Chapter 17 Asher
Chapter seventeen
Asher
Harold Swanson’s house is even bigger than I imagined it would be.
The foyer alone is twice my living room—and that’s saying a lot.
When his steward led me to what I’ve come to learn is his mini lounge, I knew this guy could not possibly have good intentions for this town.
If he’s allowed to, he’ll ruin Golden Heights and send it crashing completely into the ground.
“Champagne?” the steward asks, after offering me a seat. “Mr. Swanson has them delivered straight from Port Novo.”
“I bet he does,” I say under my breath.
“Yes?”
“It’s fine,” I add, forcing a polite smile. “I’d rather have some water.”
Better water than some grossly expensive imported champagne.
“I’ll be right back,” the steward replies, crisp and efficient.
I stay on the edge of the chair and watch him return with a tall glass. Even from here I can see the bubbles; sparkling water. Of course. I suppose getting something as ordinary as tap water is impossible around here.
I take a sip. The cold fizz burns down my throat in a way that’s both soothing and annoying. The steward nods and leaves me to the quiet—and to the thoughts I’ve been trying not to loop.
Jasmine has been in my house for two days now, and it guts me to see the fear in her eyes. She’s terrified right out of her skin. If she could stay in the guest room forever, she would.
“You know, one way or another, you’ll have to leave the house,” I told her this morning before work. “I’m sure you have a lot to do at the diner.”
“Trust me,” she said, and even her voice shook, “I’m better off here.”
“Officer Vaughn!”
Harold’s voice booms down the stairs. He appears a few feet away, descending in a long brown robe, hair slicked back and gleaming beneath the lounge lights. Even his beard looks freshly damp.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to pay me a visit,” he says.
I stand and meet his outstretched hand. “You were expecting me?”
“Well, I did send a buy offer to Jasmine Wallace. Given your relationship—”
“What relationship? We don’t have a relationship,” I cut in, too quickly.
“Oh please. Even the dogs in Golden Heights can sense the tension between you two. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To talk about the offer.”
“You know I’m not just here for the offer, Mr. Swanson.” I watch him casually tighten the robe’s belt. “Let’s cut the crap.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Officer,” he says, eyes glittering. He knows exactly what I’m here about, and he’s enjoying the game. He also knows I can’t prove anything—that explains why he’s so comfortable meeting me in a bathrobe.
“Is this how you want to play it? Lay off Jasmine. Just because she doesn’t want to sell doesn’t mean—”
“Well, if she doesn’t want to sell, I can’t exactly force her, can I? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Now he’s driving me up a wall, baiting me with that smooth, empty smile.
“You sent your guys to her house to threaten her.”
“I never did any such thing.”
“Oh, come on, Harold. It’s just me and you here. You can tell me.”
“Are you goading me to confess to a police officer that I committed a crime?” His mouth twitches, nearly a smile.
I swallow hard. Frustration crawls up my spine.
“Where are you going with this anyway?” I ask. “What do you think happens if she refuses to sell? You kill her and try to gain ownership, or what?”
“Again, Officer Vaughn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The faux-innocence is almost perfect. Almost.
“You two do make a cute couple, though,” he says.
My ears go still. Did he just—?
“You can’t play this game for long, Harold,” I say, stepping closer. “I know I don’t have anything I can take to a judge yet—smart on your part—but let’s keep it that way.”
“I can already see the pictures on the invitation card.”
“Harold—”
“You don’t strike me as a photo-on-the-card guy. Minimalist, I bet.”
“Harold, listen to me—”
“Now Brick, on the other hand—”
“Shut the hell up!” The knot in my gut jerks tight. He’s toeing lines he doesn’t want to cross.
“Does your son know you have a thing for the diner lady?”
“I don’t have a thing for Jasmine,” I snap.
My mouth stumbles on the last word. I can feel him clock it. Something about saying it out loud feels…false.
But I’m not lying. I’m not. I just started to see her as a friend.
A potential friend.
“Right. Keep telling yourself that,” he says, bored now. “Anything else, Officer?”
I stare him down. “Listen to me. I don’t know how you do things where you’re from, but this is a different town. You’re on my radar. If you so much as breathe wrong near her—or hurt as much as a hair on her head—I’ll slap the cuffs on your wrists faster than you can buy your way out of it.”
His eyes light. He smiles, small and sharp. “And you say you don’t have a thing for Jasmine.”
“Goodbye, Harold.”
I turn and navigate out, praying I won’t have to ask a butler for directions after that grand exit.
“I mean, I don’t blame you,” he calls. “Those cheekbones are to die for.”
I don’t stop. There’s nothing to hear. He’s wrong. I don’t have feelings for Jasmine Wallace.
I don’t have feelings for Jasmine Wallace.
***
“Are you serious right now?” The words fly out before I can temper them. The last thing I expect when I walk through my front door is Jasmine saying she wants to leave the house.
“Weren’t you scared out of your mind a few days ago? Has that changed?” I ask.
It’s barely noon—the end of my shift. On days like this I’d usually snag an extra patrol or some desk catch-up, but with her here I’ve been coming straight home. To check on her. To make sure those guys haven’t tried anything.
“I have to go,” she says, distress threading every syllable. I’ve never heard her voice like this. It scares me.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks up. “It’s my mom. She’s at Kinsley, and the doctor says she’s asking for me.”
“Can it wait?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “I’m sure your mom will understand if you don’t want to leave the house right now.”
“You still don’t get it.” Her voice frays. “This is a big deal. My mom doesn’t exactly—” She stops, swallowing hard.
“Doesn’t exactly what?” I prompt gently.
“Look. She has dementia, okay? She hasn’t recognized me in a while. This is huge, and I can’t just let some guy stop me from seeing her.”
The frustration, the grief—it’s all there in her eyes. She doesn’t want to risk it either; she has to. I want to put a hand on her shoulder and promise I’ll keep her safe. That I’ll be there—always. Instead, I take a breath and make the decision for both of us.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you go to Kinsley House, I’m coming with you.”
“Asher—”
“This isn’t up for debate. You’re going to see your mom, and I’m coming with you.”
“Don’t you have work?”
“It’ll wait.”
“Asher, I really don’t think—”
“I’m not letting you go out alone. I’m coming with you. Please don’t argue.”
Silence. I can almost hear the gears in her head turn.
“Fine,” she says at last, resignation softening into relief. “Fine, you can come with me.”