Secret surrender, p.8
Secret Surrender, page 8
“Dean Holloway?”
Adrenaline spiked, and Dean’s pulse climbed to a galloping pace. He could stay and find out what the sheriff wanted, or he could run while he had the chance. Except the sheriff’s car blocked his, so running would have to be a literal run. In a place like Harlow, his best chance would be hiding in the woods, but not before trekking across miles and miles of high grass plains.
He took a steadying breath and met the sheriff’s direct stare, relaxing his body one tense muscle at a time. “That’s me.”
As far as he knew, this was just an innocuous visit to say hello. Best not to incriminate himself just yet.
The sheriff pointed to the front door. “Mind if we talk inside?”
Okay, so maybe not innocuous after all…
Shit!
Dean nodded, resisting the urge to say no.
Hope wasn’t dead yet. Maybe the sheriff had no idea about his unintended involvement with Ms. Bonacci’s home invasion.
“You’re new to town.” The sheriff spoke from behind Dean’s shoulder, while he unlocked the front door.
“That’s right.”
The two men made their way into the sparsely furnished living room, and he took a seat in one of his new armchairs.
“I’m Sheriff Peter Marlin.” The sheriff sat on the matching couch perpendicular to Dean, the lines either side of Sheriff Marlin’s mouth anything but welcoming. The man had to be somewhere near his sixties. “I’m here to talk to you about the recent shooting. I assume you’ve heard about it?”
Dean put on a calm appearance and forced his breathing to slow in a bid to continue enjoying his new life of freedom. No way was he ever going back to prison. Certainly not again over a crime he’d wanted nothing to do with.
The sheriff’s probing stare seemed to size Dean up, or the intention here was to psych him out. Either way, the silence chipped at his nerves since he had no idea what this man already knew.
“One death and a serious gunshot wound. Yeah, I heard.” He curled and uncurled his fingers in his lap, stopping the second he noticed the fidgeting. He needed to give away as little as possible. To not fall into any traps. “I bet something like that doesn’t happen around here very often.”
“No. Never.” The old sheriff gave a restless exhale and shook his head, the wrinkles over his forehead deepening, his brown eyes exuding a level of wariness. “As you can imagine, there’s a lot of people worried and riding me for answers. It looks like a simple case of an ex-husband wanting revenge, but certain details don’t add up. At a local level, I can’t let up until I at least try to find some answers.”
Dean lightened his pitch slightly, feigning surprise. “And your visit here today has something to do with that?”
“You’re here from LA?” The sheriff angled his body toward Dean, as though he aimed for a better look at him, the goal being to weigh Dean’s every reaction.
“That’s right.”
No point lying about information easily obtained.
“And are you aware the man killed in the incident, Anthony Stucco, was also from LA?”
Dean shrugged. “Of course. People here like to talk, and this whole thing is the current topic of choice. So yeah, I’ve heard. But LA is a big place. What are you trying to say?”
Sheriff Marlin cleared his throat, and he frowned down at the biscuit-colored carpet at his feet. A sign he wasn’t so easily led astray. “You arrived roughly around the same time as the deceased. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
Dean leaned forward and raised a brow, making it clear he wouldn’t give in either. “Around that time, Harlow also had a town fair and a bunch of tourists from all over passing through. So, what do I think? I think it’s highly likely two people from one giant city like LA could be at the same big gathering, yeah.”
The sheriff leaned in, mirroring Dean’s move; at the same time, mirroring his attempt to intimidate. “I’ll come right out and ask you then, Mr. Holloway. Is there a connection between you and the deceased?”
Dean shifted back, an unnatural stillness taking him over, while sweat clammed up his palms. He pressed his hands to the sea-green armchair material and turned the question over and over in his head.
The last thing he needed were more felony charges added to his already dismal rap sheet. After ten damn years, he’d only now gotten his life to a point where he somewhat liked what he saw. Then again, a clever but evasive answer now would be the only way to avoid hanging questions over his honesty should someone ever manage to link him to Anthony.
