Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bonnie and I both flinch and pivot to face the deep voice behind us. Jack is standing at the threshold of the door joining our rooms. A small whimper slips from my lips, my eyes closing with a wince as Bonnie grips my arm too tightly, my stitches twisting under her grasp.
Pushing past the searing pain, I force myself to look up, needing to make sure he’s really here. Even though there’s a gun bruising my side, that hopeless tension seeps out of my shoulders.
I’ve never been more elated to see someone, yet unable to demonstrate it. And I once dished up food beside Jeff Goldblum in the VIP room at a Cardinals game. I told him the hummus was fresh.
“Jack—” Bonnie’s voice is pained with regret.
“It’s okay, Bonnie. Just put the gun down, and we can talk about this.”
Her eyes are locked onto his as she opens the door, its hinges squeaking while she uses me as a human shield in the doorway.
She whispers “No” before shoving me forward, my palms burning as they slide on the hard carpet.
Jack is helping me stand, and he’s saying something to me, but all I hear is the beating of my own heart while the concern in his voice grows.
The room spins, and I grip Jack’s arm. Then he’s picking me up, walking to the bed and carrying me in his arms.
“You got my message,” I sigh.
He lets out a soft chuckle. “That was clever. I knew something was wrong when you mentioned wearing gray.”
I smile against his neck, warmth spreading in my chest. He gets me. Every time I babbled on about color, he was listening.
My head jolts away from his shoulder, tremors still rolling through my body in waves. “Shouldn’t you go after her?”
He shakes his head, eyes painting a path over my face. “Mary and Owen are out there.”
His chest rises, weighed down with the realization of betrayal. His hand smooths over my hair, almost absentmindedly, before Bonnie’s shrieks echo into the room, causing Jack’s signature frown to settle on his brow like pulling on a well-worn hat.
“She was your friend,” I say, mostly as a reminder to myself.
“Yeah,” he agrees after a great sigh, his hand continuing to coast over the shivers running down my arms, and I greedily allow the gesture to drip hope into my parched heart. “Mostly work colleagues, but…she and Ken were good to me when I first moved here.”
“Bonnie said something about him losing his job?”
“He—” His words are cut off by an escalation of voices in the corridor, followed by scuffles and the low murmuring of deep voices.
Jack’s eyes close, his mouth pinched as a weighty breath pushes out of his lungs. “The suits are here.”
Before I can respond, a man glides through the doorway, hair meticulously combed, and the faint smell of hair gel wafts into the room.
He lazily moves a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other while his partner strides in, planting himself beside the toothpick guy.
Hands resting not so casually on their hips, their eyes roam the space before landing on me, still cradled on Jack’s lap.
They puff out their chests, the reversed, lemon-yellow FBI logos visible in the mirror behind them.
This must be some kind of peacocking in the law enforcement world, because Jack snorts under his breath, hoisting me closer like he’s not in the least embarrassed by the entanglement in which we’ve been found.
I, on the other hand, am dying a little on the inside, but I also never want to vacate this spot.
“I thought you said they were suits.” I point, one finger gesturing between them.
“Jack,” Toothpick greets us, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Bacon.”
“Wh—hang on.” I hold up my palm. “Your first name is Bacon?”
My face is scrunched as I wait for Bacon to clarify, but a strange phenomenon is occurring in my peripheral vision.
Jack’s undiluted, unrestrained, full-blown smile is beaming at me from five inches away.
It takes a second for the reality of it to hit me, drawing my complete attention and stupor to the magnificence of it.
“Bacon is his last name.” Jack chuckles.
What in the alternate universe is going on?
“I thought you all went by first names.”
“That’s just us. These guys are a bit more uptight.” He smiles, his eyes falling to my lips. Who is this man, and what did he do with the grouchy, gruff Jack I left at the table?
Mr. Bacon clears his throat, a tiny smirk on his lips. “Glad to see you finally let someone thaw your icy heart, Jack.”
I straighten—as much as I can while Jack still has me nestled in his arms—and frown at him. This is the first I’ve heard about any hearts thawing. Jack must have knocked his head before sneaking in here, because I’m certain the Jack from thirty minutes ago was just warming up to break my heart.
“Miss Sinclair, you’ll need to come with us,” Mr. Bacon announces, removing the toothpick from his mouth.
“No,” Jack declares in that growly voice that turns my insides to goo.
There’s my grumpy man.
What? No. He’s not yours, Willow.
