Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NOAH
I feel like I’m falling down a very deep well.
“The sheriff killed Marion?” I say, more to myself than anyone else. Like I need to hear the words out loud. “But…he’s law enforcement.”
The space around me expands and contracts as I stare at the sheriff’s name, printed there in black and white.
“I hate to break it to you, honey,” Grayson says, “but cops have committed crimes before.”
But not in my town. The sheriff trained me, for god’s sake. But even as I feel surrounded by the abyss, things begin to click into place. Why the investigation was so shoddy. Why he was so quick to arrest me. Why the judge and the prosecutor seem hell bent on conviction.
“Let’s all slow down a minute,” Von says. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
“Oh come on,” I say. “You said yourself that someone, coming to the range at the end of the day, could have secreted my gun out of there.” I point. “The sheriff is the last person signed into the range that day!”
“A theory isn’t evidence,” Von says. “And you’re both missing the point.”
“What’s the point?” I shoot back.
She runs her finger over the list of names signed in that day. “ Your name isn’t on here.”
She’s right.
“If we are going to accuse the sheriff, we’d need much more evidence. But this will reinforce our stance that you did not have your gun at the time of the shooting.”
“There has to be something that Marion kept, someone she told, some thread that will link him to her murder,” I say, my mind churning. I hate how easily I can believe the sheriff is a killer, but in my cop’s brain, it’s the only thing that makes sense. He’s certainly more age-appropriate to be writing love letters to Marion. He was at the estate often, and would know about the garden entrance, and Marion’s shed. He could have covered his tracks at the murder scene well. He’d know how to commit a crime and not leave evidence. He was even one of the first on the scene—maybe he never even left the scene at all! No one would suspect him getting there so quickly. They’d just think it was good police work.
“I was the perfect patsy, just in case,” I continue. “No wonder he wasn’t keen on letting Caden keep the investigation open over the summer. And when that casing was finally found, he pounced to arrest me. Divert attention. Get this resolved quickly.”
“But if he wanted to frame you,” Von points out gently, “why not do a better job of it? Why not leave your gun at the scene? Or find the shell casing right then and there, the morning of that initial search? He worked alongside you for years after Mom’s death, Noah. Why? What, was he just biding his time?”
She makes some good points, but I refuse to be daunted. “Maybe he figured it was easier for the case to go cold,” I say. “ Maybe he really couldn’t find the casing to prove it was me—Isla only barely saw it when she looked under that bookshelf. Maybe that was part of his plan that went wrong.”
Von doesn’t look convinced.
“The most important thing is to get your name cleared,” she says. “Grayson, get the rest of these boxes back to Stan, but tell him we need to keep this one for the trial.”
Grayson stands. “I’ll have Alex help me.”
He heads out the door and I start pacing around the room.
“Why would he frame me?” I ask. “I’ve never done anything to him. I idolized him, for fuck’s sake.”
“Noah, slow down,” Von says.
“Slow down? He’s out to get me, Von.”
“Listen to me,” she says slowly, putting her hand on my chest. My heart races, my adrenaline pumping. “As your girlfriend, yes I agree, this does make the sheriff look guilty. But as your lawyer, I can tell you this is not even close to enough evidence to prove it. And I deal in facts, not feelings. But this logbook just created a lot more reasonable doubt. And that’s a good thing for our defense.”
I pause, momentarily stunned, my brain caught on one word. “Girlfriend?”
She flushes. “Well, yeah. I mean…what would you call me?”
“Definitely girlfriend,” I say quickly because honestly, I hadn’t really thought about it. Von and girlfriend seem like two words that have never gone together. Plus, no one is allowed to know about us, which doesn’t seem very relationship-y.
But do I want Von to be my girlfriend? Hell yes I do. Even if we’re the only two people who know.
“This is what we’re going to do,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “You’re going to look into the sheriff. Check his social media. Check Mom’s too. See if there’s anything that might hint to him obsessing over her. I can pull her phone records. Maybe he sent Mom texts as well as those letters or called her more than usual or something. But I still have witnesses to interview—it’s more important right now to find someone else besides Patrick who can put you away from the scene of the crime that morning.”
God, she’s so sexy when she goes into full lawyer mode.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m on it.”
