’d almost been murdered. Twice. The muscles on his upper arms were well defined as he opened the front door of his police car for her and the back for Hawk, but she tried hard not to notice.
Whatever comfort she’d felt from him at the hospital was obviously a distant memory. Fine. She’d ensure her story was written quickly and get out of Desert Valley and away from James Harrison just as soon as she possibly could. They climbed into the Crown Victoria. “So your story is about how crimes have affected local business, right?”
“Yes, that’s why I was in the bridal salon.”
He didn’t respond.
“You don’t believe me?”
“The questions you were asking when I changed your flat weren’t about business.”
She blushed. “I really wanted to write a bigger story. I tried to get my editor to let me look into the deaths on the night of the police fund-raiser dance, but he wouldn’t go for it.”
She saw his jaw tighten. “Good for him.”
“There’s a story there. I’ve done some research. Mike Riverton and Brian Miller were killed on the night of the fund-raiser. And five years earlier so was Melanie Hayes, a cop’s wife. That’s a set of whopping coincidences.”
“You don’t have to tell me the details. The coroner ruled Miller and Riverton as accidental deaths.”
“I know. I read the reports. But there’s something odd about it—about this whole town, really.”
“Enough,” James snapped. “I’m a cop. It’s our job to solve crimes, not yours.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re not doing a very speedy work on that, are you?” She regretted her jibe.
His sinewy arms tightened as he gripped the steering wheel. “Just write your business story and leave the crime solving to the police. That’s what we get paid to do.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her hands balled into fists on her lap. “Reporters get paid to find the truth, also, for your information.”
“No.” Anger flashed across his face. “They get paid to write stories that are biased and twisted to sell papers.”
“Sometimes,” she said, voice wobbling unexpectedly, “they save people, too.”
James shot her a startled look. “What are you talking about?”
She felt suddenly mortified that her emotions had bubbled to the surface. The head injury had scrambled up her feelings and weakened her self-control. She was not about to tell him her sad life story. “Never mind.”
He paused. “Your sister said your father was in jail.”
Madison’s heart thumped. “She told you that?”
“Yes. What happened?”
Madison felt the same sick sensation that always seized her when she thought about her father. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but she knew he could look up the whole sorry mess, and the shadow of softness in his voice somehow changed things. “My father killed my mother.”
“I’m sorry.” Another pause. “Did a reporter figure in his conviction?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Mercifully, he did not push, but she knew his mind must be whirling as he mulled it over. How could she put into words what her father’s crime had cost her? Her mother, her identity, her trust.
She was relieved when they pulled up on Main Street. She got out of the car without a backward glance and hastened to the door of the bridal salon, ignoring the ripple of fear she experienced at being back there. No one is going to hurt you, Mads. James and Hawk trailed into the shop behind her.
Frances looked up from her file over the top of her reading glasses. She stiffened. “Ms. Coles. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you.”
“If there’s anything I can do, any way I can make it up to you?”
“As a matter of fact, you can tell me about the salon. I’m writing a story for the Gazette about how the recent murders have affected business. That’s why I was trying to talk to you in the first place.”
Frances folded her hands on the counter, looking relieved. Had she expected another line of questioning?
“Business is slow. We struggle. Visitors are not as keen to come here with all the crime, and we weren’t a tourist destination in the first place. My sales are down since last year. The florist shop closed, which hurt my business, too. Bridal and floral go together.” She sighed, gesturing to the ivory walls. “The place needs painting, the carpets are worn and the light fixture in the sitting room doesn’t work, which discourages customers, but there’s no money to upgrade. Vicious circle.”
Madison couldn’t help herself. “Then why would that stranger, the one who hit me, come here? Surely not for robbery? You don’t have money to spare, as you’ve just said. Was