“I understand you have a job to do, Sheriff, but—six degrees of separation and all—it’d be impossible for me to rule out having any overlapping acquaintances with Anthony.”
Sheriff Marlin narrowed his eyes and held the expression of a man much more astute than his faded uniform and modest country surroundings implied. A man unwilling to tolerate ambiguous bullshit. “You know, son, I’ve done some research on you.”
A bitter taste filled Dean’s mouth, but he pressed his lips into a firm, flat line, still trying to give nothing away. “And what did you find?”
“You’re ex-army. An infantry sergeant.” The sheriff kept his brows low and his stare hard. His research had clearly paid off. “You did time in military prison for assaulting an officer. You were discharged for bad conduct. You then dropped off the radar for a solid ten years before resurfacing in Harlow in the aftermath of a shoot-out. See how all that doesn’t sit well with me?”
Fuck. Holy fuck.
Still, this was stuff a background check would show up. So maybe all hope wasn’t lost.
Dean had no control over his past, including what had happened after his incarceration and discharge. The many instances he’d tried to rebuild, failing over and over and over again…
“I did my time.” He controlled his tone, his simmering anger nearly undetectable beneath his still delivery, despite the searing sensation expanding in his belly. “What’s your point?”
“You have no employment records since your release.” The sheriff lifted both brows, lightening the severity of his face but not the weight of his suspicion. “How have you survived all these years without any income?”
“What can I say? I did a bunch of cash-in-hand jobs, not too dissimilar to what I’m offering now that I’m in Harlow. Good thing you’re not the IRS, huh?” He gave a casual smirk, the lighthearted gesture intended to distract from his thundering pulse and the sweat beading at his temples.
If he concentrated too hard on the effect of his nerves, the shallow pull of each breath alone would send him undone.
“I can arrange a call to the IRS if you’d like, Mr. Holloway?” Sheriff Marlin gave a dry reply, one that held the flat frankness of someone who’d been on the job for far too many decades. “I’m not sure you appreciate how bad this looks for you. Mr. Stucco left no evidence of having driven to Harlow on his own. No trace of a car. No keys on his body. He didn’t have the resources or ability to find Ms. Bonacci on his own, either. But perhaps a man with a military past would. Now”—the sheriff leaned in farther, pointing a finger in Dean’s direction as if to demand his total attention—“if Mr. Stucco had survived his attempts to extort money, he’d be up for a number of charges, including attempted murder. That’s one hell of a charge, don’t you think, Mr. Holloway?”
The sheriff didn’t wait for a reply, and Dean didn’t get the feeling he’d ever really wanted one. The older man scowled now, harsh wrinkles scoring his age-freckled cheekbones. “You should understand, if someone delivered Mr. Stucco to Ms. Bonacci’s door here in Harlow, I need to know. I need to ensure they’re caught, or at least that they’ve left. I won’t have any murderous criminals loose in my town.”
Murderous criminals? Dean’s face and hands burned with an instant rush of blood. Emilia and Harlow had nothing to fear from him, not even back when he’d been in on helping Anthony get here.
Dean’s work with Luciano had always been about finding people. Not killing them. He’d said as much to Anthony on the drive over. Hell, the entire syndicate knew that he never stooped that low. He’d had more than his fill of blood, guns, and gore in the service; his need for money was the only reason he’d justified working for Luciano. The syndicate had been mostly about rich criminals screwing over other rich criminals. Innocent civilians were rarely involved.
The Bonacci job was different. He’d nearly begged Luciano to keep Anthony distracted in LA while he worked that one alone. He would have been quick. He would have figured out if there was even any money to be had. And everyone would have survived the ordeal, shaken, but very much alive and unharmed.
But Stucco had always been a loose cannon, even as far back as when he’d hired Dean a decade earlier to help find and pry some girlfriend away from another man. Hell, he probably should have bowed out of that trivial job, too. He couldn’t blame that woman for choosing literally any guy who wasn’t Anthony.
