Chapter Three #2
She couldn’t forgive him for not believing in the people who’d saved her life, raised her, given her a family when she’d had nothing.
So she walked away.
Deacon let her. Because he believed he’d done his job. But damn it, he also knew he’d failed her, as a man, as someone who’d loved her deeper than he’d ever loved anyone.
He hadn’t learned about Lauren’s diagnosis until weeks later.
And by then… by then it was too damn late. Jessa was gone from his life. Lauren was dying. And Deacon had been left standing in the wreckage of the one thing he’d never wanted to lose.
Now she stood in front of him again, closer than she’d been in a year, worry carved into every line of her face, and all that old pain curled up inside him, sharp and familiar. And he hated that, even now, even after everything, the first instinct in his chest was still to reach for her.
Corbin finally peeled himself out of the chair, stretching like he’d been lounging on a damn beach instead of sitting outside a treatment room where Deacon had just gotten stitched together. He took one slow, calculated look between Deacon and Jessa, and a crooked grin slid across his face.
“Well,” Corbin drawled, “I can practically smell the bad blood between you two from here.”
Jessa stiffened, her jaw tightening. A grimace flickered across her face—half annoyance, half embarrassment—and she cut her eyes away like she wished Corbin would evaporate.
Deacon felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Irritation, mostly. And something else he didn’t care to name.
Corbin wasn’t done.
“Which is why,” he added, tipping his chin at Jessa, “I’m a little shocked you came running to save his ass.”
Jessa inhaled sharply, a quiet, tense sound. Her gaze flicked toward Deacon and then away just as fast.
“Yeah,” Deacon said dryly. “And I’m a hell of a lot more surprised you showed up. There’s no love lost between us.”
Corbin shrugged, utterly unbothered. “When Shade gives me intel, I’ve learned to act on it. Fast.” His expression sharpened, losing its lazy edge. “Guy’s never wrong. If he says someone’s about to get dropped, someone’s about to get dropped.”
Shade. That hacker again. The one who’d warned Jessa. The one who’d warned Corbin. Deacon’s pulse kicked up, not from pain this time, but from the wrongness curling in his gut.
Corbin stepped closer, tone shifting. “Word is Marty Wynn’s out there hunting. But why? What the hell does he want? And why’s he dragging you,” he jabbed a finger toward Deacon’s chest, “into it?”
Deacon opened his mouth to snap, to defend himself, hell, maybe to admit he didn’t have a damn clue, but before he could get a word out, Jessa drew a breath as if she were about to speak.
She didn’t get the chance.
The doors at the far end of the hallway swung open, and Noah Riggs strode in with that relentless, controlled stride that made everyone look up. His expression was carved into a hard line that said he’d already been briefed and was more than ready to start tearing into answers.
His gaze swept the room, then locked onto Deacon with an intensity that made the air shift.
Deacon didn’t miss that Jessa went rigid beside him. It was subtle, most people wouldn’t have caught it, but Deacon did. Her spine straightened. Her hand hovered near the pocket where she kept her phone, as if she was bracing for impact.
Why?
He filed the question away. Now wasn’t the time.
Noah came to a stop in front of them, his gaze sweeping over Deacon with a rapid tactical assessment, checking injuries, posture, clarity of eyes. The man didn’t miss much.
“Jessa,” Noah greeted. “I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice strained and barely audible.
Noah didn’t respond to that strain. Maybe because he was already shifting his attention to Deacon. “How are you?”
Deacon adjusted his stance, ignoring the pull of stitches. “Still standing.”
“That’s not much of a bar,” Noah said on a sigh. “But I’ll take it for now. What the hell happened out there?”
Before Deacon could answer, he felt Corbin shift beside him, a subtle lean forward, an eager tilt of his head. Waiting. Listening. He wanted details. And Deacon was in no mood to give him front-row seats.
Deacon gave Corbin a hard look. “You can go ahead to the sheriff’s office and give your statement about the attack.”
Corbin’s lips twitched downward. “I figured I’d stick around. Hear what the hell this is all about.”
“Not happening.” Deacon jerked his chin toward Deputy Carver. “Jack, get Corbin’s statement. Everything he saw, everything he heard, every damn detail he thinks is relevant.”
Jack stepped forward with a nod. “Yes, sir.”