Von heads out to Magnolia’s Petals to interview Joni Lewis, and I spend the rest of the day in the guesthouse, looking through the sheriff’s Facebook page.
It’s the only personal social media account he has—no Instagram and definitely no TikTok. I go back to a few years before the murder. There are pictures of him with Marion, but never just the two of them. It’s usually at the annual Everton Christmas party, or at one of the booths on Magnolia Day, or at the Fourth of July fireworks celebrations on the green. There are also photographs of him with Wilbur Jenkins and Judge Warner, at various fundraisers for the department or other legal-type events, increasing my suspicions that the sheriff is pressuring them for my speedy conviction. I even check Cody’s social media to see if he may have posted something of value, some background image with his dad and Von’s mom, but Cody’s Instagram is almost exclusively focused on cars. Marion’s social media is a bust too—it’s all very carefully curated, mostly supportive announcements about town events or family photos.
I decide to try and do a deeper dive into Judge Warner. I wonder if maybe the sheriff has something on him, something that he can use to tilt the scales in the prosecution’s favor. The judge seems to have a fondness for brandy and cigars, which makes him pretty cliché but not criminal. He donates to Catholic charities. I see one photo of him and the sheriff and a priest, all smiling on the steps of a large, stone church.
Great day to support Father Simmons and the St. Catherine’s soup kitchen! the post declares.
There’s a faint knock on my door and I look up. It’s past midnight. I can lose myself when I go down a rabbit hole like this. Penny is sleeping peacefully on a blanket by the fireplace. I walk over and open the door.
“Hi,” Von says, slipping inside.
“Hey,” I say, closing the door behind her. She’s wearing a pair of soft gray sweatpants and Ugg boots, along with a puffy coat. She looks so cozy.
“Find anything?” she asks.
“No,” I sigh, sinking down on the couch. She unzips her jacket and takes it off. She’s wearing an oversize, off the shoulder sweater, tantalizingly soft and thin. She sits next to me, peering at the screen and resting her chin on my shoulder.
“So the sheriff and the judge give to Catholic charities?” she says.
“Yup,” I say. “I can’t find anything that shows any sort of unusual relationship with your mom yet. I’ll keep looking. How did the interviews go today?”
“Feels like this whole town was asleep that morning,” she grumbles. “And the rare people who weren’t aren’t helpful.”
“It was a pretty wild night,” I point out. “Makes sense for folks to have slept in.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah. But I’m weird.”
She chuckles and rubs her eyes. I love Von without makeup. I love her soft and exposed. Her hair tumbles over one shoulder and my eyes snag on the curve of her collarbone where it peeks out from beneath her sweater. She tilts her head up to look at me from beneath thick lashes. Her warm pink mouth curves into a smirk.
“Are you checking me out, Patterson?”
My answering chuckle is low and throaty. “Maybe. You are my girlfriend, after all.”
The words send a thrill through me, and Von’s cheeks flush. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I am.”
I know there’s a lot of stuff we need to discuss—like how our lives will work once the trial is over and she goes back to New York. I don’t even know what I’m going to do once I’m freed. What my life will look like if I’m not a member of the MBSD anymore. But I don’t want to think about that right now. I just want to enjoy this moment with Von.
My fingers skim over her exposed shoulder and she shivers. Her hand flattens over my stomach and she grips the fabric of my hoodie, tilting her head so that I can kiss my way down her neck. My hand comes up to stroke her breast over the soft cashmere, and oh god, she’s not wearing a bra. I hear that low purr in her throat, a noise that sets my cock throbbing. I bring my mouth to hers as I grip her breast, feeling that perfect nipple harden beneath my palm as she moans against me. When I slide my hand under her sweater and over the warmth of her skin to pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, the little gasp she makes drives me wild.
As I lean back to look at her, I know in this moment I will never tire of being with her. I will never want anyone the way I want Siobhan Everton. Her hair falls around her in a glinting red waterfall, her skin shimmering like a pearl in the firelight.
She bites her lower lip, a faintly nervous gesture, and it sets an ache blossoming in my core.
“What?” she whispers.
I want to tell her I love her. That I’m falling hard—harder than I ever thought possible. But now doesn’t seem the time.
“You’re beautiful,” I reply, placing my palm on her chest so I can feel her heartbeat. She leans down and kisses each of my fingertips.
“Take me to bed,” she whispers.