Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“You don’t let her out of your sight,” Jack commands, pinning Owen with his icy stare. “We don’t know who’s behind everything, and Willow could still be in danger.”
I’m hooked up to an IV, receiving fluids for dehydration, and melting at the growly man being all protective and ruining any future prospects for me.
Apparently, I’d forgotten to drink enough water as we made our way out of the canyon. I blame the stress and my handsome distraction of a hiking partner. I’m not beating myself up about it, though. I still made it out of the canyon alive…mostly.
“We’ll take care of her,” Mary chirps, lifting a hand to pat Jack on the shoulder before dropping it when Jack frowns at the motion. “Sorry. Forgot about the no-touching thing,” Mary adds, his features softening.
The doctor who assessed me earlier steps back into the small examination room, frowning at the three men crowding the space. Then she turns a warm grin to me, shooing Owen out of the way. “Time for those stitches, lady. I’ll make ‘em nice and pretty, don’t you worry. Won’t leave but a tiny scar.”
Panic begins to swarm my chest at the thought of getting stitches, my eyes finding Jack’s. “Can you—”
He crosses the room to cradle my hand, but then catches himself, patting the top of my fingers before shoving his hands in his pockets. Disappointment pierces my chest as I nod, avoiding meeting his eyes.
Officer Owen frowns, scratching his head with a sigh. “Jack, you need to be—”
“It can wait ten minutes.” Jack grates.
Owen lifts his hands placatingly, stepping back to resume his relaxed stance against the wall.
Logically, I know my arm is no longer dripping with blood, but the memory of it still makes me lightheaded, bringing with it the panic I felt when someone was shooting at us.
I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing I still had Jack’s hand to hold onto when Dr. Roberts begins the process of cleaning the wound and sewing me up.
Owen and Mary chatter quietly in the doorway, but it’s white noise as I pinch my eyes shut again and focus on the feel of the scratchy sheet between my fingers.
It’s all I can do not to think about the slight pulling and sharp twinges in my arm.
“All done, Miss Willow,” Dr. Roberts announces.
“That’s it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just three little stitches. I also want to clean those scratches on your face, though.”
Jack frowns at said scratches and bruises, like he wants to hunt down and end the person who caused them.
Minutes later, he gives a brief squeeze to my uninjured arm before being escorted away by a new officer.
Thankfully, Jack insisted I be questioned in this room, so I get to at least lie back in the hospital bed instead of sitting on an uncomfortable chair under a harsh light while arguing my innocence.
Dr. Roberts removes my IV before returning with a plate and a wrapped sandwich.
“It’s from your boyfriend. Eat.” She smiles, and my eyes widen at what she’s assumed, but before I can protest or deny her words, she pats my hand and then points a stern finger at the two officers.
“You have one hour, gentlemen. Then my patient needs to get herself into a real bed so she can rest.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Owen tips his head, his body language looking way more at ease as the evening goes on. I’m hoping that’s a sign in my favor.
Owen turns to me after the doctor leaves. “Answer truthfully, and we’ll make this as quick as possible, Miss Sinclair. We need to get some clarity on a few things.”
I barely avoid rolling my eyes, since there’s no indication of whether I’ll leave here a free woman or be slapped with a pair of handcuffs and on my way to trade cigarettes with The Dementors.
“I’ll tell you everything I know. But can I see this supposed photo evidence you have?”
“We’ll get to that,” Owen replies in a clipped tone, pulling a small ringbound notebook from his breast pocket.
Mary scowls at his partner before assuming a relaxed stance. “Why don’t you walk us through your time here as you eat your sandwich. Start from the beginning. How long ago did you arrive?”
I nod, fiddling with the scratchy white blanket over my legs and struggling to believe it was a mere four days ago that I left the South Rim and my insecurities behind. I certainly wouldn’t have believed I’d end up here when I began.
In between bites of the sandwich, I walk Owen and Mary through every incident and interaction I’ve had since nervously climbing out of my car on the other side of the canyon, including bumping into Jack, ripping my original backpack, the weird door handle situation, and my first exchange with Chad.
Then I get to the part where I acquired Marigold, which elicits traded glances between Owen and Mary.
It’s only in this moment that I remember the few weird interactions with Sue and her husband.
Why can I never remember his name? I tell Owen about them, too, grateful to unload every strange encounter.
Seven years and two bathroom breaks later, I’m finally at the end. It’s only been about thirty minutes in reality, but the day has retired and taken the very last dregs of my energy with it. Owen and Mary have mostly been silent, but I get the feeling a barrage of questions is about to ensue.
“What’s the nature of your relationship with Jack Jackson?” Owen asks, lips pursed as he stares at me.
