Книга - Final Verdict

Final Verdict
Jessica R. Patch


FATAL JUSTICEWhen Aurora Daniels becomes the target of someone seeking their own twisted justice, Sheriff Beckett Marsh is the only one who can rescue her. As a public defender, Aurora has angered plenty of people in town—and in her past. And while Beckett constantly clashes with the feisty lawyer professionally, it’s his duty to protect and serve. Guarding her 24/7 is now his sole assignment. He may not have been able to save his fiancée from a dangerous felon, but he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Aurora alive. Even if working with her to catch and convict this ruthless killer puts his heart in the crosshairs.







FATAL JUSTICE

When Aurora Daniels becomes the target of someone seeking their own twisted justice, Sheriff Beckett Marsh is the only one who can rescue her. As a public defender, Aurora has angered plenty of people in town—and in her past. And while Beckett constantly clashes with the feisty lawyer professionally, it’s his duty to protect and serve. Guarding her 24/7 is now his sole assignment. He may not have been able to save his fiancée from a dangerous felon, but he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Aurora alive. Even if working with her to catch and convict this ruthless killer puts his heart in the crosshairs.


Fear was never far from her mind.

Even today, when Beckett had taken her out of hiding for horseback riding.

She scoped out the pastureland. “Are you sure we should be out in the open like this?”

“You’ll be fine.”

She took his word. “This is exactly what I needed. Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Had she been wrong about the sheriff?

“Beckett, I have to tell you. You’re good at this protection thing.” No one was braver, stronger, smarter. “People need you.”

He leaned across his horse and searched her eyes. “What people, Aurora? Who needs me?”

As she fell into his gaze, the words echoed in her head. I need you.

Before she could utter them, she heard the unmistakable sound.

Gunfire!

Her horse reared up then shot forward, nearly knocking her from the saddle. Panic went through her as another gunshot echoed through the woods and splintered the tree she darted past.

“Beckett!” She tugged on the reins but her horse ran out of control. Straight to the ravine.


Dear Reader (#u2dc62761-c71f-50a1-b338-5c52868aaee7),

Admittedly, I struggled with Aurora Daniels and her profession (at first). Something similar happened in my life when a drunk teenager hit my brother-in-law and killed him. That pain rippled through my family. Some have healed. Some remain bitter. I had to resolve in my heart that God is in control even in tragedy. In pain. In suffering. In loss. And that He’s forgiving. Not to some. But to all who ask. When unfair things happen in our lives, we have to trust that God will sort out the injustice. If not here, in eternity. I pray that you’ll ask Him to heal you, and believe that He’ll do it. Always. He loves you completely.

I’d love for you to stay in the loop about book releases and inside info only those who subscribe to my newsletter, Patched In, receive. You can join at: www.jessicarpatch.com (http://www.jessicarpatch.com).

Warmly,

Jessica


JESSICA R. PATCH lives in the mid-South, where she pens inspirational contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. When she’s not hunched over her laptop or going on adventurous trips with willing friends in the name of research, you can find her watching way too much Netflix with her family and collecting recipes to amazing dishes she’ll probably never cook. To learn more about Jessica, please visit her at jessicarpatch.com (http://www.jessicarpatch.com).


Final Verdict

Jessica R. Patch






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


My dear children, I am writing this to you so that you will not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate who pleads our case before the Father. He is Jesus Christ, the one who is truly righteous.

—1 John 2:1


To Chelsey Hale-Browning:

You are brave. You are strong. And I love you.

Many thanks go out to the following people:

My agent, Rachel Kent:

Thank you for being my champion.

My editor, Shana Asaro:

Thank you for deepening my stories and pushing me to make them better.

My critique partners, Jill Kemerer and Susan Tuttle:

You girls consistently rescue this crazy writer!

To Assistant District Attorney Luke Williamson of Desoto County, MS:

You are my friend and a great plotter! You should write a book.

To Deputy Chief Clint Taylor of Mt. Vernon, IL:

Thank you for all of your expertise and patiently answering my questions.

Any mistakes in procedure are all mine.

To David Kolb:

Thank you for helping me with all things mechanic, and for being a wonderful brother-in-law.

Anything I stretched is all on me!


Contents

Cover (#u766d3e8d-edde-576a-8e97-da0b9fc11470)

Back Cover Text (#u83002577-ccf8-5915-a2a7-ea2a1e36c2c1)

Introduction (#uf4b8be2f-5803-50c3-ad45-2c045c76784c)

Dear Reader (#uf0cc3300-329f-5768-8f85-4d6fa3de88c7)

About the Author (#u26bd4417-5ef5-598b-9dba-50981ff9a68a)

Title Page (#u100a0204-bec4-55c6-8576-6cfb0eaff898)

Bible_Verse (#u0785fbac-fddd-5787-b762-d1032861e466)

Dedication (#u3d18771e-2248-5636-991a-381e09af90e6)

ONE (#u98b648f8-b77d-58f7-874d-65866ddb2892)

TWO (#uffeff62f-b758-5e1c-a719-e6f0f96491ee)

THREE (#ud7b7cfd3-e310-5216-917f-bef6eeefe665)

FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#u2dc62761-c71f-50a1-b338-5c52868aaee7)

Aurora Daniels inhaled the scent of justice wafting through the courtroom. Winning the motion would come at a grave price, no doubt. Every case she tried did. But her seventeen-year-old client, Austin Bledsoe, could be rehabilitated. It wasn’t in the interest of justice to try the boy as an adult. To toss away the key on a kid who needed a champion, an advocate. A boy who reminded her remarkably of her older brother, Richie.

The courtroom had emptied several minutes ago, and she carefully placed her documents inside her briefcase, taking her time and hoping a mob wouldn’t be waiting for her once she stepped foot into full-on February. Not nearly as frigid as Chicago temperatures, but Hope, Tennessee, could produce incredibly bitter wind and, occasionally, snow.

“Watch your back, Counselor.”

Aurora plopped her phone into her coat pocket and whipped her head in the direction of the low but smooth male voice. Sheriff Beckett Marsh loomed at the doors to the courtroom, onyx eyebrows furrowing over intense eyes that matched his dark mood.

“You threatening me, Sheriff?” Beckett was honest and noble, but he was as fired up over the outcome of today’s motion as the Russell family. Her heart pinched as she thought of them grieving in the right front row. But someone had to do this job. She had to.

“Warning.” He uncrossed his right ankle from his left, pushed off the door frame and stalked her way, heavy work boots clunking on the freshly polished hardwood. He folded his muscular arms across his chest and Aurora worked to keep her wits. Beckett Marsh was ridiculously fit and attractive, but he wasn’t a fan of hers professionally or—apparently—personally. Most law enforcers didn’t care for defense attorneys. Especially those who were good at their profession. “You realize you’ve taken a murderer and allowed him to be slapped on the wrist.”

Aurora raised her chin. “Austin Bledsoe has had no trouble with the law. He makes decent grades. His grandmother passed away two weeks ago. She was his only stability.” Stability was everything she’d always wanted and never had, which was why she’d promised herself that, when she became an adult, she’d do whatever necessary to gain it. Enter accepting the position at Benard, Lowenstein & Meyer. What a nightmare that had turned out to be.

Beckett snorted. “So that makes drinking a bottle of Old Crow and gettin’ drunker than Cooter Brown before plowing into a decent woman—on her way to church, no less—okay?”

“What he did was far from acceptable.” Aurora’s stomach knotted. “He made a fatal mistake in his grief, and he will face consequences—crushing guilt for the rest of his life, for one—but he won’t be thrown away forever. He can be rehabilitated. I know it.” Too bad she couldn’t be rehabbed from her past shortcomings. No matter how many times her mentor promised her that God could free her from the guilt she carried, she couldn’t muster enough faith to believe it.

“Well, Bethany Russell can’t be.”

Aurora dropped her head, torn between championing her client for a second chance and understanding the agonizing pain of the Russell family. She mourned her brother daily. They’d been close. If he could have hung on until she’d graduated law school and got ahold of those case files to exonerate him... But he had slipped away too soon. “I know that, too. Truth is no one won here today. No one.”

“Guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.” Beckett ran his tongue along his full bottom lip. “In the meantime, you’ve got a big portion of the town in an uproar, and when you walk outside the courthouse it won’t be the wind bitin’ at your throat. It’ll be grieving friends and family who expected a better outcome.”

Aurora swallowed down a rush of anxiety. “Well...I appreciate the colorful depiction of my near future.” She tried to slide by Beckett, but he grasped her forearm.

“Counselor, I cared about Bethany Russell and her family. And this town—this county. I’ll do whatever I need to in order to protect the people who live here. My warning isn’t to slice you. You’re a citizen of Hope. I want you safe, so be careful.” The edge in his eyes tempered a fraction and he released his civil grip.

“Thank you.”

He jammed his hands into his coat pockets. “You want me to walk you to your car?”

She viewed the doors leading to the steps that would take her to her vehicle and to the throng of people who hated her for doing her job—for believing that everyone was entitled to a fair trial. They didn’t understand that sometimes she disliked her clients more than anyone. Tossing her glance in Beckett’s direction, she shook her head. “I’m used to unkind words and threats, Sheriff. I’ve handled much worse.” She still felt the stab anyway.

