39
Nebraska welcome
Clearbrook, Nebraska
Rafferty pulled to a stop in front of the County Courthouse a few minutes after ten on a heavily overcast Tuesday morning.
Weather had delayed his flight by half an hour, and he hoped Mrs. Bronson wouldn’t hold it against him.
Exiting the rental sedan, he paused to take in his surroundings, buttoning his jacket against the chill.
Typical Small Town, USA. Quiet. Unassuming.
Yet his skin crawled.
Someone was watching him.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning more carefully this time. The sun struggled behind shifting clouds, casting patches of light across the gloom.
There. Movement to his left, in the deep shadow beneath a row of trees lining the sidewalk.
A man in a brown uniform stepped out and approached. “Rafferty Lawson?” he called once close enough.
Rafferty’s eyes flicked to the badge glinting on his chest. “Sheriff…” He glanced at the nameplate. “Stirling.”
“Welcome to Clearbrook,” the man said, extending a hand.
Rafferty accepted the handshake. Firm. Almost too firm.
As was the look in the sheriff’s eye. Cordial words, but cold steel beneath them. “I need a word with you before you meet with Children Services.”
“I’m already late for my—”
“Mrs. Bronson’s aware. She’ll wait.”
Rafferty noted the beat of hesitation before the sheriff’s reply, and for the first time, he questioned his decision to come alone. Maybe he should’ve brought Max. Having a lawyer by his side suddenly felt vital.
Still, the task was simple: sign papers, collect the boy, and take him back to Texas. A couple of days. Tops.
Suppressing a sigh, he inclined his head. “Then let’s talk.”
The sheriff turned on his heel and led the way into the building, down a hallway lined with tall windows on his left. Outside, the last of the sun disappeared as the clouds swallowed the light.
Rafferty shivered.
A bad omen? Fuck, he hoped not. But unease gnawed at him.
He shoved the feeling down and kept pace with the sheriff.
Sheriff Sterling halted in front of a steel door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. “After you, Lawson.”
Rafferty walked into the bleak room.
A table. Three chairs. All steel.
A harsh light snapped on, washing the space in sterile brightness.
Everything was a shade of grey — the tiled floor, the utilitarian furniture, even the suspended ceiling.
The door clanged shut behind him.
Metal on metal.
A sound he knew too well.
His skin crawled. A chill coiled around his spine despite the warmth of his jacket.
At least this room had no bars, no guards.
But it might as well have.
Two folders lay on the grey tabletop.
One sported his name.
Rafferty snatched the folder off the table, annoyance replacing the simmer of unease. “You’ve investigated me?” he snarled, waving the brown file.
“I have a problem handing a child over to someone with your notorious background.” Sheriff Stirling settled into the chair across from him, unbothered. “But that’s not the main reason I need to meet with you.” He kicked out the chair nearest Rafferty. “Sit.”
Rafferty slammed the folder back down and dropped into the chair, leveling a cold stare at the sheriff. “Explain yourself.”
His eye caught the label on another file.
Sarah Robertson.
The reason I’m here.
Get the boy. Take him back to Texas. Simple.
He shoved to his feet.
“I’m here to collect my son. I know my rights, Sheriff Stirling. You’ve got no cause to detain me.”
“The son you’ve never met.”
“His mother didn’t want him tainted by” — he flicked his eyes toward his folder — “that. I honored her wish. She’s dead, and now he’s my responsibility.”
He turned toward the door.
“Don’t bother showing me out. I’ll find Mrs. Bronson myself.”
“Sarah Robertson was murdered.”
The clipped pronouncement stopped him cold.
“What the fuck?” He spun around, stalked back to the table, and dropped back into the chair. “I was told she died in a car crash.”
Without a word, Sheriff Stirling slid the file labeled Sarah Robertson across the table.
Rafferty opened it with stiff fingers. The accident report blurred slightly as he scanned it, each line landing like a punch to the gut.
Rammed from behind. Pushed off the road. Then—
His gaze snapped up. “She was shot ?”
“She died from the gunshot wound, not the accident.”
Jaw clenched, Rafferty bit out, “You know who did it?”
The sheriff nodded toward the stack of images he hadn’t yet examined.
“The red paint transferred to her vehicle during the crash matches an abandoned Maserati found just beyond the town limits. It’s the only one of its kind in Clearbrook that day. We’re hoping you can help identify the driver.”
“Me?”
“You knew her before she was Sarah Robertson.”
It took everything in Rafferty not to react.
Keep your face blank. Keep your eyes steady.
Sheriff Stirling wasn’t fooled. His gaze narrowed to slits. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t insult me.”
