Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
Aidan crossed his arms and leaned against the railing of the front steps of his cabin, watching the black SUV coming down the long driveway through his property. It was straight, by design. It gave him plenty of time to see anyone coming. And to prepare to either welcome them, which was rare and reserved for only a few, or turn them away. Since none of his extremely small group of friends drove a vehicle like that, turning them away was exactly what he planned to do.
But when the driver’s door opened and Special Agent Grace Malone emerged from the vehicle, he swore beneath his breath. If she had been a civilian, ordering her off his property was a given. He had every right, even as a felon, to make her leave. But an FBI agent? Since he was on parole, he was at her mercy. He couldn’t make her do one damn thing. Unless she allowed it.
As she approached, he forced himself to ignore the way his breath hitched at seeing her curvy little body again, or the way he was instantly intrigued by the intelligence shining out of those incredibly blue eyes. It didn’t matter that her smile made his gut tighten with desire. She wasn’t his friend or a potential lover.
She was his enemy.
He needed to remember that. She was a Trojan horse, compelling and beautiful on the outside but deadly on the inside. The only reason he was this affected by her had to be because he wasn’t used to being close to a beautiful woman these days. So few women dared to get anywhere near him. His unwelcome reaction to the agent certainly wasn’t because there was something special about her. And it wouldn’t matter if there was. She worked for the FBI. That alone was reason to avoid her.
Her smile broadened as she stopped in front of him and held out her hand. “Mr. O’Brien, it’s good to see you again. Grace Malone, in case you’ve forgotten since this morning.”
He glanced at her hand, but didn’t take it. “I haven’t forgotten, Special Agent Malone. You’re trespassing. Leave.”
She dropped her hand, her smile still firmly in place. “Irish, right? That slight brogue. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. Your family is from Ireland?”
“I’m busy, working. I’ve got nothing to say to you, so return to your vehicle and head back down the mountain.”
She sighed as if arguing with a recalcitrant child. “We both know the conditions of your parole. We can either talk here or I can escort you to the police station. Your choice.”
He stepped toward her until they were only a few feet apart, forcing her to crane her neck back to meet his gaze. To her credit, she didn’t move or cower away. If she was intimidated by his size or his reputation, she was doing an admirable job of hiding it.
“Special Agent Malone—”
“Call me Grace. I’ll call you Aidan.”
“Special Agent Malone, I’m a convicted murderer. You’re standing at the top of a mountain, alone, with me. The nearest neighbor is halfway down this mountain and likely not even home this time of day. You could scream as loud as you want and no one would hear it. You being here must mean that you still think I could be this serial killer you’re looking for. Think very carefully. Are you really sure you want to play your law enforcement trump card to stick around and try to force me to answer your questions? Without backup?”
She flipped back her jacket, revealing a shoulder holster and the butt of a pistol sticking out of it. “This is my backup.”
He snorted with reluctant amusement. “You’re gutsy. I’ll give you that. I’ll also give you a tip. Standing this close to me, it doesn’t matter that you have a gun. I could wrestle you to the ground or snap your neck before you’d have a chance to draw.”
Her smile disappeared and she quickly moved out of his reach. “Is that what you want to do, Aidan? Snap my neck?”
“It’s Mr. O’Brien to you. And if I wanted to snap your neck, you’d already be dead. I’m giving free advice I learned the hard way, after spending a decade in prison. I’ve seen the horrible things that human beings can do to each other, things I never thought I’d see. And I pray to God you never do, even if you are in law enforcement.”
“What do you have against law enforcement? No one framed you. You didn’t even go to trial because you confessed, pled guilty. You weren’t mistreated by the justice system.”
“If you consider the time before I went to prison, I agree with you. I got a fair shake. It’s once they lock you up that everything changes. Ever wonder why recidivism is so high, why convicted felons reoffend at such a phenomenal rate after getting out of prison? It’s because the guards, law enforcement, everyone in the justice system treats them like animals while they’re locked up. Security for those in prison is a joke. There isn’t any. You have to be vigilant all the time, learn to be a light sleeper, watch your back constantly. I despise everything about the system from beginning to end because there’s no humanity or mercy in it. I’m wary of police, of people like you, because one wrong step and I can be snatched from my home and thrown back behind bars. I may look as if I’m free, but it’s in name only. I have to watch my back all the time or my life can change in a blink. Good people can go to prison, Malone, because they make some kind of terrible mistake. But whether you were good or not going in, you’re a completely changed person coming out.”
She stared at him, eyes wide. “Is that what you think? That you were a good person going in? Does a good person murder their wife?”
He could feel his face flushing with heat as anger rode him hard.
She subtly moved her jacket, giving her better access to her weapon if she needed it.
He swore and turned around, heading toward his workshop building on the far side of the cabin. At first, he thought maybe she’d changed her mind about risking being around him, that she was heading to her car. Unfortunately, a moment later he heard her footsteps behind him. From the sound of it, she was keeping well back, not so close he could turn around and grab her. At least his safety lecture had gotten through to her. Who knows? Maybe his advice would save her life in the future when dealing with some other criminal.
Not that he should care—about her, about anyone these days. He tried not to, especially when people treated him like the man they believed him to be. The townspeople often went out of their way to avoid him, making it painfully obvious they were afraid of him or that they despised him for his past. Perhaps because he understood how they felt, and knew he’d likely feel the same in their position, he couldn’t hate them for it or even hold it against them.