Beckett’s eyebrows lifted. “You talking about losing Severin Renzetti’s case in Chicago and angering a crime family two years ago?”

Aurora wasn’t surprised the sheriff had done a background check on her. He was meticulous. Thorough. A former navy SEAL. The man who had a hand in taking down a major Mexican cartel back in June when his now good buddy, Holt McKnight, had come to town undercover for the DEA.

She wouldn’t even be in his town of Hope if she hadn’t been asked to resign over a stupid, overconfident slipup in the courtroom. She wouldn’t be lying low here in hopes that Franco Renzetti, head of the largest crime family in Chicago, hadn’t changed his mind and decided to seek further retribution for his son, Severin Renzetti’s conviction. She thought of muttering a few prayers for safety, but passed. She didn’t deserve them.

Aurora ignored Beckett’s observation and opened the ornate wooden doors. The wintry gusts charged down her scarf and gray peacoat, forcing a shiver into her bones.

Squaring her shoulders, she met the crowd head-on and proceeded down the concrete steps, keeping her face masked from emotion. In Chicago, dozens of cameras had been thrust in front of her nose, reporters’ voices toppling over each other as they begged for the scoop. Asking how it felt losing a case she had been confident of winning. Asking if the rumors of her and Severin Renzetti being romantically involved were true. They weren’t. But the media skewed every detail.

Severin had been charming, though. He’d been charged and convicted of conspiracy to commit extortion and she had believed in his innocence, that he’d tried to come out from under his family’s reputation to be a decent and honest man. Aurora had sympathized. She’d clawed her way out from under some heavy stereotypes herself. But, in the end, she’d been manipulated and preyed upon for trying to trust that there was good in everyone—or almost everyone—even the son of a mob boss.

“How could you do that, Miss Daniels? That boy killed Bethany Russell!” an older woman hollered.

A menacing voice carried over the woman’s. “Better be careful on those roads, miss. Wouldn’t want you to end up like Mrs. Russell.”

Aurora darted her sight in the direction of the gritty voice. Didn’t recognize it. Couldn’t find the source. But the tone wasn’t laced with grief like the others. No, this sounded ominous. She tugged her wool scarf tighter around her neck and picked up her pace, ignoring the snide comments on the outside. Inside, she had a more difficult time fielding the stings.

Glancing back one last time, she searched for the man who’d threatened her. She used the fob on her key ring, reached out to open the door to her BMW and cringed, then groaned at the long, keyed mark running the length of the driver’s side. Had the man who’d threatened her keyed her car, too, or had that been the handiwork of someone else unhappy with her?

She spotted Beckett Marsh ambling toward her. Following and protecting her even if she had turned him down. “I can watch my back.” She pointed to the deep gash ruining her shiny black paint. “My car not so much.”

Beckett gave a low whistle as he rounded the car and stood beside her, blocking a frigid gust of winter with his body.

She tossed her handbag and briefcase inside as her cell phone rang.

Katelynn, her barista at Sufficient Grounds, was calling. She pulled the cell from her coat and answered. “Hi, Kate. What’s going on?” Had her café been vandalized, too?

“The espresso machine is janky again. I’ve tried everything.”

“You unplugged it, opened the back and jiggled the wires?”

“Jiggled, kicked...”

“Yes, because kicking a four-thousand-dollar machine is smart.” Aurora would have done the same thing had she not known exactly which wires to tamper with. “Just—”

“Jiggle the wires again, I know. I did. You’ve got the touch.” Katelynn’s voice rose an octave. “Please. We’ve got a major crowd and they’re all talking about the motion today. That you won. They aren’t happy, but it appears they aren’t mad enough to boycott the place.”

“It’s the little things.” She’d leased the building and opened the coffeehouse when she’d moved to Hope to try to fit in. Working as the public defender didn’t bring the best of friends. But coffee... Well, everyone liked coffee and camaraderie, and it had helped her acclimate. Until this.

Aurora eyed Beckett, who was in no hurry to leave or even pretend he wasn’t listening to her conversation. “Be there in five.” She hung up, slid into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition on her car, then peered up at Beckett. “I’ve got to—”

“Jiggle wires.” His lips twitched. “I heard. Hey, if you need anything...”

“Can you fix an espresso machine?” She turned on the heat full blast; arctic air shocked her face. She turned it off and huffed. It took entirely too long for vehicles to heat up. She should have moved farther south.

He ignored her rhetorical question, but the right side of his mouth inched north. In Aurora’s book, that was a smile. Biggest one Beckett Marsh had ever laid on her. He adjusted the fleece collar of his sheriff’s coat. “Still stands. It’s my duty, you know. To protect people.”

Yes, he reminded her every time she won a case. She was protecting people, too. People like her brother, Richie. Most of her clients were folks who needed a second chance to get it right. Most. She had to take the bad with good. Came with the territory.

Aurora hurried to the café and entered through the back. After fixing the espresso machine, she grabbed a caffè mocha and drove home for the night. She had work to do. Seven months ago Blair Sullivan, now McKnight, had asked her if she ever defended men like the ones who had come after Blair. The Mexican cartel. Aurora told her she didn’t defend dead men. After those evil people had been taken down by the DEA, there weren’t any left who needed a defense. It was an easy way to skirt around what Blair had really been asking, but the question had dogged her every day since.

When Richie committed suicide in prison, she didn’t try to clear her older brother’s name. He deserved as much, though. So, last month, she’d gone back to Richfield, Mississippi, where she’d been raised, opened up the old files and poked around. Nothing so far, but Richie was innocent and Aurora wasn’t going to stop until she proved it. She owed him that much.

She parked in the drive and sprinted up to the porch of the antebellum home she’d rented from Mitch Rydell. The only things that belonged solely to her were the furniture inside and her car. She wasn’t sure how long she’d get to stay in Hope, not with the possibility of Franco Renzetti coming after her. But it had been quiet this long and she’d put down a few roots.

She paused at the front door. Wind howled through stick-bare trees. Nights came sooner these days, and by four o’clock the sun had abandoned her. Beckett’s warning and the gravelly-voiced threat sent her scanning her large yard and the tree line fifteen feet to the right. She shook off the jitters and went inside. Ah, delicious warmth and the smell of her cinnamon potpourri helped chase away the blues and the creeps. After drinking her coffee, then making a bite of dinner and poring over files and evidence, she stood and stretched.

The sound of a diesel engine roared in the near distance. Odd. Her road only had three other houses and hardly ever received traffic. She clutched her stomach, as if pressing her hand against it would send the fright and paranoia away, and tiptoed into the living room as the noise grew louder, closer.

She fisted her hands as blinding headlights shone on her house.

One more step forward, a high-pitched clang reverberated through her home and something crashed through her living room window.

Aurora shrieked, threw her hands up in defense and squeezed her eyes closed as the object careened into her shoulder and bounced off, landing on the floor and rolling across the hardwood.

The wind whipped relentlessly through the broken window, adding to the chill in her bones. Aurora stood stunned as she massaged the throbbing area.

Shards of glass covered her couch and a few specks skittered across the floor.

The blinding lights disappeared, leaving her yard draped in darkness.

She inched toward the object rolling on her hardwood floor. An empty bottle.

Old Crow whiskey.

Same brand Austin Bledsoe had been drinking when he sped through a stop sign and hit Bethany Russell.

Her hands trembled as she tucked them inside her sweatshirt sleeves, using them as gloves to pick up the bottle, a question rattling her brain and sending a thump of fear into her chest. She’d been threatened earlier. Was this the end or only the beginning?

* * *

“Counselor!” Beckett Marsh poked his nose through Aurora Daniels’s broken windowpane when she wouldn’t answer the front door. It had taken him ten minutes to get here after she’d called. While her words had come out clear, the speed at which she’d spoken told the tale.

She’d been shaken up.

Now she stood in the middle of her living room with one hand cupping her left shoulder. He did a double take. This wasn’t the confident professional in her typical attire of power suits and heels. Bare feet anchored to the hardwood, baggy gray sweatpants and an equally baggy Ole Miss Rebels sweatshirt masking her slender figure. And still something about the look, even with her signature tight knot at the base of her neck, rattled something loose in his chest. He refocused, uncomfortable with the powerful response to seeing her like this. Not like he hadn’t been attracted the first time he’d laid eyes on her a little over a year ago when he came back home. Anyone would be an idiot not to find her attractive. But her line of work put the kibosh on anything beyond admiring a beautiful woman. Ain’t no way he could follow that trail. “You hurt?”

She hurried to the front door, unlocking it and letting him inside. “Just my shoulder. Probably going to bruise, is all.” She gave it a haphazard rub. Nice attempt at the brave front.

That bottle could have hit her head, knocked her out, cut her up or worse. He fisted his hand to keep from touching her. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“I appreciate it. Guess you were correct about the threats.” She tossed out a weak laugh.

This was nothing to make light of, and he hated that he’d been right. He ignored the hint of chocolate and the faint scent of something flowery drifting from her skin or clothing. A bottle on the kitchen table snagged his attention. “Old Crow.”