Corbin didn’t move at first. His jaw flexed, annoyance flashing across his face. “You can’t seriously expect me to walk away while—”
“I can,” Deacon cut in. “And I do.”
Corbin stared at him for a long beat, frustration simmering in his eyes. Then he huffed out a breath that was half growl, half surrender.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But I expect a call when you put the pieces together.”
“Noted,” Deacon replied, which was as close to hell no as he could give without starting another argument.
“You want me to have a cruiser sent over for you?” Jack asked Deacon.
Deacon remembered then that his own cruiser had been wrecked. And was no doubt evidence at what was now a crime scene.
“He’s probably in no shape to drive,” Jessa said before Deacon could reply. “I’ll take him wherever he needs to go.”
Deacon couldn’t help but notice that didn’t sound like a kind offer. More of a way for her to keep an eye on him.”
“It appears I have a ride,” Deacon told Jack. “Just focus on getting that statement.”
Jack nodded and then motioned toward the hallway. “This way,” he instructed Corbin.
Corbin threw one last look at Jessa. Something unreadable, something that made Deacon’s neck itch. Then, he followed the deputy with long, annoyed strides down the hall. The moment he disappeared out the ER doors, the air shifted. Quieter. Heavier.
As soon as Corbin disappeared around the corner, Noah turned back to them, all business. “What happened out there?” he asked.
Deacon let out a slow, steadying breath. “Ambush on the farm road near your headquarters. Sniper in the trees. My cruiser was hit, and I went off the road. Jessa got there in time to get me behind cover before the shooter closed in.”
Noah’s jaw tightened. “You got eyes on the shooter?”
“No,” Jessa answered. “But we know who it was. Marty Wynn.”
Something flickered through Noah’s expression. Recognition, yes, but something harder beneath it. “Wynn,” he echoed. “You’re sure?”
Jessa nodded. “He was madly in love with my mom. Practically worshipped her. And when Lauren died a few months ago… he just… spiraled.” She rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. “He thinks anyone who ever wronged her deserves payback.”
Deacon’s gut tightened. “Anyone who wronged your mother?” he asked, hoping for clarification.
Jessa tensed as if those words had hit every nerve in her body.
Deacon pressed, softer this time. “Jess… did you wrong her?”
A muscle jumped in her jaw. “We had a rift. Recently.”
His brows pulled together. “A rift about what?”
Her eyes, raw, wounded and guarded, flicked up to him. She opened her mouth. But the sharp trill of Noah’s phone cut her off.
Noah muttered a curse and stepped back, pulling the phone to his ear. “Riggs.”
He moved several paces away, his voice dropping as he listened. His body went rigid, shoulders squared, posture tightening into something that made the air prickle.
Jessa exhaled shakily, her gaze dropping to the floor. And Deacon suddenly knew that whatever the rift had been between Lauren and her, it wasn’t small. And it wasn’t something she wanted him hearing about.
Not yet.
Noah turned his back to them as the call continued, his voice low and clipped. Whatever he was hearing wasn’t good.
Deacon shifted his attention back to her. “Jess,” he said quietly, “if Wynn’s going after people who wronged Lauren, then it’s obvious why he’s coming after me. It’s because I arrested Lauren.”
She swallowed hard and made a sound of agreement. What she didn’t do was add more. So, Deacon pushed.
“And Wynn is targeting you because of the rift with your mother?” he came out and asked.
Her shoulders tightened. She didn’t look at him. “We’re not doing that right now,” she murmured, shifting her weight. “Not here. Not while Wynn’s out there.”
He almost kept pushing, almost, but she cut him off by shaking her head. “Maybe Shade lied to me,” she said instead. “Maybe he’s working with Wynn.”
“Shade,” Deacon spat out like profanity. “Who the hell is this guy anyway? What’s his real name?”
“Brett Calder,” she said. “He works freelance intel gathering for Creed Response sometimes. He’s good. He’s never steered me wrong before. But tonight…” Her voice thinned. “Tonight I don’t know.”
“Trust level?” Deacon asked.
“Normally? Ninety percent.” She exhaled. “Now? Fifty. Maybe less.”
She pulled out her phone and tapped rapidly, lifting it to her ear. “I’ll ask for a meet.” But she clearly got nothing. She lowered the phone, redialed. Tried again. Silence. “No answer,” she relayed.
The muscles in Deacon’s back tightened. “You think he’s in trouble?”