Chapter 28 Dom #2
Boone marked it, then sat back. “Good, good. We’ve had a lot of storms lately. Not sure what we’ll find, but I’ll send a team to check it out.”
I met his gaze. “Appreciate it, Deputy.”
He shoved his chair back, already gearing up to act. “The time, the location, and the fact that the man had Lulu…all of it lines up. If we’re right, he may be connected to Deborah Sinclair’s disappearance. I need you to give us the most accurate description you can, Miss Jones.”
“She will,” I said. “But first, I need to ask you something. Off the record.”
Boone’s gaze flicked to me, considering. “Granger told me you’re a friend. Hell, everybody is everybody’s friend in Buffaloberry Hill.” His voice carried a dry humor, but there was an edge to it. “But I know Granger, so one question.”
“The sketch of the woman that’s been floating around—the alleged robbery suspect. Who made the ID?”
He turned to Autumn, assessing her the way a veteran cop sizes up a witness. “That woman in the sketch. She looks a hell of a lot like you, Miss Jones.” Then he turned back to me. “Mr. Powell, what kind of game are you playing?”
“No game. Just trying to keep an innocent woman from being railroaded.” I kept my tone even but deliberate. “That incident was staged. The man behind it is the same one Miss Jones saw on the trail.”
Boone studied me, his interest masked but there. He wasn’t the type to give anything away easily.
Finally, he spoke. “Motive?”
“He needs her out of the way. Best way to do that? Turn her into a suspect before she can call him one. Get the public to help him find her.”
He let out a long breath, settling back into his chair. Thinking. Measuring. He wasn’t arguing, which was a start.
“I don’t know who made the ID,” Boone finally said. “That case is in Whitaker’s hands. I don’t have access to his reports.”
“Can you look into it?”
He didn’t answer right away, which told me he wasn’t the kind of man who made promises lightly.
“I was warned you’d be persuasive,” he said.
I smiled, just slightly. “I like to think I’m thorough.”
Boone scratched the back of his head. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t expect a report. That’s not how this works. You coming forward today? That’s already significant.”
He turned back to Autumn. “Now, let’s focus on getting a sketch of the man you saw.”
“One more thing,” I cut in.
He tilted his head, unimpressed. “Mr. Powell, your persuasiveness won’t work on me.”
It would. Maybe not today. But he didn’t know I played the long game.
“Call me Dom,” I said, nudging him into that soft patch of ground where firm men sometimes flex.
“All right, Dom. What is that ‘one more thing’?”
“I need your word that Miss Jones won’t be subjected to any formal interrogation regarding that sketch. It’s baseless, and I have serious concerns about its accuracy.”
Boone rubbed his jaw. This was the moment.
He might not have liked being pushed, but he was listening.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Boone finally said. His voice eased slightly as he turned to Autumn. “Miss Jones, did you have a weapon on you that day?”
“No. Never. I’ve never even held a gun.”
He sat back, his expression shifting to something almost wry.
“Then that sketch won’t hold. Robbery at gunpoint means there needs to be a gun. If you didn’t have one, they’ve got nothing.”
Then, just for a second, I caught it. The smallest flicker of amusement. Boone shook his head with a low chuckle.
“White Lightning Whitaker,” he muttered. “Kid thinks fast, but sometimes he moves too damn quick for his own good. I’ll talk to him.”
That’s all I needed. The Old Hound was on our side.
He pushed to his feet. “Let’s get that composite started.”
We sat in front of a monitor while the deputy pulled up the composite software.
There was no sketch artist, just a program that let Autumn mix and match facial features until something clicked.
She described everything she remembered—the sharp cut of his jaw, the close-set eyes, the tension in his mouth when he spotted her.
Piece by piece, the face came together, pulled from digital menus.
Autumn sat back, staring at it. “That…” she said, “that kinda looks like him.”
I recognized that face too.
“Lulu barked at a man back in Buffaloberry Hill. He had a cap, sunglasses, and that same stiff neck. I know it’s not enough for a positive ID. But I can tell you, he’s around,” I said to Boone.
He studied the sketch, his stare turning clinical as if dissecting it feature by feature.
“I’ll start distributing it,” he finally said. “With any luck, someone recognizes him.” He slid his gaze to me. “And in the meantime, keep her safe, Dom.”
“I intend to.”
I kept my arm around Autumn as we stepped outside. She felt smaller against me, her body still holding tension, but she wasn’t rattled.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Better. Marginally. It’s good to get it off my chest. And it’s good to experience firsthand what it’s like to be defended by you.”
I smirked. “It’s my specialty.”
“But not just defending people either. Case in point, Lulu, when Ms. O’Donnell was ready to throw us both out of that motel.”
I huffed a small laugh. Hard to believe that was even real.
“So, what now?” she asked.
“I’m taking you to my place.”
Her head tilted slightly. “Your place? That riverside house?”
“Still mine. Though I’ll admit, I haven’t gotten around to painting it moss green, and the furnishings are a little…intentional. But it’s livable, if you don’t mind sharing a bed with me.”
Her lips curved. “I’d love that.”
“After what Boone put you through, I figured ‘want to share a bed?’ might be the one to trip you up. Guess not.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. Right there, that was why I loved her. Even after everything, she still had that spark.
I made the U-turn, heading back toward Buffaloberry Hill.
“Dom?” Something uneasy surfaced in her expression.
“What is it, Otter?”
“I’m worried about my mom. She’s alone. What if that man came for her?”
Her worry settled into me fast. This was non-negotiable.
“You’re right,” I said, already pulling up names in my head. “I’ll arrange something.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Absolutely. We need to protect your mom.”
“Thank you.”
I squeezed her hand. “Just let her know a guy named Buck will check in. She should ask him, ‘Who sent you?’”
“And the answer?”
I grinned. “Dominic Powell. He said to tell you, your daughter’s got claws, and he likes them.”
She groaned. “Dom!”
“What? Too much?”
“Way too much. That doesn’t exactly keep me in the saint column.”
“Okay, okay.” I laughed, raising my hands up. “What do you want it to be then?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Dominic Powell. The man who wears his jeans too tight when he goes to the sheriff’s office.”
I stared at her. “Poor Buck.”
“Serves him right for accepting the mission.”
I shook my head, then suggested, “How about this, short and sharp: ‘Dominic Powell. He’d burn the world for her.’”
She didn’t tease that one.
She just nodded, her eyes full of something I didn’t have a word for.
“That one works.”
It wasn’t just a passcode for her mother. It was my creed.