“Like I said when I called, they threw a whiskey bottle. Drove a big truck, big engine. Could be a Hemi V8. Maybe even a Detroit Diesel 550 horsepower. Heard it when it turned on my street.”

Beckett inclined his head and studied her, unsure of what impressed him more. The fact Aurora Daniels had a handle on big engines or that she’d called him first—or at all. They butted heads often and he wouldn’t deny he was pretty tough on her. But for every five people he tossed behind bars, she’d cut three loose with her slick litigation skills. How was he supposed to keep his county safe when the shrewd counselor put criminals right back out on the street?

He’d seen what monsters free to prey the streets could do. Seen evil get away with murder when one had claimed his fiancée’s life the night before their wedding. Meghan’s lifeless body had been seared into Beckett’s mind forever. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forgive himself for not coming to her rescue in time.

“Sheriff?” Aurora drew him from the nightmare that plagued him. “I asked how many people on your end know that Austin Bledsoe was drinking Old Crow whiskey.”

Good question. Same one that had popped into his mind. That brain of hers was incredible. Sharp. Too bad it wasn’t being used for a better cause. “Officers on the scene the night Bethany Russell was killed. Whoever was working evidence. I can’t think of anyone else. The judge.”

Aurora quirked her lips to the side. “The Russell family and anyone they told.”

Beckett’s gut clenched. He couldn’t rule out Trevor Russell or his teenage boy. But he hated to have to question them. They’d been through enough already with Bethany’s death and funeral only four short months ago. They’d been clinging to the hope of justice today, but it had miscarried. However, he knew firsthand what time soaked in grief could do, and it wasn’t pretty. He’d been on that end of the stick. “I’ll talk to Trevor.”

Aurora sighed and tapped her nail against the tip of her nose. He’d noticed that before. In the courtroom. Her thinking habit. “I guess I need to get some plastic over that. I can call Mitch in the morning. Have the glass replaced.” She bounded for the door leading to the garage. Beckett followed.

“Plastic isn’t safe. Anyone could cut through it.”

Aurora paused. “I think that guy’s threat at the courthouse today was meant to scare me. Mission accomplished. If he’d wanted to hurt me, he’d have already gotten into the house. If this was him.”

Fire pulsed in his chest. “What threat?” Aurora had said she was used to unkind words, and he could easily imagine. She’d worked in a high-profile law firm that repped some shady clients. But a bottle had made direct impact on her body. This wasn’t idle threats and unkind verbiage.

“A guy in the crowd today. I didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t match a face to the words, but he told me to be careful or I could end up in a car accident like Bethany Russell. Just words.” She shrugged, but Beckett wasn’t born yesterday. Aurora was trying to talk herself out of being afraid. Fear wasn’t always a bad thing. Fear had kept him alive and alert on all his tours and missions as a SEAL.

“Well, I’d feel better if we didn’t use plastic. Besides, it’s gonna get down in the twenties tonight. Plastic won’t keep the nip out.”

She pointed to the far side of the sparse garage. “I have some plywood. That work?”

“Yup. And you need to put some shoes on. Protect your feet while we get the glass cleaned up.”

She pursed her lips but said nothing.

Beckett grabbed several boards in the corner and Aurora retrieved a hammer and nails and followed him inside. “Got a broom?”

“The one I use for sweeping or the one I ride on?” Aurora tilted her head and pierced him with a maybe sort of accusing glare.

So that’s what she assumed he thought of her. Hardly. He wasn’t sure what to think. This was the longest he’d spent in a room with her other than a courtroom, and they didn’t converse much inside. Besides, he never allowed himself to see her as anything but the enemy. Now, she was a target who trusted him to protect her. And that’s exactly what he planned to do.

“Sweeping will be fine.” He smirked. “I don’t want to put you out a vehicle.”

“Hmm...” Aurora snagged a broom and dustpan from the pantry, slipped on a pair of house shoes that had been lying under the kitchen table, and they went to work cleaning up the glass and boarding up the window.

When it was finished he noticed her fire was dying. “You got any wood? I can get a fresh fire going before I head out.” No way was he letting her do it. Instinct told him this wasn’t over. But he didn’t want to scare her further, and it didn’t technically warrant putting a detail on her.

Meghan had begged and pleaded with the sheriff in her small Georgia town to patrol her house. But they couldn’t prove she was in danger. Her stalker had been cunning, averting the law yet tormenting her. When it first started, Beckett had been on an extended tour in Afghanistan with Meghan’s brother, Wilder. He’d had no idea, not until he came home. He’d been powerless.

He had the power to do something about this.

“I’ll do a few drive-bys through the night. Make sure everything’s safe.” He might not be able to use taxpayers’ dollars for a deputy to sit outside, but Beckett could on his own time.

Aurora met him with a delicate smile. “I appreciate that. But I don’t think it’s necessary, and I have some self-defense training, as well as gun-range time. I’m a pretty good shot.”

Brave. Resilient. But Beckett had seen fear on thousands of faces. “I believe you, Counselor. Now, about that firewood?”

“Oh.” She scratched at the base of her neck. A dainty neck. Smooth. “It’s under the tarp on the side of the house, but I can do it. Really. I mean, I started that one.”

“I don’t feel comfortable letting you haul wood in out of the dark. Just in case. Precaution, is all.” He flipped the collar on his coat up and stalked to the woodpile. Doing a slow scan with his flashlight, he checked out the woods that surrounded the house. No footprints. The branches rustled. Critters slunk around, crunching dead leaves. Something was off. Puffs of night air plumed in front of him as he patrolled the yard. He couldn’t spot anyone, but red flags waved.

Someone was out there.

Watching.

Or maybe he was paranoid after what had happened to Meghan.

Beckett hauled in the firewood and a few extra logs. Inside, freshly brewed coffee uncoiled one of the many knots tightening his neck and shoulders.

Aurora handed him a steaming cup. “It’s brutal out there. Warm you up. Least I can do.”

He dusted his hands on his pants and accepted the cup, her fingers brushing his. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“It’s black, like you like it.”

He sipped, the French roast warming all the way down his throat. “You know how I like my coffee?”

“I’m in the coffee business.” She shrugged, but her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of rose and she broke eye contact. First time for everything. She held his glares quite well in the courtroom or at the jail.

“Why are you in the coffee business? You seem to be living in high cotton.” Driving that BMW, wearing fancy clothes, and the air about her simply smelled like money. He took another sip and squatted by the fire.

Aurora folded her arms across her chest and gazed into the flames. “To be honest, the coffee in Hope stinks. I drink enough that it dictated opening up a business.”

He snorted. “Uh-huh, now really, be honest.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

Her upturned and perky nose might give off an appearance of snootiness, but the averting gaze and body language said she had a more private reason and didn’t care to divulge. “I just know. But you don’t have to get personal with me, Counselor.” He stood and studied the few photos on her mantel. “That’s you. Can’t miss the hair.” Blondish red. Probably still long like the toothless little girl in the photo; he’d never seen it down before. She’d grown from adorable to beautiful. “That a brother or something next to you?”

“Yes. Richie. He died.”

The words punched his chest. “I’m sorry.”

She clutched the photo and seemed to slip down memory lane. “He’s why I do what I do. He committed suicide in prison when I was in my second year of law school.”

Beckett grimaced. “Went to school to get him out somehow?”

“He was innocent. What choice did I have? Someone had to give him decent counsel. Who better to advocate for him than someone who believed in him?”

“Ninety-nine percent of criminals say they’re innocent.”

Aurora’s eyes hardened and she set the photo back on the mantel. “Some are telling the truth. Like Richie.”

Beckett had worn out his welcome, but that suited him. He wasn’t diggin’ seeing Aurora as a victim. A really soft, beautiful woman who grieved her brother even if he was a criminal. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“When I clear his name, you’ll be the first to know, Sheriff.”

He opened the door and stepped onto the porch. “Lock it behind me and I’ll be by a few times. If you need anything—”

“I can handle it myself.” Brazenness and a need to prove her case held his gaze, but beyond that lay something else. Torment. Sorrow.

Okay, her view on the justice system got a rise out of him, but could he be a bigger idiot? He’d basically insulted her dead brother, whom she loved. What a jerk. He owed her an apology for his insensitivity.

“Look—”

Her cell rang. She held up an index finger and snagged it from the table by the couch. She studied the screen and frowned.

Someone she didn’t want to talk to? Beckett ought to go. He could apologize later. It was freezing out here. He should have moved to Florida. “I’m gonna—” The rest of his sentence nose-dived when Aurora’s cheeks blanched. She hadn’t said anything after her hello.

“Who is this?” Her voice trembled.

“What’s going on?” Beckett whispered.

“Hello? Hello...” Aurora hit the end button and stared at Beckett, eyes wide.

Beckett reentered the house and shut the door behind him. “Who was that?”

“Same gritty voice from this morning. In the crowd.” Her tone was too quiet, hollow.

Beckett’s neck muscles wound even tighter and he ground his jaw. “What did he say?”

Aurora clutched her throat. “Death is coming for me.”


TWO (#u2dc62761-c71f-50a1-b338-5c52868aaee7)

Beckett snagged Aurora’s phone and checked her recent calls. Unknown number. “I’ll get a trace on this.”

