Chapter 20
Nora
“WHY ARE YOU NOT freaking out?” I exclaim as Jack calmly slides the photos back into the envelope then starts the car, putting it in reverse before I’ve even fully processed what’s happening. “Wait, where are we going? Not to my office still? We need to do something!”
“Nora,” Jack has the audacity to sound amused by my panic, “calm down.”
“Calm down?” I echo. “Calm down? Who are you– Taylor Swift? I will not calm down! On the contrary, I’d like to invite you to join me in freaking out!”
“Not going to do that,” he replies, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching across to my seat as he looks over his shoulder to ensure the street is clear before backing into it. I’m temporarily distracted by the way this puts both the sinewy muscles of his neck and the sharp angle of his jawline on full display. I used to run my fingers across that jawline, which has to be why they are currently buzzing with electricity, eager to test out the theory of muscle memory.
Wait. I’m supposed to be freaking out.
Someone put a picture of Jack driving Ian’s car on his dashboard! And they have his sweatshirt!
Whew, freak out reactivated.
“Shouldn’t you dust that envelope for prints?” I demand. “Or-or…” I realize belatedly that I don’t have a second suggestion and just trail off stupidly.
“Nora,” Jack repeats my name, “that right there is what we call a weak attempt at scaring me. So they have my sweatshirt and a picture of me driving Ian’s car. The important thing is that neither of those were pictures of you.”
The rebuttal I’d been planning dies on my lips.
“Oh.” I flop back against my seat. “Oh.” I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “So you’re not freaking out because this threat is against you and not me?” I say in a tiny voice.
Jack glances my way, pinning me in place with his steel gray gaze. His answering nod is almost imperceptible, the tiniest of gestures, but it unravels something deep inside of me.
Longing for him sweeps over me, violent in its intensity.
“Pull over,” I hear myself demand.
“What? Why?” Jack asks, but another glance my way must tell him I’m not messing around because a second later he jerks the wheel to the right, bringing the car to a stop on the side of the road. “Nora, what’s wrong?” he asks, turning to me. “Because I gotta tell you, if this is the best these people have on us then–”
I don’t let him finish. Instead I launch myself across the car and capture his words with a kiss.
His whole body freezes as our lips meet, but then, then he takes over, leading this kiss like that was his intention all along. I don’t fight it. Jack can do what he wants with this kiss–I am a willing participant in this guided tour. His hands slide into my hair and when a soft sound escapes me he groans in response then lifts me over the seat and into his lap.
Some distant part of my brain is yelling, Mayday, mayday! Frantically attempting to alert me to the danger of crossing the line I just chose to cross. Correction, I didn’t cross the line–I leapt right over it. But since I landed safely in Jack’s arms, I can’t bring myself to pay attention to that voice. Not when all of my attention is consumed by Jack.
The initial urgency of the kiss slows as Jack’s hands shift from my hair down to my back, settling there as if to hold me in place. It’s laughable really, because I have zero plans to go anywhere that isn’t here in his arms.
All too soon, though, Jack pulls away. I bite back a moan of protest as the adrenaline from the kiss fades and reality crashes around me; the lines I just professed not to care about slash across my heart, forcing it back into submission. That’s right, heart, no falling back in love for you.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I don’t know why I did that.” My cringeworthy apology is made all the more awkward by the fact that I’m still in his lap. I’m going to have to climb out of it to get back in my seat. The shortest walk of shame ever–and yet, somehow the longest.
No point delaying things. The longer I sit on this man, the stupider I feel. I kissed Jack! And a judge didn’t even tell me to!
I put one hand on the seat behind him, intending to push myself off of him with the least amount of touching possible, but to my surprise his grip on me tightens.
“Nora, please look at me.” His husky voice sends a shiver down my spine and despite my shame I do as he requested and look at him. His gray eyes contain a fierceness I can’t make sense of. Is he angry at me? He’d have every right to be given the lack of preamble to that kiss on my part. Perhaps we should have made rules before entering into this marriage of convenience. Why didn’t we make rules? Jack loves rules! In fact, I’m starting to feel a little angry myself. This whole situation could’ve been avoided if he’d stayed true to his character and had us establish some rules.
Rule Number 1: Under no circumstances may Nora climb into Jack’s lap.
That’s how easy it would’ve been to prevent this kissing faux pas.
“Never apologize for kissing me,” Jack says, the fierceness I saw in his eyes echoed in the way he enunciates each word, giving them each a weight all their own. My stomach flips and a dark flush creeps up my neck. Jack gives me a deep nod, as if the matter is settled, then his hands find my waist and he lifts me back over onto my seat as easily as if I were a piece of paper. His palm brushes a sliver of skin beneath the hem of my shirt and heat dances across the spot, his very touch branding me as his.
