The Marshal

“I heard the back door shut. I figured it was my dad coming home. He worked second shift at a manufacturing plant. Farming equipment. But the house got quiet. Usually, when my dad came home, he walked straight back to their bedroom and the floorboards squeaked. That night? No squeak. I stayed in bed for a few minutes thinking about it, and then got up to look.”

“Were you scared?”

“No. I don’t know why. I should have been.”

Jenna took notes, letting him focus on the road and on the facts of his mother’s murder. Facts she was stunned he remembered with such clarity and, again, recited rather...dispassionately. He hooked a left onto another rural road and pressed the gas. What speed limit sign? “You left your room?”

“I walked down the hall to the living room and found her on the floor.” He tapped the top of his forehead. “Bleeding. Then I got scared. My mom’s sister and her husband live next door and I ran there. My uncle went back to check on her. He called 9-1-1 from the kitchen phone, grabbed my sister and brought her to be with me. My aunt and uncle put us in their bed and told us to go back to sleep. By then, I was too scared to do anything so I stayed there.” He glanced at Jenna and then back at the road. “I can’t figure out if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

“Probably both.”

“Finally,” Brent said. “She’s unfiltered. That’s what we need. For twenty-three years the same man has had this case. He’s done a decent job, but he only sees what he sees.”

Just ahead, a crossing came into view. To the right, a few houses with lit windows dotted the two-lane road. Brent cruised past them and continued on for a quarter mile to a second set of twin, single-story homes with cute porches she’d bet were great for sitting on during summer. One house was dark, the other with only a porch light. He pulled into the driveway of the darkened one, parked and cut the engine.

“This is it,” he said. “If my aunt and uncle are home, they’ll be over in three minutes. Guaranteed.”

Jenna sat forward, scrunched her nose at the darkness. “I’m assuming the electricity is on.”

“It’s on. We’ve got ten minutes before the sheriff arrives. You want to go in?”

She nodded.

He slid from the SUV and came around to open her door. A gentleman. Love it. The front porch light flashed on and she flinched.

“Sorry,” Brent said. “Motion sensor. Should have warned you.”

“No problem.”

Side by side, they walked to the porch. Brent swung his keys on his index finger once, twice, three times, and then snatched them into his hand.

Jenna stopped at the base of the stairs. “What about other suspects?”

“The sheriff thinks it might have been a robbery gone bad. Back then the only one in town who locked their door was my 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.”

Chapter Three (#ulink_e9812ae3-32ac-5a06-9e31-d3b0579dfd88)

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.”