“We both know that’s a long shot. Probably a burner phone.” She rubbed her temples and pursed her lips.

She was right. But if someone had done this on impulse, they might have only blocked her view of the number. It was a thin thread, but he was hanging on to it. “No one is going to get to you, understand?”

Aurora’s eyebrows tweaked and she gave a weak nod. She trusted him enough to call but not enough to actually protect her?

He pivoted her carefully, forcing her to face him. “No one.” He drilled into her gaze until she gave a solid nod. Better. Beckett needed her to have faith in him. He needed to have some faith, but after his failure with Meghan, his faith in himself—and in God—was shaky at best. This time, he couldn’t let someone take a life right out from under his nose. His trained nose. Guilt battered his ribs. “I’ll call one of my guys to come and get the phone—”

“No.” Aurora tapped her nose again. Something in that pretty head was cooking. “Someone on the inside knows what brand of whiskey Austin Bledsoe drank. I don’t trust anyone in your office to do right by me. Sorry not sorry. You do it. I trust you, Beckett.”

Beckett. He’d never heard her say his name. Not that he’d ever used hers. He liked the way it rolled off her tongue. “You sure?”

“I may not enjoy our conversations and you may not like me, but you’re honest to a fault.”

They didn’t have conversations. They had arguments. And he’d never said he didn’t like her. His fear at the moment was getting to know her and liking her too much. “All right. I’ll do it myself.” He didn’t bother to acknowledge her other statement. “And I have to make a few stops.”

“Question Trevor Russell?”

The woman was keen. “Yes.” Not that he was over the moon about it. But the situation warranted it. Beckett couldn’t take her with him. Couldn’t leave her here unattended, and she didn’t trust anyone but him, which made things difficult but also sent a swell of satisfaction through him. “Can you have a friend come over? Or go somewhere for the night?”

Her mouth dropped open and defiance slashed through her eyes. “Let him win? Let him run me out of my own home over a scary phone call? Hardly.”

He had a feeling she’d say something like that. She might as well be a walking billboard for the word resolute. He’d witnessed that time and again in the courtroom. Like a bulldog on a bone. “I can’t protect you if I’m not here. He’s already tossed a bottle through the window—and now the call. Maybe it is a threat to terrorize you.” No way he believed that, based on personal experience. “But maybe it’s not.”

She ran her hands over her face and groaned. “Kelly’s in Memphis for the night. New grandbaby.”

Judge Kelly Marks had hired Aurora as the court-appointed attorney. From what Beckett knew, she’d been one of Aurora’s law professors at Ole Miss and her mentor of sorts. She lived over by the Magnolia Inn, on the hill with an iron gate. Aurora would be more secure there, but that wasn’t an option tonight. “What about staying with Holt and Blair McKnight?”

Aurora gave him a cutting eye. “They’ve been married less than six months. I’m not intruding on the honeymooners.”

Beckett growled. “It’s one night. I’m calling them.”

Aurora pinched the bridge of her nose. “I feel like a child. Like...like I’m losing.”

“Not everything is about winning and losing, Counselor. This is about staying safe. Holt McKnight will make sure of it, and I trust him with my life. I trust him with yours.”

Beckett gauged her. She was just shy of stomping her foot and crying or throat punching him. He eased back in case of the latter. Surely, she’d see reason and let him drive her over to the McKnights’ for one evening. Tomorrow, she could stay with Judge Marks.

“Only for tonight.”

His muscles relaxed in thankfulness they weren’t going to butt heads again because, when it came to Aurora’s safety, he’d fight until he won. He called Holt, gave him the lowdown and hung up. “Blair’s making up the guest room now.”

“Then one night, it is. I’m not going to run scared.”

Beckett studied her. Seemed like that was what she’d done by coming to Hope. Why else would an uppity attorney like her move from Chicago to here? It was like she’d run as far away as she could from Franco Renzetti. “Nobody but you said you were. Pack a bag.”

She muttered about his barking demands and trudged to her room.

Like a child. But cute as all get-out.

A few moments later, Aurora had a bag hanging on her arm. “I need to take that box of files. I can’t risk someone knowing I’m gone and busting in here and ransacking the place—including the files.”

Beckett collected the ones lying on the table and added them to the rest in the cardboard box. Case files on her brother. “Hey,” he said, and turned, “I’m sorry for earlier. I know how much you loved your brother, and I basically told you he was guilty. I don’t even know the facts. So, I apologize for acting like a jerk.”

“Thank you.”

Well, that was something he’d never expected out of the shrewd attorney. Grace. It surprised and befuddled him. Beckett carried the box to the door. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna go out first. Do a sweep, make sure no one is lurking. I’ll come back inside and get you.” He grabbed her other bag and surveyed the area from the porch. After placing the items in the backseat, he swept the perimeter. Everything seemed quiet. Bleak. Temps were dropping steadily. A sense that someone was watching skittered across his flesh. Please don’t be you, Trevor. He finished clearing the area and came inside. Aurora was perched on her recliner.

“Everything as it should be?”

He nodded. He’d leave the sixth sense to himself. “Let’s go.” He hovered over her as she locked the front door and sheltered her as they made their way to his Chevy Tahoe, the words Fallon County Sheriff reflecting in silver.

Ten minutes later, he had her on Holt and Blair McKnight’s porch. Blair guided Aurora inside, and Holt stepped outside and closed the front door, his hair whipping in all directions as they stood in the frigid night. “What are you thinking?”

Beckett cupped his aching neck. “Could be anyone, man. She shook up a crowd today. People starting to heal. This motion brought everything back up.”

Holt rested a hip on the wooden porch railing. “I’m sure Trevor was hoping for the court to rule in his favor. He’s bound to be furious. Old wounds ripped open. But would he stoop to throwing a whiskey bottle through the window and threatening Aurora with that kind of phone call? He’s a good dude. Lieutenant at the firehouse. Lot to lose if he did this.”

“What if it had been Blair who Austin rammed into? What would you do?” Beckett tipped his head as Holt’s face hardened. “Exactly. You’d want to see that kid pay for the rest of his life, and then some. And you’d want to see whoever let him walk pay along with him.”

“He’s not going to walk.”

“He’s not serving a life sentence, either. Probably get three months. Then community service and parole. Hardly seems fair.” Beckett pulled a butterscotch candy from his coat pocket and popped it into his mouth, twisting the golden paper between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t know. I’m heading over there now. Aurora doesn’t want to be here. She says she’s cutting into honeymoon time.”

Holt chuckled. “Blair has morning sickness at night. The honeymoon is over, bro. They say she should feel better come next month. So, be glad Aurora was threatened now and not in April.” He gave Beckett’s shoulder a solid pat. “She’ll be safe here. And she’s welcome to stay till next week. But then I’m in Memphis for a few days teaching a narcotics class. I’d rather—”

“Her not be in the house with only Blair and your kiddo cookin’ inside her. I wouldn’t do that. She’s staying with Judge Marks come tomorrow.”

“I mean what’s Blair gonna do anyway? Puke on the attacker?”

Beckett laughed. “I’ll be by in the morning. Or if anything new arises.” He shook Holt’s hand and left for Trevor Russell’s house. Holt was right. With the ruling today, all that agony and hurt would be fresh. Trevor and his family had been banking all these months that Austin Bledsoe would be punished to the fullest extent of the law. As an adult. God, why did You let him get away with this? Why didn’t You move the judge to rule that he be tried as an adult? You can do anything You want. Turn the heart of a pharaoh. Soften a king. Why did You fail them?

His phone rang as he pulled into the Russells’ driveway. He glanced at the screen. Wilder Flynn. His oldest buddy from the SEALs. And Meghan’s brother. No time to talk. Besides, Beckett didn’t have an answer for Wilder. Moving to Atlanta to work with his elite team and seeing him every day would only remind him of Meghan. Of failing her. Beckett wasn’t sure he could handle that. Too much guilt. Plus, he’d finally come home to a safer career, and his mother was on top of the Rockies. Going back into a high-risk occupation would knock her off the edge. Mama had no one but him to see to her.

He let it go to voice mail and climbed the steps to Trevor’s porch. A light burned in the living room. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again.

Trevor’s son, Quent, opened up. Definitely not sleepy eyed. “Hey, bud. Your dad in?”

“Why?” Quent’s jaw hardened and he bristled. Why the need to go defensive?

“I need to talk to him.”

“Quent, who’s here?” Trevor came to the door, hair tousled, white T-shirt wrinkled. “Beck? What’s going on?”

Beckett scuffed his toe along the wooden planks. “How you doing?”

“You’re here at eleven o’clock at night to ask me how I’m doing?” He frowned. “How do you think I’m doing?”

Beckett massaged his achy neck muscle again. “I know it’s not the verdict you wanted to hear—”

“Not even close,” he hissed. “Why are you here?”

Beckett told him about the whiskey bottle and the phone call. “I was wondering if you might know anything about that? Tell anyone the brand, perhaps?”

Trevor gave a humorless laugh. “Really? Give me a break. My wife is dead. That punk is getting away with it and you want to question me about a bottle? I’m only sorry it didn’t whop her upside the head and knock some decency into her. Quent, go to bed.”