Jack resumes driving as if the whole thing never happened. I stare straight ahead at the road passing along beneath us, his words echoing in my mind. Never apologize for kissing me. That’s what he said.
That sounds like a rule, right?
Rule Number 1 (revised): Never apologize for kissing Jack.
It’s a good rule.
***
BY THE TIME we pull into the parking lot of my office building, I’m back to wanting to discuss this threat we received. He may not care about whoever left that creepy photo of him, but I certainly do.
“Jack,” I start to broach the subject, but while I’ve been busy debating what I want to say, he’s parked the car and is already running around to my side to get my door for me. When he swings open said door, I hear a familiar sound that brings an immediate smile to my face. Humming! Specifically Jack’s humming.
Some people sing when they’re in a good mood, some people dance, others whistle. But Jack, Jack hums. I don’t think it would be reading into things too much to assume that the kiss we shared is what put him in this good mood. Would it?
Then again, kissing does not a marriage make. There also has to be mutual respect and affection, and, I’m just spitballing here, but an origin story that doesn’t revolve around murder also seems ideal.
Therefore I cannot let myself be affected by Jack’s humming.
Good self-pep talk, Nora. Back to work.
“Jack,” I say again, hurrying to catch up to him as he crosses the parking lot—still humming a happy tune, “are we really not even going to talk about who might have left those photos, because given what Stella told us my money is on Frank. Although, presumably the person who put the photos there is the same person who moved the body, and Frank was here in this parking lot supervising the towing of my truck. Unless he had another partner, someone besides Connie. But who?” I’m talking at a rapid rate–desperate to get this out before we reach the double doors to the building–but much to my annoyance I’m not even sure Jack is listening. He’s come to an abrupt stop and is busy staring at something on the pavement. “Jack, did you hear anything I just sa–” the question dies on my lips as I follow his gaze and see what’s caught his eye. Spots of blood on the pavement. Small, but noticeable if you just so happen to be looking down.
I lift my hand and stare at the leftover mark from where I stabbed myself with the needle last night. Right, so that’s my blood on the pavement. My mind reels trying to figure out if this is a problem. Can DNA samples be lifted off pavement? Does my blood being here even point to my involvement in Ian’s murder? I can’t see how…unless they ask what happened and I admit I nicked myself with a knitting needle…the same weapon used for the murder.
I shudder. Not a connection I want brought to light.
“Why is there blood here?” Jack asks in a low voice. “I thought you said the attack happened on the side of the road.”
“It did,” I say quickly, “But I sort of stabbed myself with the knitting needle when I was looking for my phone in my purse. That’s my blood.”
Jack processes this and his brow smooths. “Alright.” He eyes my hand in concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, lifting my hand to show him the wound on my finger– all that remains from the incident. “All good.”
“Good.” Jack nods, then continues walking. Honestly, Mel was right earlier when she called him out for deflecting! He’s doing it again, only with my worries about that photo of him.
I go after him, exasperation hastening my steps.
“You can’t keep doing this, Jack,” I hiss. “We need to talk about the photos.” We’ve reached the doors now and he finally turns to look at me.
“I know,” he says, “and we will. But right now I want to talk to Cleo. The pictures are less urgent. If they make their way into the investigation I’ll have some explaining to do, sure, but don’t worry, I’ll keep you out of it.”
I almost stamp my foot at the insufferable man. “It’s not me I’m worried about!” I cry, poking him hard in the chest. “It’s you, you big doof!”
Side note: I have no idea where I got the word doof. But now that I’ve said it, I stand by it. Jack is being a doof!
Jack’s eyes blaze down at me as he takes a step closer, invading my space. I force myself not to back away from him, mentally preparing for his rebuttal. But Jack surprises me yet again.
“Why?” he asks.
I blink up at him. “Why?” I echo. “What do you mean why?”
“Why are you so worried about me?” he expounds. A flush rises to my cheeks.
“I didn’t say I was so worried about you,” I sputter defensively. “Just like a regular amount of worried.”
One of Jack’s eyebrows pops up. “Well okay then. Since you’re just a regular amount of worried it sounds like we can go with my original plan of waiting until after we talk to Cleo to discuss this.”
I huff out a breath, my brain going into thesaurus mode as it attempts to come up with every word possible to describe this man at this moment: frustrating, impossible, irritating beyond belief, intolerable, exasperating, infuriating, hot—wait! One of these words does not belong! Strike that last one from the record. I have a point to make and his hotness is unrelated and inconvenient!