“She’s been through enough. The questioning happens here, with that door open.” He nods to the interconnected door. “While you debrief with me in that room. You’ve got ninety minutes, max. Then we’re done.”
I swallow, grateful not to be on the receiving end of Jack’s hard stare. I’m also a little surprised he’s being so demanding with the FBI, but their interactions thus far suggest a history.
Detective Bacon nods before turning to his partner, and Jack’s eyes fall back to me, equally assessing and confusing in their intensity. I don’t know what to make of the way he’s touching me and smiling so attentively.
“I’ll be right there, okay. This’ll be over soon.
” He cups my cheek before standing and helping me move to rest against the headboard.
He drapes a blanket over my legs, then lifts my hands, frowning at the red carpet burns.
With aching gentleness, he presses a kiss to each palm before turning and leaving me nearly catatonic.
How am I supposed to form coherent sentences after that?
I hide my trembling hands under the blanket as Detective Bacon moves a chair and takes a seat directly opposite the bed, crossing one leg over the other with a notebook in his hand.
“Please tell me your first name rhymes with Kevin?” I begin, hoping to break the ice.
“It’s Devin.”
I gasp. “You’re kidding me.”
“I am,” he deadpans. “My name is Chris.”
I can’t help but smile. “Any chance your middle name starts with a P?”
His eye twitches just the slightest before he clears his throat.
“My turn to ask the questions now, Miss Sinclair,” he drawls, and then he proceeds to grill me.
I’m beginning to think Bacon isn’t his last name but a nickname for how hard he’s digging and asking the same questions over in different ways.
My stomach begins growling, and the bats are no longer squeaking outside, and we’ve only made it to the point in the story where Jack and I got to the top of the canyon to be greeted by the sunny faces of Mary and Owen.
I’ve completely wrapped myself in the blanket that was draped over me, forming a protective cocoon as my bones are more chilled by the minute.
The sound of Chris’s pencil scratching over his notepad stretches the silence to its breaking point.
I want to scream for him to hurry up and finish this already.
Just when I don’t think I can hold in my frustration any longer, Jack walks into the room, handing me a water bottle, a protein bar, and pain meds.
He must not like the signs of fatigue on my face as he turns a scowl to Chris.
“Thirty minutes. Then you’re leaving.”
Chris doesn’t look at him, only quirking one side of his mouth as he sends a finger salute to Jack’s retreating back.
I’m picking up the bits of chocolate chips that fell out of my protein bar and trying hard to ignore the feeling of the walls moving closer with each minute that Chris continues scribbling in his little notebook. It feels like that pencil is inside my head.
I’ve emptied my brain for this man. He’s milked every detail my eyes have witnessed, and I’m just praying he’s done soon. He hasn’t even gotten up to pee, and I’ve gotten up three times to use the restroom.
Apparently, I have a nervous bladder, but I think being accused of murder will do that to a girl.
I know I’m not a suspect anymore, but those smug yellow letters on the back of his jacket mock me from the chair it’s been draped over.
If someone wanted to paint me as being involved in all of this, it would be my word against theirs until we could prove that Bonnie was behind it.
A lot of people could set me up as the bad guy if they wanted to, except they could search every inch of this room and they wouldn’t find the diamond.
The diamond only I have seen.
Welp.
I pop a chocolate chip into my mouth as Jerrica’s tiny smirk hovers in my subconscious.
“You remembered something.” Chris narrows his eyes, his scratchy little pencil pausing. “What is it?”
“Jerrica…she didn’t want Jack’s backpack. She wanted mine…”
“Yeah…” Chris waits, allowing the pieces to emerge in my mind.
“She knew about the diamond. That’s why she wasn’t phased about not getting the spearhead. Or being caught. She had a bargaining chip to offer Chad…but why?”
Chris doesn’t say anything; he just lets my brain work while a toilet flushes in the room behind us. I picture Jerrica as if she were in front of me, scrutinizing every detail of her appearance. There’s something I’m missing.
My eyes widen, and Chris smiles, a smidge of pride in the curl of his mouth. Not in me, but in his process. Allowing the facts to reveal themselves.
“Jerrica and Bonnie are related,” I whisper.
Those niggling inconsistencies in her appearance are flashing on giant billboards in my mind—the most glaring one lit up like the prize in a game show.
Beneath that dark brown hair dye was the emergence of her natural-born tone, fighting for recognition—the same bright red as Bonnie. Who would cover such a gorgeous auburn?