Chapter 7
Only one of Ricky Kingfisher’s stolen identities could possibly be Jessa, and Jax was on a flight to New Jersey within hours of his talk with Cowboy to investigate the lead.
It’s not going to be her.
She wouldn’t do such a thing.
He parked his rental car on the street. A few hundred feet ahead was a tiny bungalow that was rented to Maria Elena Cortez, who grew up in the Bronx, went to college at Clemson University, and recently relocated to New Jersey from Georgia.
Trouble was, Maria Elena was dead weeks before her most recent move.
Jessa wouldn’t do it. Some other woman will answer the door.
He got out of his car, the tangy smell of saltwater on the air.
According to the morgue records confiscated by police, Maria Elena had been killed by an attacker in her apartment.
With no next of kin, thieves in the Savannah morgue sold her identity to someone else and buried Maria in Potter’s Field as a Jane Doe.
Jessa is not a criminal. She has no reason to buy someone else’s identity.
Acid churned in Jax’s stomach. He’d looked up Ricky Kingfisher and confirmed he was Jessa’s first cousin. That was when his ulcer flared up. It was more than a coincidence that Jessa was missing and her cousin—who lived in the same town—was in the business of making people disappear.
Doubting Jessa made him think of his ex-wife. Jax knew what it felt like to find the person you thought you knew was actually a deceitful liar. He mentally chastised himself for grouping Jessa and Linda together and sincerely hoped the association was unjustified.
The white bungalow was nestled between a larger beach house on one side and a condominium complex on the other. The bungalow didn’t belong here, standing out like Cinderella would have at the ball without the help of her fairy godmother, but parts of the Jersey Shore were like that.
He squinted against the sun to get a better view. There, along the edges of a small porch, were planters full of pink and purple flowers.
He cursed colorfully, even as a trace of excitement laced his fury.
Jessa was in there.
She was in trouble. She must be.
What could be so bad that she would take on another woman’s identity?
He knocked on the door, chastising the part of himself that was excited and raw. He was here because she was in trouble. He would not make this about the two of them and one night of mind-bending sex unless it was clear that was what she wanted, too.