Chapter Eight #3
Wynn barked a furious denial—half shout, half wounded growl—but Corbin barely acknowledged him. The room around Jessa seemed to narrow, closing in. Corbin’s words echoed too sharply in her skull.
Deacon, voice steely, cut in. “You’re telling me Lauren Creed murdered Clayton Hargrove because he went back to his wife?”
Corbin nodded. “People kill for less, Sheriff. You know that.”
The awful thing was… some of the pieces could fit. Lauren had secrets, too many. She’d lied about Jessa’s paternity. Lied to protect her inheritance. Lied to hide whatever Shade had dredged up.
But an affair? Murder?
Her heart clenched hard. “No,” she said fiercely. “No. My mother didn’t kill Clayton Hargrove. And Roman sure as hell didn’t help her cover up anything.”
Corbin met her gaze through the camera, eyes steady, unreadable. “People you love can surprise you.”
She felt cold, cold to her bones.
Because she knew Lauren wasn’t perfect. Knew her mother had made mistakes, huge ones. Knew there were shadows in Lauren’s past that Jessa had never been able to fully explain. But she didn’t believe what Corbin was saying.
“You’re accusing them without a shred of proof.” Deacon spat out.
Corbin finally looked away, turning his gaze back toward the tree line outside the truck as if he’d already moved on from the destruction he’d just dropped.
But Jessa hadn’t.
Deacon’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at the incoming text and showed it to her. His deputies were ten minutes out.
“Enough,” Wynn shouted, snapping their attention back to the security monitor. Wynn was rounding on Corbin so violently the truck rocked on the feed. “I don’t give a flying fuck about Clayton Hargrove.”
Corbin jerked back, startled.
Wynn slammed a fist against the dashboard, face contorted with raw grief and fury.
“I don’t care if Lauren killed that bastard or not.
He’s dead. She’s dead. None of that matters now.
” He leaned closer to the phone, eyes wild.
“Jessa and Deacon, you have forty-eight hours to find Lauren’s real killer,” Wynn growled. “Or I release everything.”
Jessa felt her stomach twist, dread turning her limbs cold.
Deacon’s voice hardened. “What kind of ‘everything,’ Wynn?”
Wynn inhaled sharply as if he was steadying himself with bitterness.
“The file. The one Lauren made me promise to protect. Roman falsified documents about Jessa’s birth,” Wynn said, voice shaking with accusation.
“Changed identities. Manipulated foster records. Buried everything that would have exposed you as Noah’s daughter. ”
Jessa clenched her hands into fists. She’d known some of this. Suspected more. But Wynn apparently wasn’t finished.
“There’s enough in there to raise questions about you, Jessa,” Wynn snarled.
“What questions?” she couldn’t ask fast enough.
More of that bitterness slammed through Wynn’s eyes. “Your involvement with Creed Response operations. Jobs you took with no oversight. People who disappeared after you tracked them.”
Jessa sucked in a breath. “Those were legal extractions—”
“Were they?” Wynn snapped. “Because the reports say otherwise. Surveillance missing. Gaps in timelines. Payments unaccounted for. Makes it look like you did more than just extract targets.” He paused, letting the words twist the knife. “Maybe… eliminated them.”
Jessa felt heat crawl up her spine—anger, fear, disbelief. She’d never killed anyone who didn’t try to kill her first. Never crossed that line. But on paper? With the right edits?
She knew how easily someone could make her look dirty.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Jessa,” Wynn went on. “But Lauren trusted me with the truth. Trusted me to protect you. And I will, unless you fail her.”
“Wynn—” Deacon said.
“Forty-eight hours.” Wynn cut him off. “Find her killer. Or I burn every one of you with the truth.”
The line went dead, and on the screen, Wynn’s truck engine revved.
Corbin stayed on his phone and said something, too quiet to hear, but Wynn’s head whipped toward him with such venom that Corbin flinched. On the security feed, Corbin climbed out passenger’s side and hurried to his vehicle. The moment he was in, he took off.
And so did Wynn.
“Shit,” Deacon spat out. His phone buzzed. A text from his deputies. Two minutes out.
“Too late,” he muttered, thumbs flying as he typed a response.
Wynn and Corbin fleeing. Go in pursuit. Wynn is primary. Use caution. He hit send, snapped the phone shut, and turned to her. “Let’s move.”
Jessa grabbed her gear, sprinted with Deacon out of the office, through the house, and into the cold morning air. Ranger barked behind them, pacing anxiously at the door, but they were already halfway to her SUV.
She jumped in, Deacon slamming into the passenger seat beside her. The engine fired to life, and she floored it down the long gravel drive. Trees whipped past. Gravel spit under the tires. Deacon braced an arm against the dash, phone in hand, already checking the feed.
“They went left, toward the old county cut-through,” he said.
She swung the SUV onto the main road, speeding toward the turnoff. They had barely cleared the tree cover when the shot blasted through the air.