After tonight, Beckett wasn’t so sure that Aurora wasn’t decent. She was complicated. “Wait. I need to ask Quent if he might know anything.” He inspected the boy. “Do you?”

“No,” he barked. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I hope she gets what’s coming to her.” He stomped off, and Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose.

The kid had a lot of anger. Could it have been him? Maybe, but not the threats. Aurora had said the voice was gravelly. Trevor’s voice was gravelly. But lots of male voices had a rasp. “I’m sorry. I had to ask. It’s my job.”

“Yeah.” Trevor closed the door in Beckett’s face. Well, that went well.

* * *

Aurora hadn’t slept much last night. Not that Blair’s guest bed was uncomfortable, but she’d had too much on her mind. Today, she had an appointment in Richfield, Mississippi, with the detective who’d been assigned her brother’s case and an interview with Gus’s widow, Darla McGregor. She’d always believed that Richie hadn’t murdered her husband, and Aurora had been grateful someone had been on her side. Maybe, after all this time, one of them might remember something they hadn’t before.

Now she sat across from Beckett at The Black-Eyed Pea, picking at her eggs and toast. He’d shown up to the McKnights’ home bright and early and told her he was on protection detail. He’d then dropped her at the office for an hour before picking her back up for breakfast. Apparently, this was where he ate his most important meal of the day. He didn’t appear to be into cooking. Aurora fixed poached eggs every single morning.

Beckett gave her the facts on Trevor Russell’s questioning last night while he peppered his grits. She hadn’t expected Mr. Russell or his son to roll over and confess. And she wasn’t sure either of them had been behind the incident, anyway. It could have been anyone. But she had mulled over a few things. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Beckett perked up. “About what?”

“Staying with Kelly. I can’t let a couple of threats keep me from my home, Beckett. It’s silly. It’s drastic.”

“It’s better safe than sorry.” He pointed to her plate. “Eat your eggs.”

Bossy much? She frowned. “Do you know why I choose eggs for breakfast, Sheriff?”

Confusion crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Protein?”

“No,” she said, her voice clipped, as he scooped a forkful of grits. “I eat eggs every day to remind me that I’m not a chicken.”

Beckett paused midbite, eyebrows rising toward his thick, dark hairline. Then he laughed. Loud. Rich. “And you eat them poached because there’s some kind of symbolism to being in hot water?”

She ignored him because maybe on some weird, subconscious level there was.

But the laughter wasn’t funny. No doubt Beckett Marsh feared no one and no thing. “When it got sticky—much stickier than this—in Chicago, you know what I did? I tucked my tail between my legs and ran here, taking Kelly’s offer. She risked her neck to give me this opportunity. I’d made a mess of my career. And I only tell you this because you undoubtedly know it anyway.”

“Fair assessment.” He chuckled again.

“Nothing about this is funny.” She was trying to explain why she couldn’t up and leave her house over some small-town threat. This wasn’t La Cosa Nostra, for crying out loud. It was an angry citizen. It would pass.

“You’re right. Well...the eggs thing is a little funny. Do you really eat eggs every day? And for that reason?”

She simply glowered, making her point.

“Sorry.” The amusement in his eyes said he wasn’t.

“I’m not going to let whoever this is scare me. That’s exactly what he wants.” She held up her hand. “Before you say it, it’s not about winning, but it kind of is. Not for the sake of winning, but to let this guy know he can’t do this. He can’t frighten me out of my home.”

Beckett grimaced and put down his fork, wiped his mouth. “I see your point. But threats shouldn’t be ignored or taken casually. What if it wasn’t a scare tactic? What if it’s a warning of things to come?”

“We take precautions other than me leaving my house. Besides, if he can find me at home, he can find me at someone else’s.”

“True. But I don’t want you far from me.”

“Well, I’m going to Richfield today. To interview—” Her phone rang. Not again. Oliver Benard. Her old law partner from Chicago had been calling the last several days, and Aurora had been ignoring every single one, including the vague voice mails informing her they needed to talk. About what? The fact it was Aurora’s fault his son had died at Renzetti’s hands in that car explosion? Instead of taking Aurora’s life, they’d taken Hayden’s. Aurora had been so ashamed and guilty, she hadn’t even attended Hayden’s funeral.

Here she was talking bravery and she couldn’t even take Oliver’s phone call.

“What is it? Is that an unknown caller? Again?”

“No.” Aurora pocketed her phone and sipped her juice. “Just someone I can’t talk to.”

Beckett buttered his toast. “Why?”

“I don’t want to. Now, back to my day. I appreciate you picking me up from Blair’s this morning. But I can’t become your new sidekick. I have a life. I have work. And I have Richie’s case to dig into, which is why I’m going to Richfield this morning.”

“I don’t like it. That’s two hours away.” He pushed his plate aside. “Put it off until tomorrow. I’ll go with you.”

Aurora sized him up. Most of the time she could read people fairly well. This was a man bent on doing what he said he would—keeping her safe at all costs—which meant he wasn’t going to budge on this. “I’ll make a few calls and see if we can reschedule. If not, I’m doing it today, Beckett. I’ve put off defending my brother long enough.”

He pointed to her plate. “Choke down your courage and I’ll get the check, then drop you at the courthouse.”

Aurora groaned. “Are you going to escort me across the street to my office afterward, as well?”

A sly grin cruised across his face. “Not if you eat your eggs.”

She huffed, but a giggle surfaced in her throat. She switched the subject back to his hovering over her like she was some sheep in need of a shepherd. “This might be extreme.”

“You have no idea what extreme is, Counselor.” Beckett motioned for Jace Black, co-owner of the establishment, to bring the check.

She did know extreme, but the way Beckett said it, Aurora had a sneaky feeling he’d seen things that had nothing to do with SEAL missions or war. Something he kept private. A need to know rose up in her. A wish he’d confide in her. Which was silly. The last two days were the most she’d ever personally spent with Beckett. But she was beginning to see a side of him other than surly and unsociable. A sense of humor for one. Considerate. Thoughtful. She admired those attributes. Too much.

He held the door open for her and led her to the Tahoe. At the courthouse, Aurora waved to Beckett as she entered, then she made her way to Kelly’s chambers. She knocked and was met with an invitation to come inside. Kelly sat behind her mahogany desk, robed. Her short, silver chin-length bob framed compassionate eyes. “I’m about to head into court, but I’m glad to see you. I heard about the threats.”

“From who?”

Kelly tented her fingers on the desk. “The town in general. Rumors were buzzing around the courthouse this morning.”

“Oh. So, how is the baby?”

“A doll. I have pictures.” Kelly beamed.

Babies. Once upon a time she’d wanted to get married and have children of her own. But Richie had gone to prison and she’d jumped onto a different path. No time for real relationships or children. She’d been focused on work and all her pro bono cases, which had been the biggest appeal of the position at Benard, Lowenstein & Meyer. “So, you heard about the calls or the whiskey bottle?”

Kelly’s mouth dropped open. “I heard your car got keyed and someone knocked out a window at your place. What else is going on?”

Aurora shared the details.

Kelly sat quietly, then clasped Aurora’s hand. “You should stay with me.”

Aurora had no doubt Kelly would offer. “I’m fine. You know how this goes. It’ll blow over.” She hoped. “But I do need to vent about something. Oliver Benard has been calling me.”

Kelly leaned back in her plush office chair. “So answer.”

“I can’t. I’m scared.”

“Scared to answer a phone call, but brave enough to stay in a house alone with threats coming through your front window.” Kelly pointed at her. “The invitation to stay with me stands. I think you’re being foolish by not accepting. However, I understand why you want to stand your ground and thus proclaim you’re not afraid of threats. But if they escalate...”

“I’ll let you know and take you up on it. About Oliver?”

“Take his call. You never know. He might want to show you some grace.”

Grace.

She didn’t deserve it. His son was dead because of her. “I’d rather crawl into a hole. What if he’s not calling to offer me gracious words?”

“Why, after two years, would he call you if not to extend a little kindness?”

“Anniversary of his son’s death is February fifteenth. Maybe he wants to make sure I remember.” Like she could forget.

“Aurora.” Kelly’s motherly tone warmed her. Her own mother hadn’t been too motherly, and she’d spent most of her time locked in her bedroom. At least, when she wasn’t taking her antidepressants, which was most of the time. “Trust God to work on your behalf.”

She’d trusted God once. Before Richie had been stamped guilty. Before Aurora had been. Before her world had crumbled all around her. It didn’t seem like God was there for her at all. “I’m heading to my office. I’ll think about what you said.”

She was leaving Kelly’s chambers as her phone rang.

Unknown Caller.

Did she ignore it?

Chills poked her spine, but she answered.

No one spoke, only breath filtering lightly through the line.

“I was doing my job. So back off. If you think I won’t figure out who you are, then you’re mistaken.”

A dark and menacing laugh cut straight to her marrow. “We’ll see.”

The line went dead.

Had she seriously taunted this guy? Well, she wouldn’t be confiding that to Beckett.

