Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
T he heat of the tavern pressed in close as Ophelia stared at Jarod, keeping all expression off her face. “I’ll ask you again, and keep in mind I can help you if you’re honest with me. Did you kill Tamara?”
“Nope. Maybe Brock did.” Jarod smiled. “Perhaps she found out about Monica? Or maybe Brock dated her as well—most men in town did. Maybe she got too clingy and he killed her. That’s my bet, Agent.”
She forced her own smile, so tired her ears rang. But fury flowed through her blood, so she could at least focus. “Doesn’t track for me, Jarod.” Yet it did. Maybe. A little. “What if Tammy threatened to tell Amka about your affair? You know, the one that continued after you and Amka became engaged?”
Jarod lost the charm. “Like I said, I’m not married yet. Amka understands that. I sure as hell wouldn’t kill somebody over it.”
Ophelia faked a wince. “It’s the timing, you know? Tamara disappears and we now know was killed. Then her place burns down? All evidence in it gone? Even worse, you own the place and end up with a big, fat settlement payment?” Man, she was pissed. Furious. But she wouldn’t let this asshat know he’d gotten to her. “Sounds like motive to me.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got nothing.”
Nothing. That was true. She frowned. “Who investigated the fire?” Sheriff Blazerton had died by that time.
Jarod shrugged. “The insurance folks sent out a guy, but the place burned to the ground. No foul play, Olly.”
It was really too bad the sheriff had died. She stood and leaned toward Jarod. “I don’t know about that. I’m going to do a background check on you that will tell me your favorite cartoon character when you were a toddler. You’re my number one suspect for Tammy’s murder, Jarod. You might want to find yourself a good lawyer.”
“Say hi to your boyfriend for me,” Jarod drawled.
“Count on it,” Ophelia said sweetly, turning her back on him to see Brock on a stool with his back to her, broad shoulders taut under his worn flannel shirt.
She made her way to the bar, masking the storm brewing in her chest with an easy smile. Brock still hadn’t noticed her, but Amka caught her eye.
“Hey, Olly. You hungry?” Amka asked.
Ophelia would puke if she tried to eat anything right now. “No, but thank you.” She sat on a bar stool next to Brock, not looking at him. “I hate to ask you this, but did you know that Jarod and Tamara Randsom had an affair that possibly started a year and a half ago and lasted until her disappearance this last May?”
Brock turned toward her. “You think this is the place?”
“Yes.” Ophelia would ask Amka in for a formal interview, but she wanted answers before Jarod had a chance to speak with his fiancée. “I’m sorry if that hurts you.” She was too tired to be smooth.
Amka’s chin lifted. “I heard rumors but didn’t know the full truth.”
“Did you kill Tamara?”
“Ophelia,” Brock growled. “What are you doing?”
She kept her focus on Amka. “My job. Amka?”
The woman’s dark eyes flashed. “No. I didn’t kill Tammy.”
“Do you think Jarod did?”
Now something undefinable flashed in those eyes. “No.” Her gaze flicked to his table. “He’s not a killer.” Did her tone lack conviction?
“When did you become engaged?”
Amka swallowed. “On New Year’s Day.”
Brock stiffened.
“Where were you when Hank died, Amka?” Ophelia asked.
Amka’s eyes widened. “That day was normal for me until I heard about Hank’s death. I came right to work, and the sheriff told me when he came in for a drink around lunch.”
Ophelia frowned. “The sheriff drank during the day?”
“Sure,” Amka said. “He and Hank had been friends for decades. Hank’s death tore the sheriff up.”
“Did you kill Hank?”
Amka stared at her. “Are you nuts?”
Maybe. “Yes or no?”
“Of course not.”
Ophelia continued smoothly. “When was the last time you saw Tamara Randsom?”
Amka twisted a bar towel in her hands. “I think I saw her during the kindergarten graduation. I don’t remember seeing her after that.”
Ophelia’s eyebrows rose. “Did the entire town attend that graduation?”
“Yes,” Amka said simply, looking at Brock for confirmation. “We all do. It’s an event.”
“Did Tamara leave the ceremony with anybody?” Ophelia asked.
Amka shook her head. “No. I remember seeing her flip off Loretta and leave on her own. I have no clue where she went after that.”
“What about you?” Ophelia asked softly.
Amka swallowed. “I came back to work. As usual.”
“I see.” Ophelia looked at her watch. “I’d like to formally interview you on the record in the matter of Tamara Randsom’s death. Say tomorrow at the station around three in the afternoon?” That should give her enough time to obtain a preliminary background check on the woman. Ophelia wanted to get all of her ducks in a row before she called in Jarod.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Amka asked.
Ophelia shook her head. “Not if you didn’t do anything wrong.” She pushed off the stool. “Brock?” She kept her mask firmly in place. She brushed a hand over his arm as if everything was normal. “Time to go?”
He nodded, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “Sure.”
