Justin
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.”
At least she was honest.
“I don’t know whether to offer you a hug or a one-way ticket to Acapulco.”
She choked out a sob. “And I wouldn’t be sure which to accept. They threatened to take Shiro.”
“The police?”
“Who else?”
“Motherfuckers. They won’t, I promise. They found a judge to sign off on some bullshit warrant, but they have no evidence, and my lawyer says it’s only a matter of time before the crowd of fools outside realises that. He’s going to release a statement.”
“Saying what?”
“That I’m concerned for Amie’s welfare, and I hope the police find her quickly, but they’re looking in the wrong place because I sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. Obviously, he’ll say it in a more sympathetic way.”
“Speaking of sympathy, did you leave a card with the orchid?”
“No, just the plant. Why?”
Jessie told him a horror story about a hospital volunteer and botched surgery that made his scrotum retreat into his body in sympathy. But it also gave him hope. Who knew modern-day grave robbing was a thing?
“There were a few other people around at the cemetery.”
“Maybe one of them took the plant to brighten up their loved one’s grave?”
“Just moved it, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
That was a definite possibility. “I’ll speak with Dawson, see if he has time to swing by and check. Or Grey could go. He’s not helping much with the search for Amie.”
According to Brax, he spent most of the time on the phone with Ava or complaining to anyone else who would listen. Justin pulled out his phone to send a message, then realised Alexa had sent him one while the police search was going on.
Alexa
So, it turns out there’s a crossover between the audiences for true-crime shows and cooking shows. This is why you don’t put pictures of your house on the internet, dumbass.
Justin
It was the model fucking home.
Alexa
Whatever.
Justin knew what the link would say before he clicked on it, but he had to see how bad it was.
The answer? Terrible. An eagle-eyed online sleuth had made the connection between archived photos of the Greenway Park model home and the background in Jessie’s latest “Dear Saylor” video.
Folks were counting the number of windows and analysing the distance between the sink and the refrigerator.
Fuck.
“What? What’s wrong?” Jessie asked.
“Let’s open a bottle of wine.”
The expensive stuff. Might as well drink it before he got slung in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.
“Tell me.”
Justin blew out a breath. “The folks on the street worked out you’re staying here.”
“Oh, hell. I mean, how?”
“The kitchen here has a lot of high-end custom work.”
He waited for the meltdown, mentally inventorying the house for the nearest box of tissues. Melanie had flipped out over far less. And Eliza. Rebecca, not so much, but it turned out her mind had been elsewhere.
A single tear rolled down Jessie’s cheek, and that was worse than a torrent. Justin opened his arms, and she stepped into them, resting her head on his shoulder as he hugged her tight. What had they done to deserve this? Why was the universe punishing them?
“Ridge will know where I am,” she whispered.
“Do you want me to rent you a different house?”
He wished he could go with her, but if he left this place, the crowd outside would only follow. Jessie deserved peace.
But she shook her head. “The only thing worse than knowing he’s closing in would be knowing he’s closing in while I’m alone.”
“I’m here for you, I promise.”
Justin only hoped it was a promise he didn’t have to break.
Jessie had gone quiet, and that worried Justin more than anything. He’d learned to handle Eliza’s panic attacks, and Melanie’s yelling, and Rebecca’s slamming doors, but how was he supposed to deal with silence?
The water in the oversized tub was cooling, the bubbles long gone, and Jessie was sitting there with her eyes closed, an empty wine glass beside her.
Justin wasn’t trying to be a voyeur, but she’d been knocking back Syrah as if it were soda, and he didn’t want her to drown.
And he also didn’t want to waste a single moment with her.
So he watched her, and while he watched, he thought about the morning’s shitshow.
The warrant for the house search was sketchy, his lawyer said, and most judges wouldn’t have signed off on it.
But one asshole had, so Justin had been forced to watch as his space was violated.
He wouldn’t have minded if it got them closer to finding Amie.
But what had rummaging through his kitchen cupboards achieved?
Something bugged him, a stray thought, and he struggled to reach for it.