I blink. “Why does that matter?”
“How many minutes were you alone with the victim before Jack found you with the body?” he continues to probe, tapping his pen on his notepad.
“Five minutes, at most.” I frown, not liking the direction of his questioning.
“So, long enough to sneak up on someone and attack them?”
“What?”
“Is your boyfriend covering for you, Miss Sinclair?”
This time, I can’t hold back the eye roll. Of all the things. I won’t have any of this derailing Jack’s career.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. A third grader could point out how unlikely that is. Why aren’t you focusing on Jerrica and Chad? You arrested them, right?”
“They were released.”
“What! Why? She had a gun! She tied Chad up. Chad knew Brandon!”
“Carrying a permitted weapon on a wilderness hike is not a crime, and they said they were with each other at the time of death. Chad declined pressing charges against her.”
“This is ridiculous,” I continue to protest. “Show me the photo.”
Owen gives the tiniest nod to his colleague before Mary flips open a folder with an enlarged picture inside. He turns it so it’s facing me, gently placing it on my lap.
It’s a slightly grainy eight-by-eleven print featuring yours truly, standing over a very obviously dead man, a rock suspiciously held in my hand.
I look rough. Hair in disarray, clothes that have begun to match the color of the rocks, and enough injuries that one would assume I had only recently gained the use of my legs. I’m a teenage mermaid on land, minus the flawless skin and hair.
I lift the page, noting the rest of the photos behind it—crime scene photos.
“I wouldn’t look at th—”
“I’ve already seen it in person,” I cut him off to say, but I still grimace as I scrutinize the high definition print of the memory that will haunt me for weeks to come. I don’t think you ever forget the first time you see a dead body.
It’s a weird feeling, knowing Brandon’s dead. I’m not under any illusions that he was a good person, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him murdered. I’d prefer he had a life-changing, repentant encounter with goodness and joy and realize the error of his ways instead. But here we are.
My eyes trace every detail of Brandon’s lifeless form, his head tilted slightly to his right. A dark crimson liquid seeps into the sand on his left, making it look like a ponytail swishing in the wind.
I gaze over the photograph to the officers’ pensive expressions. “Please tell me you see how obvious this is?”
“How obvious what is?” Owen fidgets, his brows dipping.
“Your murderer is left-handed,” I deadpan.
“And?”
My head inches forward as I bug my eyes, lifting my injured left arm. “I’m five-five on my best day, right-handed, and have had this arm in a sling for the past two days. Explain how I could’ve reached high enough and hit hard enough to do this?”
Mary dips his head, an amused smirk sneaking onto his lips. He scratches the side of his head, giving a side glance to Owen in a very told-you-so manner.
Owen clears his throat, shrugging his shoulders back. “We’re aware of how slim the possibility is. But there’s due process. And it’s not out of the realm of possibility if you had help.”
“Help?!” I screech. “You can’t seriously think Jack and I had anything to do with this?” I take in the tightness in his neck, the way he adjusts his shoulders every few seconds. And those shoulder seams in his jacket are doing him no favors.
“You have no clue who’s behind this, do you?” rumbles a deep voice.
Jack appears at the door, his eyes zeroing in and scrutinizing my face like he’s searching for things I can’t hide. “You okay?” His expression softens as he approaches the bed.
“I’m good,” I fib.
“We done?” He glares over his shoulder at Owen. “Willow needs to rest.”
“Yeah, we’re done.” Owen releases a sigh with the kind of strain that says he’s had years of too little sleep and not enough vacation. “We have your contact information. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
“That’s it?” I ask incredulously. “No, don’t leave town, or anything? What about the FBI? Won’t they need to speak to me too?”
“Maybe, but they’re the FBI; they’ll find you.
For now, rest, and stay safe.” Owen adds the last part with a pointed look at Jack, making me shiver, because while the idea of having Jack as my protector for a little longer makes my toes curl, it’s also a reminder that there’s a murderer out there who may be feeling a little extra murdery toward me.
“You’re finished?” I turn my gaze to Jack.
“I am. What do you say we get outta here?” He stands, offering his arm for me to grab onto.
“There’s literally nothing I’d like more. No offense.” I smile at the two officers. Mary smirks, but Owen looks like I’ve just added salt to his coffee.
Jack leads me outside, slowly and carefully, and my hand grips his bicep firmly while my heart grows more attached.
At this point, it’s practically welded itself to him, and if he’s decided risking a relationship is too much, the recovery process is going to be harder than the one for this gunshot wound.
There’s no way I’m coming out of this with my heart intact.
There’s enough to worry about, though, so I push those fears aside and focus on not falling asleep while walking.