Outside, the cold Alaskan air was sharp against her cheeks. Snow swirled in slow drifts under the glow of the streetlamp. The town felt quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in and left too much room for unspoken things.
“Let’s go to the station,” she said casually, though her words were a tight thread in the cold air. She would confront him there.
Brock studied her. “Sure. I don’t want to leave the sled here.” He slid his leg over and held out his arm.
She hesitated for just a second before she smiled, accepted his help, and swung behind him. He handed back her helmet, which had been hanging on a handlebar. She pulled it onto her head and secured the strap.
He did the same and started the beast.
Fury rolled through her. She wrapped her arms around Brock’s waist, feeling the familiar heat of him through his jacket.
The engine roared as they shot forward, the snow spraying out behind them as they sped down the street. But when they reached the end of the main street, he didn’t slow down and flip around. He kept going, his body a hard wall as he took the river road away from town.
Her fingers tightened around his waist, anger simmering in her chest. Apparently she wasn’t in a playing poker state of mind and hadn’t fooled him with her casual request. Damn, she needed sleep.
By the time they pulled up in front of his cabin, she was seething. The second he killed the engine, she jumped off and spun around. “What the hell, Brock?”
He tugged off his helmet, his face already stormy. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I said I wanted to go to the station.”
“I heard you,” he said bluntly. “But we’re both exhausted, and obviously something has you furious. So we’re talking about it here, away from everyone else. Period.”
She shoved her helmet into his chest, forcing him to grab it. “Fine.” She stomped to the front door and shoved it open to yank off her coat and hang on a hook. Then she kicked out of her boots and moved closer to the grand stone fireplace in the great room. She needed space. She needed answers. And she needed them now.
Brock followed her inside, shutting the door hard enough to rattle the windows. “All right.” He threw his helmet onto the table. “We’re here. Out with it.”
She whirled on him, anger blazing in her eyes. “You should’ve told me.”
“Told you what?” he asked, his voice hard but cautious.
“Monica,” she bit out, every syllable like a slap. “You spent the night with her last December. She was your alibi for Hank’s fucking murder.”
Brock’s eyes darkened, his nostrils flaring. “Jarod obviously knew that. How?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, stepping closer. “Who the fuck cares what Jarod knows? Monica can provide an actual alibi for you, and you still kept your night a secret. Why? Are you in love with her?” The last question shocked her. She hadn’t meant to ask that.
“Of course not,” he said, his voice tight, like he reined himself in. “We’re just friends. The night was stupid and we both regretted it. Nobody knows. Well, I thought nobody knew. David doesn’t, and I see no reason to hurt either one of them.”
Fury felt like acid in Ophelia’s throat. “You let me walk around in the dark, Brock. You let me think I had the whole story when I didn’t.”
“I made her a promise and wanted to keep her life from getting ripped apart.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through his composure. “Her presence when I found Hank’s body doesn’t change anything.”
“Oh, you’re wrong about that,” Ophelia hissed.
He crossed the room in two strides, standing close but not touching her. His energy was like a storm—electric and overwhelming. “I wasn’t trying to keep you out,” he said. “But you and I both know Monica wasn’t the point. She didn’t see who killed Hank. She didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“She had something to do with you,” Ophelia shot back. “And that makes it my business.”
His jaw tightened, the weight of everything unsaid between them filling the space like a vacuum. He looked at her, really looked at her, and something flickered in his eyes—pain, regret, something else. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I should’ve told you.”
Her throat tightened. “Why didn’t you?”
He hesitated, then finally said, “Because I made her a promise, and I didn’t think it mattered. The night with her didn’t mean anything to me. The morning did, but I didn’t kill Hank. You know that.” His voice turned rough, raw. “Then you and I happened so fast, and I figured we had a clean slate. We both know I didn’t kill Hank, so why break a promise? Because my night with you mattered. Completely.”
“You could’ve trusted me.”
He levered back slightly. Barely. But enough. “Yeah, I could’ve with that.”
With that.
“It’s always going to be between us,” she whispered. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, but she forced them back. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. “Whoever killed Hank. That’s always going to be between us. We both know it.”
His hand lifted like he wanted to touch her but stopped halfway. “Not if we don’t let it.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t trust you.”
“Yeah, you do. I fucked up by not telling you about Monica, but you trust me.”
Did she? God, she couldn’t think. “What else are you keeping from me?”
“Nothing. You have my word.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Yeah, she aimed to hurt with that one. “Now, I want to go to Flossy’s.”
He tucked his thumbs in his jean pockets. “No.”
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
His green gaze bore into her. “I said no. In case you forgot, somebody has been shooting at you. You’re in danger. Right now, you can barely stand, much less defend yourself. So you’re staying here until you get some sleep. You can have the guest room.”
She couldn’t argue with his logic, even though she wanted to kick him in the head. “Fine. It better have a lock.” She strode past him to the hallway, heading into the guest bedroom, which did, indeed, have a lock.
She’d figure out if she should arrest him or just shoot him after a few hours of sleep. Yeah. Good plan.