She crossed the street to her office on the corner, working to erase the creepy-crawlers scuttling up and down her arms and the back of her neck. She entered.

“Mags?”

Her receptionist wasn’t at her desk, but the light was on and piano music played on the Pandora station. Maybe she had run to grab tea at the Read It and Steep shop.

She ambled down the hall to her office and unlocked the door. Aurora caught a whiff of something. A foreign yet familiar scent. Something possibly masculine.

Bizarre. A wintry whisper pricked her neck.

She eyed her office. The lid on the cardboard box housing files for Richie’s case was loose. It’d been on tight before Beckett had driven her to breakfast. Heels clicking on the tile caught her attention, and she poked her head out the office door.

Mags came in, blond hair spiking all over her head. “Hey, boss. I’m trying this new blooming tea. Felicity talked me in...to... What’s wrong?”

Aurora controlled the panic in her voice. “Did anyone come in while I was at The Black-Eyed Pea?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason.” She ducked back inside her office and finished removing the lid on the file box.

They were out of order.

Someone had pilfered through them.

But why?

And who? And how had he gotten into her office when she’d locked the door before heading to breakfast?

Peeking out the window behind her desk, Aurora skimmed the street. Nothing. Was this something she ought to bring to Beckett’s attention? If she did, he’d go right back on his spiel to stay somewhere else. Maybe she hadn’t had the lid on tight, or the files organized.

No. She had.

And the scent lingering. That was new.

He needed to know—once she drummed up a defense in favor of not packing up and running scared.

She combed through the files. Nothing had been taken. She called the detective and Gus McGregor’s widow and rescheduled, then met with a few clients.

At lunch, she wasn’t as shaken up, and by the time Beckett picked her up for dinner, she had decided not to mention it. Yet. He seemed tense on the drive to her house. He pulled into her driveway.

“I really don’t like this,” he said.

Aurora plucked Richie’s file box from the floorboard. “See you tomorrow morning. My appointment with Detective Holmstead is at ten.”

“I know you heard me.”

“What was that?” She slanted her head as if she couldn’t hear.

He scowled. “I’m coming in to clear the house.”

“Well, of course you are.”

Beckett climbed out of the Tahoe and walked Aurora up to the front door. She unlocked it and he entered first. A few moments later, he deemed it safe and she kicked off her shoes. “See you in the morning.”

He hemmed and hawed around, then left. She locked the door and lit the fireplace. By the time she had finished making a few notes to ask Detective Holmstead, it was nearly nine o’clock. A low whistle pushed through the small crevices in the plywood covering the broken window. The glass man was coming out the day after tomorrow.

She crawled in bed and watched the news until she couldn’t stay awake. The phone rang, startling her from sleep. Glancing at the clock, she growled. Eleven o’clock.

Unknown Caller.

She ignored it, her nerves fraying.

It rang again.

Silence filled the house except for the hum of her heating unit kicking on. Please leave me alone.

The shrill of the phone came once more. She answered. “Stop calling. It won’t change anything. And you’re not scaring me.” Lies. Lies. Lies.

Nothing but a low exhalation. She hung up.

He called back.

After a few more times, she turned her cell phone off and padded to the kitchen for some chamomile tea. She filled her teapot and set it on the stove to boil. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she focused on calming her pulse.

The kettle whistled.

The light above the stove flickered and died.

She peeked under the microwave. Bulb must have burned out. She switched on the kitchen light.

Nothing.

A sense of dread pooled in her gut. She crept into the living room and turned the switch on the lamp.

Darkness.

Might have tripped the circuit. She tiptoed down the hall, refraining from the instinct goading her to sprint. She entered her room and retrieved her gun and a book light. She wasn’t the idiot heroine who walked outside without a weapon. She flicked the safety off and approached the garage to flip the breaker. Invisible fingers slid across her skin, raising goose bumps.

It’s a tripped circuit. That’s it.

Muted moonlight left a sliver across the frigid concrete floor. Aurora quivered. Maybe from winter monopolizing the garage. Maybe a fair amount of fear. Probably both. She hurried to the metal breaker box and shined the book light on the black switches.

Yep. Tripped circuit. She slid it left and back to the right, then relaxed. “Stupid breaker. You picked a fine time to fail me.”

A whiff of that same scent from her office snaked into her nostrils.

Hairs stood on end, awareness hammering her like a gavel against the sound block.

No time to move or swivel toward the presence in the garage. A strong arm shrouded in a black jacket came around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides; a gloved hand sealed her mouth and nose.

Can’t breathe!

Panic kicked in, sending a sour taste to her throat and leaving her light-headed. She still clung to her gun, but he had her across the forearms, pinned and unable to aim even at his foot.

Aurora stomped the attacker’s toes as hard as she could, then bent forward, throwing him off balance. When he loosened his grip she swung around. A mask covered his face.

Bringing the gun up, she aimed, but he ducked as she fired, then he tore through the door leading into her house.

The front door slammed.

Aurora bent at the knees and gulped for air.

The odd scent remained, and she couldn’t quite place it other than that it had been in her office earlier.

Why would her attacker be interested in Richie’s files? A frightening thought knocked her off balance.

What if the tossed whiskey bottle had nothing to do with the earlier calls and attacks? What if this had everything to do with her nosing into Gus McGregor’s murder?


THREE (#u2dc62761-c71f-50a1-b338-5c52868aaee7)

Gunfire!

Beckett knew that reverberating sound anywhere. Instinct kicked in and he laid on the gas.

Three houses down from Aurora, a figure fled through the woods. Beckett threw the Tahoe into Park, leaped from it, drew his weapon and hauled his tail across Aurora’s neighbors’ yards in pursuit.

If the assailant was running, he probably wasn’t injured, at least not fatally.

But Aurora might be.

He skidded to a halt and doubled back to Aurora’s, his pulse pounding in his temples.

He cautiously opened her front door.

He should have fought harder—demanded she stay elsewhere, done a drive-by sooner, staked out her place. He continued to mentally kick himself as he inched through her house.

His phone rang.

He ignored it.

“Counselor?” he called from the dining room, then worked his way warily down the hall.

Training his gun on her bedroom door, he toed it open a crack.

A pop sounded and he hit the floor. “Aurora! It’s Beckett!”

The door opened wider and she peered down at him, wild-eyed, gun in hand.

“Could you point that somewhere besides my head, please, ma’am?”

She slid her finger across the safety and lowered it. “Sorry. I tried to call you.”

Must have been the call he ignored. He stood. She was safe. “I heard a gunshot and saw someone running from the house.” He closed the distance between them and touched her cheek. “I’m sorry for letting you down.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s not your fault.”

Except it 100 percent was. “What happened?”

Aurora bit her bottom lip. “You’re going to be livid. I might have withheld some information.”

“What information?”

“Before you start getting all alpha male on me, let me tell the whole story.”

Alpha male? He’d laugh if he wasn’t half scared out of his mind. “Fine.”

She explained everything and with each word his blood pressure rose. “So you couldn’t identify him?”

“Like I said, he wore a ski mask.”

“And you’re not holdin’ back anything else? I know everything?” He clenched his teeth.

“Yes.”

He restrained from blowing a gasket, balled and released his fists, then repeated. “So I don’t need to remind you that if something else happens, even minor to you, I’m to be informed. Immediately.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” She huffed.

She hated being bossed. He wasn’t bossing. He was used to being in charge and people following orders. Aurora was a little alpha herself. Total type A. He’d have to work on his approach with her.

“Please,” he offered as politely as possible.

She placated him. “I will.”

Why would someone upset about the verdict yesterday dig through her dead brother’s case files? What would be the point?

“Were your filing cabinets disturbed?” Maybe someone was hunting down a file on Austin Bledsoe.

“Not that I could tell. Not like Richie’s files.”

So it was probable that the other files hadn’t been snooped through. He couldn’t connect the dots. Frustration forced him to grind his jaw and growl under his breath. “Well, you can’t stay here the rest of the night. I never liked that idea anyway. He could come back.” Whoever he was.

“It’s one a.m. I’d rather not wake up Kelly or the McKnights.” She hung her head. “I can’t believe I’m going to run scared.”

“You’re not. You’re being smart and taking precautions. How did he get in your garage? Would you have heard it being manually opened?”

“Yes.”

Beckett searched entry points while concocting a plan to protect her. At the bathroom, he stopped and pointed to the guest bathroom window. “Point of entry.” Dusty footprints lined the tub. He gnawed the inside of his cheek. “I can have the bathroom printed.”

“He wore gloves.”

“Still.” But she was right. It would probably be a dead end like she said would happen with the trace on her phone last night. Burner phone. Untraceable.

How long had this guy been inside her house, waiting until she went to sleep before creeping to the garage and tripping the breaker?

Aurora’s wide eyes and pale cheeks testified that she was thinking the same thing. “I should have checked all my locks after the threats.”

Beckett touched the windowsill. “See these slivers of wood and paint? He used something to pry it open. It was locked.”

She gawked at the chipped sill.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He wasn’t letting her out of his sight. Not for one second.

She nodded. “What do we do about the rest of the night?”