Rafferty dragged a hand over his head, unable to deny it.
“I don’t take kindly to women getting killed on my watch,” Stirling went on, voice low and grim.
“And I want the person who murdered Sarah behind bars. But the fact is that, until seven years ago, Sarah Robertson didn’t exist. I think her past caught up to her.
And you, Rafferty Lawson, are part of that past.”
He flipped through the stack of photographs and slapped one onto the table. “Do you recognize this woman?” he asked, tapping a finger on the glossy surface.
Rafferty prepared his denial. How the hell would he recognize anyone in Nebraska? His gaze dropped.
His lungs emptied in a whoosh as recognition slammed into him.
He surged to his feet, the chair skidding back and crashing into the wall.
No. No. No.
No fucking way.
She was dead.
Dead .
Sweat broke across his brow. His vision blurred with the black dots of rising panic.
And just like that, he hurtled back.
Back to that goddamned day Kamila Carvalho discovered who he really was — all because of a shirtless photo of Sullivan making the rounds in the press.
“Do you know what I do to people who double-cross me?” Kamila’s voice turned guttural and raw with rage.
His refusal to speak earned him six lashes from the knout. Barbed thongs ripped through his back, flaying skin from muscle, pain hollowing him out until even breathing was a battle.
Hanging naked, wrists bound high above, he sagged in the ropes.
And still, she circled. The devil in sleek disguise.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Her red shoes peeked out from beneath tailored black pants, heels rapping across the cement floor.
The Devil Wears Prada .
Some half-broken part of his mind offered the memory — the movie poster, a red stiletto with a forked devil’s tail for a heel.
He clung to it. Escaped into it.
Charlie.
Her warm apartment in Baltimore.
The sound of her laugh, soft and close as they’d watched that movie together — his head on her lap, her fingers in his hair. A balm to his battered soul.
That had been the start of everything. The moment her light began to pierce his darkness.
But the devil didn’t let him linger in his memories.
Barbed wire threaded into the leather of the whip dug into the soft flesh below his chin as she hooked it under and forced his head up.
Her eyes sparkled. With hatred.
And enjoyment.
Kamila Carvalho got off on pain.
“Lost your sting, Senhor Escorpi?o?” she hissed. “Or should I say—Rafferty Lawson. Son of Jonathan and Branna Lawson. Twin brother of Sullivan Lawson.”
His stomach churned.
Damn Sullivan.
One tabloid headline. One viral photo. That’s all it had taken to blow his cover wide open.
He gathered every drop of saliva left in his torn mouth and spat — blood and spit spraying her cheek and silky red shirt.
The stain spread. Slowly. Soaking into the fabric like a brand.
Rafferty wrenched his mind back into the cold, drab interrogation room.
His defiance had left him unconscious. Left him broken and bloodied, his back a raw canvas after she’d unleashed her fury with that dreadful whip.
Of all the monsters he’d faced in the seedy underbelly of society, none matched Kamila Carvalho’s unfiltered, sadistic cruelty.
And for a brief, fleeting handful of days, he’d believed she was dead.
A fucking illusion.
She was alive.
In the United States.
Here .
Rafferty sucked in a ragged breath and closed his eyes. He swiped a shaking hand down his face. The other clutched the edge of the cold, steel table like a lifeline, anchoring him upright as his knees threatened to buckle.
His mind reeled. His heart thundered against his ribs, each beat trying to break free from his chest.
Sheriff Stirling’s voice broke through the haze. “I take it you recognize the woman?”
He opened his eyes, and the grey room swam into focus.
Across the table, Sheriff Stirling’s vigilant stare cut through the fog in his head.
Rafferty tried to speak. His mouth moved, but no words came.
Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, he told himself. Conjuring her from the sealed crypt of your darkest, most buried nightmares.
God knew he was stretched thin — nerves shot from the weight of what lay ahead.
Maybe it wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her.
She was dead. He’d seen the images, her tattoo.
Please, don’t let it be her.
Hold it together. Show no weakness. Think of Connor.
Selena trusted you. Her son is counting on you. You can’t fall apart now.
He sucked in a breath. One. Two. Exhaled.
Rafferty shuffled forward and dropped into the second chair, spine rounded, elbows braced on knees. Scrubbing both hands over his face, he fought to draw more air into his lungs, steady himself. But when he reached for the photo, his fingers still trembled.
He forced himself to study the image.
To look — really look — for anything that might disprove what he already knew in his gut.
Useless.
That arrogant stance.
The haughty tilt of her chin.
The smug, slashing smile.
The glossy cascade of sable hair.
All grimly, sickeningly familiar.