Chapter Twelve
Jessa looked at Deacon’s desk that was now buried under reports. Printouts from deputies. Screenshots Noah’s team had sent over. Messages that Roman forwarded as fast as he could dig them up. It was all spread out in a chaotic collage that felt like a mirror in Jessa’s head.
It was already past seven. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsher now that she was running on fumes. Her eyes burned. Her shoulders ached from too many hours spent braced for the next hit.
Deacon stood beside her, one hand braced on the edge of the desk. She could tell he was hurting. His posture was too stiff, movements too careful. The adrenaline had long worn off, leaving pain in its wake. Like her, he was frustrated, jaw tight, eyes dark with the lack of progress.
They’d been chasing leads all day and getting nowhere. No sign of Wynn. No sign of Corbin. Both of them had simply vanished into the hills, leaving chaos behind them.
Cold diner leftovers sat at the corner of the desk. A couple of empty coffee cups were stacked beside them, the sharp smell of stale coffee hanging in the air. It felt as if they’d been surviving on caffeine and stubbornness alone.
Jessa rubbed her temples and stared at the report in front of her without really seeing it. “We’re running in circles,” she muttered.
Deacon exhaled slowly. “Feels like it.”
She glanced at him, taking in the lines of fatigue around his eyes. He looked just as wrung out as she felt.
Whoever was behind this knew how to disappear. And worse, they knew exactly how to keep them spinning, searching, failing.
The day had been long. The answers were still out of reach.
Deacon got another text. She’d lost count of how many of those had come through in the past hours. He read this one, cursed, scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a rough groan. The sound alone told her how close he was to boiling over.
“Shade’s lawyer is stalling,” he said. “Claims his client has a stomach virus and can’t come back in to finish the interview.”
Jessa shot him a look. “Seriously.”
“That’s what he says. He’s supposedly getting a statement from a doctor to back it up.” Deacon’s mouth twisted. “And we both know a doctor can be paid off.”
She leaned a hip against the desk, fatigue pressing down hard now. “So he walks.”
“For now.” Deacon pushed a report aside, frustration sharp in the movement. “I don’t have enough to arrest him. Not yet. Means, motive, opportunity, sure. But that’s not enough.”
She hated how right he was.
“Yes, Shade despised Lauren,” Deacon went on. “Yes, he was having an affair with Lila. That gives us plenty of motive. But it doesn’t prove he poisoned Lauren. And it sure as hell doesn’t prove he’s behind the attacks or the blackmail.”
Jessa closed her eyes for a second. Every path they followed ended the same way. Suspicion. Circumstance. Nothing that would hold up in court.
“We need something solid,” she muttered. “Something that ties him directly to Lauren’s death. Or to the shooting.”
Deacon nodded. “Cold hard evidence.”
All the maybes. All the almosts. Shade was slippery by design, hiding behind lawyers and medical excuses while the real damage kept spreading.
And until they could pin something real on him, he stayed free.
Maybe free to come after them again.
Deacon shifted his weight, reaching for another file, and she caught the brief wince he tried and failed to hide. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, buried under resolve and stubborn pride, but she’d seen it.
“That’s it,” she said, straightening. “We’re done for today.”
He opened his mouth to argue. She didn’t give him the chance.
“You’re in pain,” she said, softer now. “And I’m exhausted. We’re not solving this tonight.”
He studied her for a moment, the tension between them resurfacing in the quiet, charged way it always did when they slowed down enough to notice each other again. Fatigue edged his expression, but heat lingered in his eyes, familiar and dangerous.
“And going back to my place helps how?” he asked.
Her mouth curved, just a little. “You can take actual pain meds. And stop pretending you’re fine.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes. The flicker of want that passed between them was undeniable, but it was tangled up with frustration and bone-deep weariness.
She blew out a hard breath. “Tomorrow we exhume my mother’s body, and we can have all the test results rerun. Some new tests, too. That might give us real answers. The kind we need.”
That obviously sobered him. Deacon nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
She gathered her things, her body heavy, her nerves frayed thin. Nothing was resolved. Nothing was easy. But resting now meant being ready for whatever tomorrow brought.
And tomorrow was going to be brutal.
