The Marshal. Adrienne Giordano
dad. Every night after he came home he’d lock up. My mom would wait for him. The working theory is an intruder came through the unlocked back door and tried to rob the place.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Maybe. Carlisle isn’t that big. Eight hundred people. Everyone knows everyone. There was a junkie who lived across town. He’s moved away since, but they looked at him hard thinking he needed cash to score drugs. Couldn’t make a case.”
Junkie. Jenna made a note on the pad she’d brought from the car. “Does the sheriff know where he is?”
“I keep tabs on him. I’ll get you his address. Then there’s my dad. He left work that night and said he came straight home. No one knows what time he left the plant, and there was no security video inside the plant back then. He punched out at midnight, but theoretically his buddies could have punched him out. Guys did that all the time.”
“How does that feel?”
“What?”
Please. Did he even realize how repressed his emotions were? At some point, Brent would need to stop burying the agony of his mother’s death and let himself grieve. Obviously, now was not the time because this boy was locked up tight. “Thinking about your dad killing your mother. How does that feel?”
He climbed the stairs, waving her forward. “I have no idea.”
“Pardon?”
Facing her, he let out a long breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I can’t go there. I’ve thought about it over the years, but I don’t want to believe he could do that to her.”
“Did they argue a lot?”
He shrugged. “He yelled. She yelled back. Beyond that, I don’t know. I was too young to draw any conclusions about whether they were happy or not.”
And somehow, with all this trapped inside, he’d managed to stay sane.
“Anyway,” he said. “The sheriff’s name is Barnes. He’s on board with you poking around, but don’t irritate him. He needs to be involved.”
She wrote the sheriff’s name down so she could check him out. Maybe ask her dad’s contacts about him. “Involved to what extent?”
If she had to check in before every move, they’d be sunk. She didn’t and wouldn’t work that way. Part of being good at her job—at least she hoped—meant shifting on the fly. She had no interest in checking in every ten minutes.
“To the extent where you don’t aggravate or blindside him. If you’re coming here, give him a heads-up. If you get a solid lead, give him a heads-up. If you want to question one of his citizens, give him a heads-up. Beyond that, I’ve got your back. You need a battle fought with him, I’m your guy. I know his buttons, and that makes me good at not pushing them.”
And, oh, her heart went pitter-patter. This man, screwed-up emotions and all, might be her dream come true. He knew how to work people without them turning on him. “Brent Thompson, I think we’ll make a great team.” She faced the house, took in the peeling paint on the front door and breathed in. “Take me inside. We’ve got work to do.”
Brent shoved his key in the lock on the front door, stared down at the weathered handle and held his breath. Beside him, Jenna moved, ratcheting up his already spring-loaded tension. Straightening his shoulders, he released the breath he’d been holding.
“Are you okay?” Jenna asked, her voice mixing with the whistling wind.
With all the open space out here, he’d grown immune to the wind noise. Except tonight. Tonight that wind could have been a brass band in his head. Why tonight should be any different from the thousands of other times he’d stepped into this house, he wasn’t clear on, but it definitely had something to do with Jenna-the-investigator, a near stranger wearing that red blouse with the extra unfastened button still taunting him, entering his space. The place where his life had been decimated.
“Brent?”
One, two, three. Go.
He turned the lock and shoved open the door. “I’m good. Just thinking.” Flipping the inside light switch, he stepped over the threshold. “Come in.”
When Jenna stepped in, he closed the door, shut out that damned wind and pointed to the living room floor. “Crime scene.”
Jenna glanced around, taking in the sofa and the end tables all covered with sheets. Her gaze traveled to the front windows and the dusty drapes. Last time he’d been here, he’d forgotten to close them. Not a huge deal since his aunt and uncle watched over the place. Even if someone wanted to break in, what would they get? Thirty-year-old furniture. That’s all. Everything else had been tossed or cleared out, all their childhood memories and valuables split between Brent and Camille.
All that was left here was the place his mother had died.
“Wow,” Jenna finally said.
“Yeah.”
“This is the original furniture?”
“Yes. The floor, too.” He gestured to the hardwood. “It’s never been refinished. In case you were wondering.”
“I was. Thank you.”
“Everything is relatively the same.”
She took a step, and then halted before turning back to him. “May I?”
“Can’t investigate standing here.”
She walked around the furniture, peeled back a corner of a sheet to inspect the sofa then backed up to study the floor. After a minute, she squatted and ran her hand over the area where he’d found his mother beaten and bloody. Suddenly, the way Jenna’s black slacks stretched over her rear seemed a whole lot better to think about.
Yeah, think about the beautiful woman instead. For once, he’d let his baser needs take the lead.
“Your bedroom is down this hallway?”
At that, he blurted a laugh. What timing.
“What’s funny?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Yes, bedroom is down the hall.”
She inched closer to the sofa and his palms tingled, the flicking shooting straight up his arms into his chest.
“Right there,” he said.
Jenna stopped and looked back at him. Her eyes, her body, the way she moved, all of it left him...affected.
“What?” she asked.
“One step to your right. That’s where she was when I came down the hallway.”
Without moving, she stared at the floor, studying the details—the grain of the wood, the seams where blood had seeped, the scuff marks—he’d spent years obsessing over.
Outside, a car door slammed. Sheriff Barnes arriving. Brent turned away from Jenna to open the door. The cruiser was parked behind his SUV. Brent held up a hand. “Hey, Sheriff.”
Barnes, in the drab beige uniform the Carlisle Sheriff’s Department had used since Brent could remember, strode to the porch, hat in place, bat belt—otherwise known as his gun belt—snug on his hips. Over the years, Barnes had filled out, but at nearly fifty-eight, he could still chase down perps.
He shook Brent’s hand. “Brent, good to see you.”
Not really, but what else was the guy supposed to say? “Thanks for coming, Sheriff. Come in.”
Barnes stepped into the house, spotted the gorgeous brunette in the killer blouse and did a double take. Right there with ya. Every damned time Brent looked at her he had that same feeling. A little helpless, a little stunned and