He’d been thinking about that. “I’d stay here, but I don’t need any gossip. I’ll take you to the Magnolia Inn. Pack a bag.” He waited while she packed, then he loaded her up and drove her over to the Magnolia. Claire MacKay stood behind the desk sipping coffee.

“Hey, Sheriff. What brings you in this time of night?” She yawned and held up her cup. “I need a stronger brew.”

“I need two adjoining rooms.”

“Why?” Aurora marched up to the desk.

Beckett cut his eyes at her and she tilted her head, hesitantly resigning to the fact he was getting a room next door. Period.

“Fine,” she grumbled.

“Anyone rings the desk or calls for Aurora, patch them through to my room.” Beckett was taking every precaution.

“Of course.” She handed them keys and didn’t ask questions. He liked that about her. He was glad it wasn’t her sister, Keeley, working tonight’s shift. She was an entirely different story. “Breakfast is served from six until nine.”

“You serve eggs?” he asked.

“We do.” She gave him a puzzled expression.

“We’ll be down for our courage at eight.”

A puff of air escaped Aurora’s nose and Claire stood befuddled. “Off with ya’ then. Enjoy your sleep.”

Upstairs. Safer. He led Aurora to her room and set down her bags, then unlocked the door leading to his room. “Don’t lock this.”

Her nostrils flared.

He’d ordered her again. “Please,” he added.

Aurora sat on the edge of the queen-size bed. “I won’t. Thank you, Beckett.”

For what? Showing up late? “You defended yourself. Nice work, Counselor.”

“I think you could call me Aurora. I’d be comfortable with that.” She half smiled and his chest tightened.

“Aurora,” he rasped. Felt entirely too right rolling off his tongue. “Doesn’t fit.” He tipped an invisible hat. “Night, Counselor.”

She kicked off her shoes. “Night, Sheriff.”

Beckett closed the door and laid his gun on the nightstand. What if Aurora hadn’t been the shooter but the victim? The assailant had gotten into her house. Lain in wait. God had spared her life. Too bad He hadn’t spared Meghan’s. Didn’t they all deserve to be rescued? Why did some receive help and some didn’t? He’d been struggling with that question while trying to maintain his faith and trust in God. But the more he questioned, the more he doubted.

At 7:45 a.m. he knocked on Aurora’s door. She opened it. The same dark circles drooped under her eyes as his and she was paler than usual, her hair pulled back in that tight knot on her neck. Her room held that flowery signature scent of hers. “Ready?”

“Yes. Thank you for accompanying me today. I know you have a county to take care of.” She grabbed her purse and briefcase.

“Today, I’m taking care of you. No protests.” He motioned for her to exit the room and he followed her downstairs where she ate poached eggs and he helped himself to a stack of pancakes. “We better hit the road if we want to make that ten o’clock appointment.”

“I’d like to take my car. I don’t want to make it obvious I’m investigating, and riding around in a sheriff’s vehicle does exactly that—although by now all of Richfield knows. It’s not much bigger than Hope.” Aurora pulled her scarf tight around her neck as he paid, then they walked to the Tahoe.

“You want to drive your keyed car around? I can run it by Wallace’s shop. Get it repainted. Set you up with a rental.”

“I thought about having it fixed, but then I figured someone might do something else to it and I might as well wait until the threats die down and have it repaired in one fell swoop. Besides, I need whoever did it to know it doesn’t bother me.”

“You worry too much about what people think.”

She clicked her seat belt in place and brushed invisible lint from her pant leg, then stared straight ahead.

Someone had done a number on her. Her false sense of security tugged at something deep within him. The pretty redhead wasn’t fooling him. She was guarding herself from further pain. Pretending to be immune. A sudden urge to take that torment away knocked him full force. He shouldn’t be having these feelings. Not for defense attorney Aurora Daniels. “We’ll pick up your car and you can follow me to the station. I’ll leave my vehicle there.”

Twenty minutes later, they were on the road to Richfield, Mississippi. They made small talk, avoiding their professions. He talked a little about the navy. About his best friend, Wilder. She shared a few stories from law school and how she came to a vast knowledge about cars. Her grandfather and Richie had been mechanics. She’d liked spending time with them both. They hit 15 South and came into Richfield.

“So, I...didn’t have a lot growing up. And I kind of got picked on in school. If you’re expecting to see lots of hugs and me connecting with tons of friends, you won’t. The day I graduated, I flew this coop so fast your head would spin.”

Beckett couldn’t imagine a woman as sharp, bright and beautiful as Aurora being bullied. “Financial status shouldn’t dictate your social status. My mom and dad divorced when I was only three. He moved to California and pretty much wrote us off. I understand not coming from much. Mama worked three jobs and an extra part-time at Christmas to make sure I got what I wrote to Santa for.”

Aurora’s expression was knowing and kind. “If we got Christmas presents, we got them from my grandfather. But he died when I was fifteen. I admit, I’m kind of glad. Seeing Richie go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit would have killed him.”

He hadn’t even asked. “What was he convicted of?”

Aurora heaved a breath. “Murder. Second degree.”

Murder. Well, this brought the attacks into a new light. Aurora had mentioned that someone had been in her office nosing through her files. Beckett didn’t like it, but he hadn’t expected it to link to this case. If Richie was innocent—and Beckett wasn’t so sure—then the real killer was out there. He was probably from this town and knew that Aurora was poking around.

“Can you give me the rundown of the case?” Beckett shifted in the passenger seat, his legs cramping.

“The file box is back there—grab it if you want. We’re heading to a café to meet with Detective Holmstead.”

Beckett grabbed a thick folder from the box and flipped it open. “Dwight Holmstead?”

“Yep.”

Beckett skimmed the contents. “Gus McGregor. Killed in his own shop. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Murder weapon was a wrench.”

“They didn’t find any prints except Gus’s and Richie’s, but he employed four other mechanics. Any one of them could have worn gloves. Or they could have used another wrench and planted that one at the scene of the crime.”

Beckett had some doubt. “Gus’s blood was found on this wrench and it was lying near the body. That’s clearly the murder weapon.”

Aurora white-knuckled the wheel. “Not enough blood to determine if it was the murder weapon, but enough to prove he had indeed bled on it. Not even a trace of scalp or skull. There could be another weapon out there. With more than a few traces of Gus’s blood. But the public defender didn’t even bring that up. And why would someone leave a murder weapon lying right there?”

Beckett grunted as he scanned statements from four witnesses stating Richie had been in the local bar drinking—inebriation would be a great reason to leave a murder weapon on the scene—and spouting off that Gus had swindled him out of several hundred dollars of pay. “A witness testified that she heard Richie say he was going over to Gus’s to ‘get his.’”

“So what. He didn’t go, and no one can validate that he did.”

“Can’t prove he didn’t.”

She huffed as she whipped into a parking lot. “Can you not say anything? You’re here as a...a bodyguard not a lawman. In fact, maybe come in ten minutes after me and sit at a table alone.”

He laughed. “This is a small town. You think people aren’t gonna figure out we’re together because we sit at separate tables? I’ll be quiet.”

She snorted and snatched the file from Beckett. “I’m here to establish my brother didn’t do it. Remember that.”

“Noted.” He pointed to his temple. “Like an elephant, I am.”

“I’d go with mule, but...” She smirked and stepped into icebox-like weather. Beckett followed her inside the small café. The smell of spices, down-home cooking and camaraderie clung to the air. A few patrons acknowledged them, then returned to their meals and conversation.

An older man—average height, thick gray hair and curious eyes—waved at Aurora. Beckett trailed behind and waited for her to make introductions. She introduced him to Dwight as her colleague, Beckett Marsh. Beckett held in a laugh. Dwight sized him up and nodded, then offered them a seat and encouraged them to order a piece of pie. Chocolate. Beckett accepted.

“Aurora, I appreciate your tenacity, hon. I do. I’m sorry for what happened to Richie, but this case is cut-and-dried.”

Hon wasn’t going to fly with the counselor. She’d see it as patronizing.

Aurora bristled.

Yep.

She stretched across the table, palms down. “Dwight, I don’t care if you appreciate me or not. Richie didn’t kill Gus. I know he got in a fair amount of trouble. I know you often hauled him home instead of tossing him in the clink. But that doesn’t mean he was a murderer.”

Dwight mashed a few piecrust crumbs onto his fork and slid them into his mouth. “I don’t know anything new.”

“Gus gambled. I know it all happened in the back of his garage, and several citizens of Richfield, who would be sorely ashamed if the news got out, joined in. One happens to be a deacon of a local church. Don’t deny it. My one source is reliable.”

Who was her source?

“Yet, he wasn’t questioned,” Aurora continued. “None of those men were. What if Gus cheated them out of money like he did my brother?”

Dwight handed his plate to the server as she set Beckett’s pie in front of him. When she left, Dwight clucked his tongue in his cheek. “They played some cards. So what? It was all friendly. The evidence points to Richie. He had motive.”

“He wasn’t there that night! His prints were, and they should have been. He was employed at Gus’s Garage.”

Aurora had a valid point. Every avenue should have been run down. “How serious were these games? How big of a pot?” Beckett asked.

Aurora shot him the evil eye. “Elephant, remember?”