They were both shrugging into their coats when the door opened, and Roman walked in. He didn’t bother with a greeting. He crossed the room in two long strides and dropped a thick file onto Deacon’s desk with a sharp thud.
“There,” he said. “Proof the leaked documents are fake.”
Jessa stared at the file, relief hitting her so hard her knees nearly buckled. She let out a breath she felt as if she’d been holding all day.
Roman planted his hands on the edge of the desk. “Noah’s head tech helped crack it. Metadata doesn’t line up. Time stamps were manipulated. Digital signatures were cloned.”
Deacon picked up the file, flipping through it with growing focus.
Jessa looked at her brother, gratitude flooding her chest. “Thank you.”
Roman nodded, but the anger rolling off him was unmistakable. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, fury barely contained under the surface.
“Someone wanted to burn us,” Roman snarled. “And they thought this would do it.”
Jessa swallowed, her relief tempered by the sight of how deeply this had hit him. Roman didn’t just feel attacked. He felt violated. And whoever had done this had just made it personal.
Roman finally turned his attention to her. The fury in his expression softened just a fraction. “How are you?” he asked.
She was well aware that he already knew. About Noah. About what she had told him. Roman always knew. He read between lines that other people didn’t even notice.
“I’m fine,” she said.
It was easier than saying I don’t know. Easier than admitting that the ground had shifted under her feet and she was still trying to find balance. She didn’t want to give Roman one more thing to worry about when he already carried too much.
Roman studied her for a second longer, then nodded again.
“Someone leaked those documents,” he said, turning back to Deacon’s desk. “The obvious answer is Wynn.”
“Agreed,” Deacon replied.
“But I’m not ruling out Corbin,” Roman added. “Or Shade. Any one of them could have done this. Wynn wants chaos. Corbin likes pulling strings from the shadows. And Shade has more reasons than we know.”
She was thinking the same thing. “Corbin knows our history. He knows exactly how to hit us where it hurts. And he hates us enough to do it.”
“And Shade has the skills,” Roman added. “He could fabricate every line of those files, route them through ten different relays and make it look like they fell out of the sky.”
She met his eyes and saw the promise there. Roman would not let this stand. Neither would she. They just had to figure out which enemy was after them.
And fast.
“Wynn gave us forty-eight hours,” she reminded them. “Find Lauren’s killer, or he releases everything else he has.”
Roman shrugged. “If he does, fine. Let him. I want the truth out there. I don’t want lies buried or twisted anymore. But I’m not going to let Wynn bully us into making bad choices.”
Deacon made a sound of agreement.
Roman’s gaze dropped to her hands, to the coat she was still holding. His eyes lifted again, sharp with concern. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I’m going to Deacon’s.”
Roman made a low sound that could have meant anything from irritation to resignation. “I hope you both know what you’re doing.”
She tilted her head. “About what?”
“About mixing this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between her and Deacon, “with that.” His eyes hardened, protective brother mode fully engaged. “Tempting lust isn’t always a good thing.”
Jessa fought the urge to bristle. “We’re aware of the risks.”
Roman held her gaze for a moment longer, then sighed. “Just be careful. Both of you.”
She nodded. She didn’t promise anything she couldn’t keep. Tomorrow, the truth would start coming out. And tonight, she needed somewhere solid so she could steel herself up.
They said their goodbyes to Roman in the hallway outside Deacon’s office. Roman pulled her into a brief, tight hug, murmured for her to be careful, then gave Deacon a look that carried about five different meanings before turning and walking away.
Jessa followed Deacon out of the sheriff’s station, the night air cold against her flushed skin. The lot was nearly empty now, lights buzzing overhead as they crossed to Deacon’s new cruiser. Once inside, the doors thudded shut and the quiet settled in around them.
As they pulled onto the road, Deacon cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I caused tension between you and Roman.”
She turned toward him, surprised. “You didn’t.”
He glanced over, skeptical.
“Roman doesn’t hate you as much as you think he does,” she said.
Deacon smiled a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah, he does. But he also knows I’m not the bad guy.”
That part was true. Roman trusted Deacon’s integrity even if he didn’t like the man attached to it.
Jessa stared out the window as the familiar roads slid past, headlights sweeping over fences and trees. Her chest tightened with a truth she hadn’t said out loud.