“You know you don’t just get to hold the monopoly on caring for other people,” I inform him hotly. Oh geez there’s that word again…hot. Definitely not in reference to Jack this time because we are in a fight.
Only Jack doesn’t exactly look like he’s here to fight with me—even if the soft smile playing across his lips is quite disarming. I’m suddenly feeling wrong-footed. My hand goes to my hair, nervously playing with the ends as I wait for a verbal response.
“I think the neighborhood security guard took the picture of me,” he says calmly.
At first I don’t understand. I’m too busy attempting to process how his words fit into the fight we’re supposed to be having. Then the meaning of what he’s said finally hits me and my combative posture relaxes.
“Wait, we’re talking about the photos now?” I ask in confusion.
“Isn’t that what you wanted to do?” Jack asks in amusement.
My mouth is moving but someone must have turned my sound off because I can’t seem to make any noise, let alone form words.
“Nora,” Jack repeats his question slowly, “isn’t that what you wanted? To talk about the photos?”
“Y-yes,” I finally manage to stammer. “But you, you—” I break off as he cocks his head in question.
“I what?”
I narrow my gaze at him, one hand going to my hip, certain he is being difficult on purpose. And I would call him out on it, but I do seem to have somehow managed to get what I wanted. Plus, I’m super curious about his security guard theory.
I hold off for another couple of seconds, but then my curiosity wins out.
“What makes you think the neighborhood security guard took that photo of you?” I ask him, deliberately holding my head high to indicate that I may not know exactly what he’s up to with this whole giving-in-to-me-so-easily business—but I’m still onto him.
“Because I was talking in that photo,” he explains. “And looking out the window at somebody. We took your car through the Chick-fil-A drive through, so the only thing that makes sense is for the security guard to have taken it. Plus, it would also make sense for him to have my sweatshirt given that he’s the neighborhood security guard. Even if someone else found it, they would’ve turned it into him.”
I consider this. It does make sense except for—“How did the security guard know about any of this?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, raking a hand through his hair. “I haven’t figured that out yet. That’s why I want to talk to Cleo and maybe even to Frank if we can find him. Maybe one of them can help us get to the bottom of this.” He gives me a rueful grin. “Does that satisfy your scruples, Ms. Evans? Can we go in now?”
I’m disoriented by the way my stomach sinks at his use of my own last name, as if some part of me is actually disappointed to not be sharing one with him. So ridiculous.
“It’s Mrs. Evans now,” I inform him primly, hoping the salutation change will alleviate the pit in my abdomen. It does not. If anything the pit only grows. It was an olive pit, now it’s a peach pit. If I’m not careful soon it will be the size of an avocado pit. Basically the pit in my stomach is like those “This week your baby is the size of a_____” emails pregnant women get. That’s right. I’m growing a pit baby.
“Mrs. Evans then,” Jack corrects. He shifts uncomfortably in place and he swallows so hard I can’t miss the bob of his Adam’s apple. He seems to be fighting emotions of his own about this particular subject. The question is: Are the emotions positive or negative? Is he thinking, please take my last name or go ahead and keep your own? “Can we go in now?” he asks again.
I nod and Jack opens the door for me. As I step inside, I’m still half-dazed from our interaction, which is probably why at first I don’t notice the commotion happening over by the elevators. But then someone screams my name, and I whip around to see Stella next to a uniformed officer holding her by the elbow, her hands pulled together behind her back by a pair of handcuffs.
“Nora!” she repeats my name, her voice trembling with fear. “Nora! Please tell them I didn’t do this!”
Dread plunges through my body as I start toward her. No. No, no, no. Stella can’t be arrested for my crime!
“Nora, wait!” Jack pulls me back, his voice urgent in my ear.
“Jack,” I hiss, looking back at him, “let me go! I can’t just stand here and let her take the fall.” He doesn’t release his grip on me.
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening,” he replies– far too calmly, in my humble opinion. “That’s Detective Thorner. He’s from the narcotics division.”
“Oh.” I stop trying to free myself as his words sink in. “Narcotics,” I echo the word, then look back at Stella. What is this about?
“Before you go rushing in, let me talk to him,” Jack offers. “See what I can find out.”
“Okay, fine,” I agree, “but I’m going with you.” Jack’s mouth forms a disapproving line, but he nods, looking resigned.
“But I’m doing the talking, okay? I know this guy. He will not care that Stella is your friend or that you’re willing to vouch for her character or whatever. Crime is black and white to him. There are zero gray areas.”
I give him a thumbs up, hoping it will hide my nerves. My own particular crime definitely falls in the gray category; meaning I’m not exactly excited to talk to this Detective Thorner person.
Even if he is from narcotics, not homicide.