Maybe all of this was Dean’s fault. He should have bailed out of the syndicate earlier. Should have suspected that Anthony would sneak a gun on this latest trip.
“If someone helped Mr. Stucco, wouldn’t it make sense for them to return to LA?” Dean drew a slow inhalation. He'd been half banking on the syndicate and law looking for him anywhere but here, though perhaps a little resigned now to whatever came next. “This whole mess has stirred up a lot of attention.”
Sheriff Marlin’s gaze darted about Dean’s face. “Maybe, but it’s still a little too convenient that you, Mr. Stucco, and Ms. Bonacci all originate from the same city.”
“Like I said, a coincidence at best, but I appreciate you have a job to do. In fact, I’m grateful to live in a town where keeping the peace is a priority.” Despite the sharp prickle raking over his skin, he shrugged, a small semblance of fight returning. He’d known nothing of Anthony’s intentions that day and wouldn’t take the heat for another man’s crime. “So, tell me Sheriff, what can I do to put your suspicions to rest?”
The sheriff inched his posture back. “It’d help if I knew your movements in the hours leading up to the shooting.”
Dean drummed his fingertips on his armrest and bit back a smile because, once again, meeting Sarah turned out to be a stroke of, for him, hugely unusual good luck. Perhaps he wasn’t quite so done for after all. “I’m not sure the woman I was with would appreciate me saying.”
The sheriff jolted his chin back in poorly hidden surprise. “You were with someone?”
Dean gave a slow nod, trying his best not to come across like a smug bastard. Not because of what he’d been doing that night, but because for once in his goddamn miserable life, he had a genuine alibi. “We met before ten p.m. at the soiree, and I left her house around three the next afternoon. As far as I know, that time would overlap Mr. Stucco’s foiled crime spree, am I right?”
Sheriff Marlin didn’t bother to answer. He instead dug a pen from his light brown shirt pocket as well as a small notebook, his movements a sudden flurry of activity. “I’ll need this woman’s name and address.”
Dean opened his mouth, then pulled it shut again. Not an hour had passed since he’d promised Sarah he’d keep quiet about their night. As sketchy as his morals had been over the years, a sharp pang still knocked at his heart. He’d be betraying her trust, and so quickly too.
So much for turning over a new leaf.
Then again, the LAPD had suspicions about the syndicate, and the sheriff knew about Dean’s past. What future did he have with Sarah if he didn’t speak up?
He scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a low groan. “You know what sort of trouble you’re getting me into here?”
Sheriff Marlin gave a stiff smile, one that didn’t belie much sympathy. “You don’t have any other choice.”
A low and incredulous laugh broke from within Dean’s chest, his last shreds of integrity sliding away.
Maybe my confession will buy me enough freedom to apologize, you know, right before she ditches my ass.
“Her name’s Sarah.” His ribs compressed and a churning sensation took over his stomach. “She lives on Lincoln Drive and works at Maynard’s, and she likes to run, and”—he flicked his gaze up in time to register the sheriff’s astonishment—“that’s all I know about her.”
Or at least, as much as he was willing to say, which was still far more than he’d wanted.
He peered down again, avoiding the sheriff’s scrutinous stare, breaths changing to hollow puffs of regret. He never ratted others out. Much less others he liked.
“Sarah Overton?” The sheriff didn’t even bother to scribble anything in his notepad, which now hung loose between his fingers. His wary stare inspected Dean as if to wonder what a woman like Sarah would be doing with a punk like him.
The sheriff was right.
He and Sarah Overton didn’t belong together, but she liked him, and he damn well wanted her all the same.
He nodded to confirm the sheriff had the details correct, but also in silent agreement with the man’s critical wonderings.
“Well.” The sheriff rose from his armchair, his movements stiffer than when he first walked in, as though he carried the extra weight of this exchange. “I’ll let you know if I have more questions.”
Dean walked the sheriff to the door but paused before opening it. “Please, about Sarah, she didn’t want anyone to know.”