She could get her heart crushed six ways to Sunday by getting involved with Deacon again. History had proven that, and Roman knew it. Love and duty did not mix cleanly with them. Secrets, danger, and loss had a way of carving deep wounds.
Still, some reckless part of her didn’t want to stop what was happening.
Didn’t want to pull away.
Didn’t want to pretend that spark between them didn’t still burn hot and dangerous in the dark.
After gliding the cruiser over the dark country road, Deacon turned up the long drive toward his house, headlights cutting through the dark. And her stomach clenched when she saw a vehicle parked near the front porch.
“Someone’s here,” she said, already scanning the shadows.
Deacon glanced ahead and relaxed. “It’s okay. That’s Eli Turner. He helps take care of Ranger when I’m working late.”
Her pulse slowed, but only a little.
They pulled to a stop, and the front door opened before they even got out. A tall man stepped onto the porch, moving carefully, like every motion cost him something. He was lean, mid-forties or so, with a pronounced limp and a guarded look in his eyes.
“Eli,” Deacon called out. “Thanks for coming by.”
Eli nodded and dropped his gaze to Ranger, who trotted out happily to greet him. He crouched with obvious effort, scratching behind the dog’s ears, murmuring something only the dog seemed to hear.
“This is Jessa,” Deacon said. “Jessa, this is Eli Turner.”
Eli gave her a brief nod, polite but distant, then straightened. “Ranger’s fed and settled,” he murmured. “Horses, too.”
“Appreciate it,” Deacon replied. “I’ve got it from here.”
Eli didn’t linger. He stepped past them, headed straight for his truck, and drove off without another word.
Jessa watched the taillights disappear. “He doesn’t like people.”
Deacon smiled slightly, and they stepped inside. “Not much. He’s a wounded vet. Lost his unit overseas. Lost part of his leg. Dogs and horses make more sense to him than people do.”
She nodded, understanding more than she wanted to admit.
Ranger pressed against Deacon’s leg, tail thumping, and Deacon rested a hand on his head, grounding himself. The house loomed quiet and solid around them. And for the first time in hours, Jessa felt the edge of safety settle in around her.
Deacon locked the door, reset the security panel, and the soft beep confirmed the system was armed. He checked the monitor once more, then turned toward her.
The look in his eyes stopped her breath.
It wasn’t rushed or careless. It was intent. Focused. As if he’d made a decision and she was standing at the center of it.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, but the words wouldn’t come. The air between them felt charged, tight with everything they hadn’t said all day. Fear. Relief. Exhaustion. Want.
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel his heat, smell the faint mix of soap and leather from his jacket. Her heart started pounding, loud enough that she was sure he could hear it.
“We should probably slow this down,” she said, even as her body leaned toward his.
“Probably,” he agreed. And then he didn’t slow down at all.
His hand slid into her hair, fingers curling at the base of her skull, and he kissed her.
It was hot and deep, nothing tentative about it.
His mouth took hers like he’d been holding back for far too long, like the day had stripped away every excuse to pretend they could stay careful.
She made a low sound she didn’t recognize and kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in his jacket.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and the familiar, dangerous way he fit against her.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing hard. “Damn,” he murmured.
Her lips tingled, her pulse racing. She should have stopped it. Should have said something smart and cautious.
Instead, she kissed him again.
The kiss deepened, slower now but no less intense. Deacon’s hands slid down her sides, strong and familiar, before one curved over her breast. Heat flared, sharp and reckless. He pulled her flush against him, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that made her dizzy.
Then he hissed softly.
His body stiffened for a split second before he masked it, but she felt it. The tension. The pain.
She broke the kiss just enough to look at him. “Even lust can’t overrule pain.”
His mouth tilted into a crooked smile, eyes dark and intent. “I kinda want to put that theory to the test.”
Her pulse jumped, desire roaring hot and foolish.
And then his phone sounded.
The sharp buzz cut through the moment like a blade. Deacon stilled, forehead dropping briefly to hers before he stepped back with a muttered curse. He pulled the phone from his pocket and scanned the message.
The color drained from his face.
“Deacon,” she said quietly. “What is it?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, anger and disbelief colliding in his expression.
“Someone just firebombed Lauren’s grave,” he said, cursing under his breath. “There won’t be an exhumation.”