“Clearly, I don’t.” And he was on her side. At least, in this line of questioning. He turned to Dwight. “Why weren’t those men questioned?”

“We didn’t need to. I doubt the pot was that big.”

“Well, how do you know if you didn’t attend?” Aurora asked. “Or did you participate, Detective? Are you letting those men off to hide the fact you gambled?” Aurora opened her hand and began tapping each finger. “Illegal gambling. Detective. Deacons. Town officials.”

Beckett cringed. With every word, Aurora painted a target on her back. The flush on Dwight’s neck reached to his hairline. “You’re crossing the line, missy. I’m here out of sympathy, but you’re killing it.”

“I’m simply trying to understand why you wouldn’t do your job.” Aurora’s nostrils flared.

“I’m done here.”

Aurora opened her mouth, but Beckett laid a hand on hers. They watched as Dwight Holmstead stormed from the café.

“Tell me that’s not shady, Sheriff.”

Beckett pushed his pie away and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I’ll admit it. That’s shady, Counselor.”

“And notice he didn’t admit or deny being a part of the poker games.”

“I noticed.” Richie may have killed Gus McGregor. But the detective was definitely hiding something, even if it was simply incompetence on the case. Would that give him motive to scare Aurora, to attack her?

The detective had a raspy voice.

Beckett wasn’t ruling out anyone.

* * *

Aurora stood on Darla McGregor’s doorstep, the garage where Gus had been murdered across the street. Beckett stood beside her. Maybe he was starting to believe her. He had admitted to Dwight’s shadiness. If she could come up with other regulars at those poker games, it would be a big help. But Richie had been her source and he was gone. Small towns had a way of locking their secrets in vaults and tossing away the keys.

Darla opened the door and invited them into her worn-out but tidy home. Aurora introduced Beckett as a colleague again, and for the second time he flinched. The last thing he wanted was to be portrayed as someone who defended those accused of crimes. They sat on Darla’s threadbare couch and Beckett kept silent as Aurora fired questions. No, Darla hadn’t been in town that night.

She hadn’t known about Gus’s poker games. He’d kept most of his life private.

Beckett’s eyes narrowed a fraction at that answer. Not buying it? Aurora wasn’t so sure. Gus could have concealed the games easily and, if he’d won, said the money came from work. But if he had held them in his garage, wouldn’t Darla have seen all the cars? Why lie?

Aurora pressed her hands together in a prayer-like gesture against her chest. “Can we browse the garage?”

Darla grabbed a set of keys lying on the nicked coffee table. “I had a feeling you’d want these. I don’t know what you think you’ll find after all these years.”

Aurora wasn’t sure, either. It had been over a decade since Richie went to prison. But she needed to do it. Should have done it a long time ago. “Probably nothing.”

“Little Gus tinkers out there. Does some side work. But he’s not here today. Those are his keys. I never go in that place anymore.”

“Tell Little Gus thanks for us then,” Aurora said. At thirty-two, Little Gus didn’t need to be called that anymore, but names stuck. “We won’t disturb anything, and thank you. For talking and for always believing in Richie’s innocence. If you think of anything else, please call me.”

Darla ran her hand through her hair, streaks of gray more prominent than the brunette, and handed Aurora the keys to the garage. “I’ll tell him.”

Beckett followed her across the street to the old mechanic shop. Dirty, run-down. Smelled like motor oil and years of neglect. “I wondered why the widow of the deceased would talk to you.”

“She never thought it was Richie, but it didn’t matter.”

Emotion lodged in her throat as they stood inside the garage. A man had died here. She’d been so focused on Richie and his innocence that she hadn’t allowed herself to think much about Gus. No one deserved what had been done to him.

“What do you hope to find?” Beckett asked.

“Something to grasp on to. We need to find out who played in those games. Even if we get town gossip, some of it will be true. Always is.”

“Can you ask your parents?”

“I don’t talk to them much.” Another reason to feel guilt and shame.

“Why?”

“Why do you want to know?” This conversation, if continued, wouldn’t be considered small talk. And Beckett was only here to fulfill his duty. No point in getting to know her personally. When this was over he’d go back to scowling and blaming her for allowing justice to misfire. Sadly, oddly, she wished things were different. She shoved the feelings aside.

“I guess I’m... I don’t know.” He shrugged and stared at the wall, then focused on her. “I haven’t talked to my dad since he left. He never called. Started a new life. Had a new family. He never responded the few times I did contact him. Not even when I went into the navy.”

Aurora gawked at his blurted admission. Her dad hadn’t walked out, but that didn’t mean he’d been present in her life. She sympathized with Beckett, and he’d made an effort to reach out. Why? Didn’t matter. He had and she wanted to reciprocate.

She hated to admit the truth about her less-than-ideal childhood, but fair was fair. “We lived in a trailer on the other end of town. Sometimes my dad worked. Sometimes he didn’t. Mostly he drank. My mom is bipolar. When she’s on meds she does well. But part of the time she thought she didn’t need them and the other part she said she couldn’t afford them, so she didn’t take them often.” She toed the dirty concrete floor. “Richie struggled with depression, too. Being convicted of Gus’s murder and enduring the hardships of prison sent him spiraling into a dark place. He’d written me a few desperate letters. I kept telling him to hang on. I was working hard. I was going to save him.”

She held back tears and shook her head. “I couldn’t do it in time. I contacted the medical personnel at the prison, begged them to put him in solitary to protect him but...I failed. You know how that feels?”

Beckett eased into her personal space, a new expression in his eyes. Compassion. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know.”

What had Beckett Marsh ever failed at? He seemed to have it all together. He was tough. Intelligent. Strong. But the way he said he knew what failure felt like... Something in his past had shattered him. The raw honesty in his voice connected with her in a profound way. “Beckett, I’m so sorry—”

A creak overhead sounded and the connection was lost. “Did you hear that?”

Beckett slid his gaze upward and scanned the loft area. “Probably just the old building settling in the cold.”

He was probably right. “I’m jumpy.”

“With good reason.” Beckett rubbed his hands together. “It’s freezing in here.”

“Tell me about it. And it gives me the creeps. I used to be at home in places like this, but now all I think about is how a mechanic shop ruined Richie’s life.”

Beckett shoved his hands in his pockets. “You were just a girl. You couldn’t get through school any faster than you did.”

“I know, but—”

A rattling echoed through the shop. She snapped up her head in time to see an engine attached to a chain plummeting toward her.

“Aurora!” Beckett hollered.

A rush of air smacked her face.

She couldn’t move.

Beckett dove on her and rolled her across the frosty concrete as the engine crashed with a deafening clang. Dirt and grime exploded into a cloud surrounding them.

Pieces of metal busted loose and flew across the shop; Beckett covered Aurora’s head with his strong arms, shielding her from debris and motor parts. A metallic and dirty taste coated her tongue and gagged her. She pinched her mouth closed.

Her entire body shook, but he continued to guard her, his arms like a mighty fortress, and nothing in this entire world could get past them to hurt her. With her belly to the floor, she coughed and shifted, peering up at Beckett. Amber eyes stared into her face, pupils dilated, his breath puffing against her nose and lips.

“You saved me.”

“Barely,” he rasped, and brushed a thumb across her cheek. He held it up. Grime had streaked her cheeks. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Her head swam. Fear. Adrenaline. And something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

He held her gaze a beat longer than what might be appropriate, then lifted his weight from her. “Stay here.” He drew his weapon and bounded up the stairs, disappearing.

Aurora sat up, drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. On the floor lay a shattered engine and a pile of chain that had once held it in place. Could it have been faulty? A coincidence? An accident? She couldn’t control her quaking, not even when she bit down on her bottom lip and gripped her knees tighter.

“The back door up here is open. The stairs and surrounding area are clear, but those creaks weren’t the building settling and popping. Someone was here. Watching. Listening.” He pointed to the tall row of tool chests. “Maybe taking cover from behind there.”

Aftershock rippled through her muscles.

He grabbed a portion of the chain on the concrete. “It’s been cut. And it’s greasier than it should be.”

“But it was directly above us. How did we not see someone standing up there cutting through a metal chain? Let’s say someone did lube it to cut down on noise—we’d still have seen him.”

“True.” Beckett skimmed the area with narrowed eyes, then picked up a hacksaw from a tool chest. “But if he knew we’d be coming in here, he could have cut through it halfway while we were across the street.”

“But there’s no guarantee I’d be standing under it. That it would even fall while we were here.”

Beckett’s expression darkened. “Except he stuck around long enough to make sure. It’d only take one finger to give it a little push. That was most likely the creak we heard.” He tromped down the metal stairs. “We were either followed, someone knew we’d come here, or your girl Darla might not think Richie is so innocent, after all.”

“It wasn’t Darla. She would never make a calculated move like that.” Although she would have known she could cut halfway through the chain before they got there, and she did have a good idea they’d come into the garage, which is why she’d secured the keys for them. She could have come up the back stairs and given it the final push. But that was a major stretch.

“Don’t be so quick to declare her innocent, Counselor. I know it’s your job—”

“Don’t go there.” She met his menacing challenge. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Well, let’s go talk to her, shall we? Maybe she called someone and innocently mentioned you were here.”





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