The sheriff turned, his expression taut before the muscles over his brow gradually softened. For the first time this meeting, the guy gave off a fatherly air. “It’s my job to be discreet, Mr. Holloway. Enjoy your day, I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under happier circumstances.”
Fourteen
“I’ll have the chicken and mushroom pie and a glass of your house red. And I’m sitting myself down right over there.” Aggie McKey peered up at Sarah from the other side of the bar, her hand pointing to one of Maynard’s empty dark wood dinner tables, the octogenarian’s cheeks a tad rosier than usual.
“A red wine? Are you sure about that?” Sarah raised a brow and held a lighthearted smile. “You’re usually a gin drinker, Aggie. Celebrating something special today, are you?”
Aggie’s eyes glittered, and she looked about as excited as a teenager who’d inexplicably found herself seated next to her high school crush. Except no one else was beside her, and she and Sarah had done this dance a number of times over the years.
“Today’s the day Walder and I had our first date, all sixty-four years ago, and I love the man more than ever.” Aggie gestured down to her pink floral dress, a crocheted white shawl over her shoulders, and her long, white braid perched on top.
Truth was, Walder Aaron McKey had been dead for a solid twenty years, seven years shy of how long Sarah had been alive, and still Aggie celebrated every first date and wedding anniversary.
“Well, in that case…” Sarah gnawed on her lower lips as if to weigh up her next words, even though this was still part of the dance. “This meal’s on me.”
Aggie wasn’t the only one to think her relationship with Walder deserved celebrating. That kind of love just didn’t exist anymore. Sarah could always spare a meal and a glass of wine as her own little tribute.
“Oh, you’re always such a dear.” Aggie chuckled and reached across the bar, soon wrapping her age-affected fingers around Sarah’s palm. “Walder didn’t always make life easy for me, don’t cha know, and I sure didn’t for him either. Heck, I sure am happy I met him, though. You’ll see just what I mean for yourself one day.”
Aggie’s stare turned still and all-seeing, as it tended to do from time to time, her blue-green eyes seeming to peer into the depths of Sarah’s soul. The weird part was the old woman did tend to get things right with a freaky level of accuracy, but in this case, Sarah wanted her to be wrong.
She returned a half grin, certain she’d never come to understand the kind of love Aggie spoke of. Not with the way her luck went. Not that she intended on skipping down that brimstone-covered path of delusion, anyway.
“I’ll look forward to it.” Her lie now was about not letting her somber view of reality dampen Aggie’s moment. “Until then, I’ll go get you that wine and tell Gordon to serve you some pie.”
She spun away to avoid any more of Aggie’s sage advice and pep talking, making a beeline for the back of the bar where food orders piled up one after another. The dinner crowd was building, and as usual, she needed to stay on top of her staff. She was short on bar staff as it was, at least until more cover arrived in another hour. No time to think about absent family. Or injured exes. Or even Dean. Or his promises of “friendship”… whatever that meant… thank goodness.
“Sarah, I need to talk to you.”
She jumped at Peter Marlin’s voice, the old sheriff half-shouting across the bar at her, his face sporting an unusually serious expression. Her heart strained, and the ruckus around her seemed to die. Peter didn’t usually come in wearing his uniform—and paired with his sober glare, and demanding she talk to him—something was wrong.
The order tickets in her hands slid from her fingers and onto the bar top. “Why are you here? What’s happened? Is it Blaine?”
The sheriff frowned over his shoulder and then back at her. “Blaine’s fine, but is there somewhere private we can talk? You won’t want anyone hearing what I have to say.”
She paused at the sheriff’s softened tone, a tone that hinted at sympathy. What would he have to say to her that was urgent enough to disrupt the dinner service and required a private meeting?
She tilted her head, gesturing for him to follow her through the kitchen. A kitchen that ultimately had Gordon clinging about in his usual flurry of activity, the sounds short-lived by the time she and the sheriff made it outside to her usual quiet spot behind Maynard’s.
“What’s this about?” She spun around to Peter. Despite his assurances, she couldn’t shake the fear that something terrible had happened. Something with Blaine.