But he wished it didn’t bother him so much.
And he wished he could ignore when he saw someone in trouble. Like at the festival when that arrow flew past him and into the boat. He was so angry that someone had shot close to children that he’d whirled around and run after the shooter without once thinking about what might happen to him.
And it hadn’t done one whit of good.
The police had thrown him into a cell and immediately branded him the villain while the real villain got away. Even now he wasn’t sure why the chief had dropped the charges. Maybe because Dawson was stepping back to let the FBI agent have first dibs at him, convinced he was the serial killer she was after.
Rounding the end of the cabin, he stepped through the enormous double doors that were standing open on his workshop. Stopping beside the table in the middle of the building, he picked up the sander he’d been about to use before he heard an engine coming down his driveway.
“Whoa, are you making that?” she asked.
He was careful to set the sander on the table before turning, not wanting to do anything that might seem threatening and could end with a bullet in his chest. But Malone wasn’t even looking at him. She was staring at the table, her eyes wide.
She stepped forward almost reverently and gently smoothed her hand across the wood, over the rounded edge. “This is incredible. Your work?”
He nodded, mesmerized by the gentle movement of her hand.
Her fingers continued to slide across the wood as if she couldn’t help herself. The pleasure in her expression was such a joy to behold, all he could do was stare.
“Purpleheart wood, right?” She glanced up in question.
He blinked in surprise. “You’re familiar with it?”
“I know of it, but have never seen it in person.” Her cheeks flushed a dull pink. “I’m pretty sure I saw it on an episode of a house renovation show on TV. But it’s so beautiful I didn’t forget about it. Is this for your cabin?”
“It’s a custom order for a man in Montana, for his deck. He wanted something beautiful for outdoor dining that could withstand the harsh weather without being ruined. Purpleheart wood is extremely hard, resistant to insects, rot, decay.”
She sighed and stepped back. “It’s gorgeous. Will the color stay that brilliant purple?”
“Not forever, no. But I’ll put a UV protectant finish on it that should help it keep its color for several decades.” He noted the wistful look on her face as she admired the table again. “Have you ever done carpentry?”
“Only if you count using a block of sandpaper to help my dad in his shop behind our house. Woodworking was one of his many hobbies. He didn’t make furniture, certainly nothing grand like you’re making. But my mom and I got new handmade jewelry boxes every birthday and he put custom molding all over our house. The shelving in the garage was his pride and joy. I wouldn’t say he was an expert or even really good at carpentry, but he enjoyed it.”
“Sounds like you enjoyed it, too, or would have, if he’d let you do more than sand.”
She smiled. “I didn’t want to do anything more difficult than sanding. I didn’t crave the experience of hammering or sawing, nothing like that. What I did crave was my father’s attention. He always wanted a son and got a daughter instead. Helping him out, even if it was just to fetch tools or sweep sawdust, made him happy. And that made me happy.”
“Daddy’s little girl.”
“Daddy’s little tomboy to be more precise. Did you have your little boy with you watching you do woodwork? His name is Niall, right?”
His heart seemed to clench in his chest at her callous reminder about his son. It took him several moments to gather his composure as best he could. “It’s getting late. I’ll finish this up tomorrow.” He began putting his tools up.
Once again she surprised him. She helped him gather his hand saws and chisels and expertly figured out where they went, putting them up on the pegboard wall exactly where they belonged. When she finally faced him, he motioned toward the broom in the corner.
“Are you going to sweep, too?”
“You wish.”
He laughed. “I’ll do it tomorrow, or later tonight. Come on. The cabin’s more comfortable for an interrogation. It’s starting to get chilly out here.”
“I’m not going to interrogate you.”
“Regardless of how you try to soften it, you’re here to ask questions. You’ve brought up my past twice now. And I know darn well it wasn’t my sparkling personality that got you to drive all the way up here.”
“Fair enough. I do want to talk. I need to ask some tough questions, too. I hope you’ll answer them.”
“So you can arrest me?”
“So I can rule you all the way in, or totally out as a suspect if you truly have no bearing on my case.”
“At least you’re honest.” They both stepped outside and he slid the doors shut and settled the wooden bar through the handles to keep wild animals out. He motioned toward the cabin. “Are you okay going inside my cabin? Or do you prefer the porch? Unlike this workshop, there are chairs up there but it will be cold.”
She snugged her jacket closer. “I don’t want to inconvenience you any more than necessary—”
“Too late for that.”
“Are you always this ornery or am I special?”
He cocked his head. “This is me being nice.”
She let out a bark of laughter, then cupped her hands over her mouth, obviously mortified that she’d done so.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t tell your boss that you dared to laugh at a killer.”
Her jaw tightened and she dropped her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. There are things I read in your file that, well, I’d like a better understanding of what happened to put you in prison.”
“Why? What’s my past got to do with anything you’re investigating?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. You never know what piece of information will be helpful and what won’t until you put the whole puzzle together.”
“That only makes sense if I’m the one you’re calling the Crossbow Killer.”
She arched a brow.
He swore. “Fine. We’ll talk. But you’ll have to brave my lair to do so. I’m no longer willing to be cold on the porch for you.”
Without waiting for her, he jogged up the steps to the wraparound porch and headed around to the front door.