“Thorner,” calls Jack as he strides across the foyer toward him. At the sound of his name, Detective Thorner looks our way, his face registering surprise at the sight of Jack.
“Reynolds,” he booms, “didn’t expect to see you here. Heard from Anderson that you weren’t working the Wharfman murder. Something about you getting married.” His eyes slide my way, and I squirm uncomfortably under his scrutiny, worried that he can somehow see my guilt.
“I’m not.” Jack shrugs his head to one shoulder. “Not officially, anyway. But seeing as Wharfman was my new wife’s boss, you can see how I might have a little bit of a vested interest in the murderer being found quickly.” He slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, hopefully just to appear casual and not because he knows about my weird lusting after his exposed thumbs thing. “Anyway,” he quickly breezes past what he’s doing there to focus back on Thorner’s presence, “how about you, though? What are you doing here?”
I sneak a glance at Stella. Her eyes are wide as saucers as she stares at Jack. Quite suddenly she turns those wide eyes on me, and I flinch at the accusation I see in them.
“He’s a cop,” she mouths at me. I nod then hang my head hoping she sees the apology I can’t verbalize with Thorner nearby. I didn’t think about how finding out Jack worked in law enforcement might feel like a betrayal to Stella. On the phone earlier she was really forthcoming about things like that photo she was saving for blackmail and joking about having drug samples for him if he needed them. She likely wouldn’t have said any of that if she’d known Jack was a detective. I mean, that’s why he didn’t tell her. He wanted the information she had. But not to use it against you, I want to cry. I don’t know why you’re being arrested, but it’s not our doing.
But of course I can’t say any of this to her at the moment.
“Coroner found a couple of sample pills in the dead guy’s pocket. Drug called Minoxidil.” Thorner eyes Stella. “Turns out this lady here knew something about those pills.”
“No, I didn’t!” Stella cries. “I just told you it’s a hair loss drug. I’ve passed out samples to some of the dermatologists in the area. That’s it. I did not give Ian those samples!”
Wait. Ian was taking a drug for hair loss? I’m shocked. But also…not shocked. It totally explains the sudden reappearance of his hair. It wasn’t plugs or a toupee. It was Minoxidil. How did I not think of that? After all, that’s a drug I give some of my doctors for use with their patients since–in addition to helping with hair loss–it’s also used to treat hypertension—a common ailment among the elderly.
Oh gosh. I have samples of that drug. Panic thrums in my chest. Is Thorner going to come after me next?
“And yet,” Thorner says dryly, “you can’t seem to offer us another explanation for how he got ahold of them.” He gives her a pointed look. “Need I remind you, Ms. Corbin, that handing out pharmaceutical drugs without a doctors’ prescription is a misdemeanor punishable by imprisonment and/or a hefty fine.”
“Need I remind you, Detective Thorner,” Stella retorts, “that I did not give Ian Wharfman those drugs!”
“Then who did?” he challenges.
Stella’s face falls. “I don’t know,” she admits at a whisper. She turns haunted eyes my way. “I didn’t do this, Nora. Tell him I didn’t do this.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” I tell Thorner. I’m still freaking out about the supply of Minoxidil currently in my office, but right now I need to put that aside and back up Stella. “Ian Wharfman had hair. And although he had that hair for the last couple of months—six months ago he didn’t have much hair at all. Those pills don’t work overnight. So he has to have been taking them for a while.”
“I see, so she’s been supplying him with pills for quite some time,” Thorners replies. “You do know you’re only helping build the case against her, right?”
“On the contrary,” I inform him, annoyed by his cocky attitude, “Stella has only been working the dermatology route for three months. She got switched over from pediatrics after our old dermatology rep switched specialties.”
I’m not sure why I’m calling attention to this. On a personal level, doing so is a very bad plan. But Stella is in handcuffs, and this is the only plan I’ve got.
“So,” Thorner shrugs, “maybe she simply took over for whoever it was that started trafficking a prescription drug to your boss.”
I lift my chin. “If Stella says she didn’t do this, I believe her.”
“That’s sweet,” Thorner says in a voice that suggests he finds it anything but. “Although I don’t actually remember asking for your opinion.”
“Okay, I think that’s enough, Thorner.” Jack steps between us, his voice hard. “You may not place much stock in my wife’s opinion, but I certainly do. I’d consider it a professional courtesy if you’d look into some of the things she mentioned that weaken your case against Stella.”
Thorner considers this for a minute. “Fine,” he says, dropping his hand from Stella’s elbow. “I can look into the old rep. Give me a name.”
Here’s the thing. I would love to give him a name. Really I would. Taking the heat off Stella sounds like a great plan. There’s just one problem: that old dermatology rep, well, it was me.