At least they’d searched this place and not his old home.
That would have felt so much more personal.
Here, he was still living with a mix of emergency purchases and furnishings chosen by Norquist’s two-person design team.
He was pissed they’d taken his truck, though.
He’d bought that pickup when he still lived in Blackstone House, and although he’d toyed with the idea of replacing it over the years, the old adage was true—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
The engine still ran smoothly, Jake took care of any rust spots, and the bed was big enough to fit lumber in, not like modern trucks that were designed for comfort rather than work.
“The water’s cold,” Jessie mumbled.
“You want me to refresh it?”
“I need to dry my hair.”
“You sit; I’ll dry it.”
“Uh…”
“Don’t look so nervous. My mom ran a hair salon—I do a great blowout.”
Once, Justin thought that maybe he’d be a stylist. He’d been shampooing hair since he was a kid—the older clientele thought it was cute, and they tipped well—and his mom had taught him how to cut and colour.
A woman’s happiest when she looks her best, Emily Norquist always used to say.
Even Melanie had no complaints about his blow-drying skills.
Jessie still didn’t look convinced, but once Justin had bundled her into his bathrobe, lifted her onto a chair, and given her a scalp massage, she relaxed and turned sleepy.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but your skills are wasted building houses,” she said.
He chuckled softly. “My hands are for your pleasure only.”
“Do you take requests?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Well, I always wanted bangs…” She broke into giggles. “Uh, I don’t know how to do all that dirty talk.”
Justin leaned in close, close enough that his lips brushed her ear. “You want me to fuck you with my fingers?”
Another giggle. “And other things?”
Tempting. So fucking tempting. But that giggle… “Exactly how much did you drink?”
“Not enough?”
Fuck.
“Too much.” He wanted to see her fall apart beneath him, but he didn’t want her to regret it in the morning. “Let’s get you some coffee.”
“Ohhhh, boo.”
She had beautiful hair, like silk between his fingers.
He dried it into loose curls and carried her to the kitchen, then set the coffee machine to brew a strong Americano.
They needed to eat as well. Marion had shown up in the middle of the police search with four bags of groceries, a kind gesture but one fuelled by nosiness, Justin suspected.
And Marion shopped with coupons and an eye for discounts rather than using a list, so now they had a package of frozen burritos, four pounds of potatoes, canned pumpkin puree, a dozen undersized eggplants with clearance stickers, family-size grape jelly, a gallon of unsweetened almond milk, hot dog buns—but no hot dogs—pickled okra in a jar, microwave popcorn, powdered ranch dressing mix, and a dented can of crushed tomatoes.
Oh, and two pounds of ground beef, manager’s special, expiring tomorrow.
At least Marion had given the detectives a lecture on the perils of harassing innocent citizens.
“Burritos for dinner?” he asked Jessie as he set the coffee in front of her. “That’s hot.”
“Do the burritos come with Tylenol?”
“Yup.”
“Then burritos for dinner.” She propped her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her hands. “Is there any more wine?”
“There is, but I’m not going to let you drink it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you puking up your guts.”
“I guess that makes sense. Saylor said I should trust my guts, but I can’t do that if they’re in the toilet, can I?”
“Saylor’s a good friend.”
“The best. I didn’t make a mistake, did I?”
A mistake…a mistake… That’s what Special Agent Rimer had said earlier, when she was rummaging through the freezer. Justin had asked what the fuck she was looking for, and she’d shrugged and said, “Just being thorough. No mistakes this time around.”
In the moment, his mind had been churning, and he hadn’t followed up. But what had she meant, no mistakes this time? Was she saying they’d made mistakes in the past? With Justin? Because the only other time their paths had crossed was when Ruby died.
Levi had been convicted.
The case was watertight.
Wasn’t it?
“What kind of mistake do you mean?” he asked Jessie.
“Staying here. Trusting you.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said. But he thought that might be a lie.
Because if the cops tried to frame him for Amie’s murder and more besides, the fallout would hit Jessie and everyone else he cared about.