Chapter Sixteen
It was close to eight by the time Deacon and Jessa finally drifted back into the kitchen. An hour had slipped past without either of them noticing, the kind of time loss that came from great sex that’d left her body slack. And apparently hungry.
She was starving.
Deacon moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, pulling leftovers from the fridge. Cold roasted chicken. A container of mashed potatoes. A bag of salad greens dumped into a bowl with olive oil and vinegar. Nothing fancy, but it smelled like heaven.
She leaned against the counter and watched him, the hum of heat and need still buzzing low in her body. It hadn’t disappeared just because reality had elbowed its way back in. If anything, it had settled in deeper, warm and restless.
Part of her wished it was just sex between them.
Just the heat. Just the familiar burn and release. Something uncomplicated she could fall into without thinking too hard.
But she knew better.
She took a plate when he handed it to her and sat at the small table, forcing herself to eat. Hunger helped. Gave her something physical to focus on besides everything clawing at her chest.
When this was over, she was going to have to deal with it. With him. With what still lived between them.
She paused mid-bite and let out a slow breath. There was no sorting left to do. Not really. She already knew the truth.
She was in love with Deacon.
Had been for years, and that wasn’t going away.
That realization didn’t settle anything. It didn’t simplify a damn thing. It only made the stakes higher and the choices harder. She swallowed and kept eating, pushing the thought aside for now. There would be time to face it later.
Just not tonight.
Deacon caught her staring into space and tilted his head. “You’re thinking too much,” he said.
She huffed a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”
He leaned in closer, slipped a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. The look in his eyes gentled, heat and concern tangled together. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against her mouth that was slow and sweet, nothing demanding. Just enough to steady her.
Her pulse jumped anyway.
Then his phone rang.
Of course it did. In hindsight, it surprised her that they’d managed to get through the past hour without an interruption.
“It’s Noah,” he let her know after glancing at the screen.
Deacon closed his eyes for a beat before answering. She watched his expression shift as he listened, the tenderness he’d just shown her now tightening into focus. He was the cop again.
“Say that again,” Deacon said. A pause, and he got to his feet.
Her stomach knotted, and she stood, too. Ready for, well, whatever.
“Got it,” he said finally. “That’s enough. I’m moving on it.”
He ended the call and looked at her. “Noah’s team of techs found a connection between Shade and one of the shooters, Trent Haskins.”
The relief came. She’d been bracing for bad news and was glad that it wasn’t. “What kind of connection?” she asked.
“Old work. Same private contractor overseas. Same unit for a short window. Money transfers, too. Shade funneled cash through a shell account Haskins had access to. It’s not clean, but it’s enough.”
Apparently, enough to bring him in.
He tapped out a text, quick and decisive, and sent it off. “I just instructed my deputies to go ahead and pick up Shade. I might not have enough to charge him with assorted felonies, but it’s enough to hold him.”
She nodded, tension winding back into her bones. The moment they’d nearly had slipped away, replaced by the reality they couldn’t outrun.
This was moving fast now.
But she knew it wasn’t done costing them yet.
As long as they were dealing with the SOB orchestrating the attacks, then everything personal was on the back burner.
Not just her feelings for Deacon but the whole emotional processing of everything that’d come to light.
Noah being her father, and her mother’s murder.
She shifted her attention and spotted the photo that Noah had given her. It was still on the counter where she’d left it before things had gone to hell in a handbasket with the attack. She reached for it and picked it up again, studying it as if maybe it would change if she looked long enough.
It didn’t.
Her mother looked young. Open. Happy in a way Jessa had rarely seen growing up. Lauren’s smile in the picture was easy, unguarded, nothing like the careful expression she’d carried most of her life.
Deacon noticed where her attention had gone. “How you holding up with all of this?” he asked gently. “With Noah being your dad?”
Jessa didn’t look up at first. “It’s sinking in,” she said. “Slowly.”
She traced the edge of the photo with her thumb. “I almost never saw her like this. Smiling without watching herself. She always seemed like she was walking on eggshells. Especially when it came to her parents.”
Deacon leaned against the counter across from her, listening.
“I keep wondering if that’s why she had the affair with Clayton,” Jessa murmured. “And her relationship with Noah. Maybe it was her way of rebelling. Something that was hers. Something secret.”
She swallowed, her throat tight now. “She spent her whole life doing what she was supposed to do. Maybe for a little while… she just stopped.”
Deacon didn’t interrupt. He just stayed there with her, giving the memories room to breathe.
She set the photo back on the counter and looked at Deacon. “Do you think my mom could’ve killed Clayton?”
The question felt heavy leaving her mouth, like it might crack something open she couldn’t close again.
Deacon didn’t dodge it. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But Shade, Lila, and Wynn had just as strong a motive. Maybe stronger.”
That didn’t ease the knot in her chest, but it helped to hear he wasn’t fixated on one answer.
“I just want the truth,” Jessa murmured. “All of it. No more half-stories. No more guessing.” She took a slow breath. “Even if it’s ugly, I hope the truth comes out.”
Deacon met her gaze, steady and sure. “It will.”
She wanted to believe him.
More than anything, she needed to.
Deacon went to her and pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, resting her forehead against his shoulder. For a few seconds, he just held her, solid and steady, like he was anchoring them both.
Then his phone rang.
Yep, the interruptions were a given, but maybe this would be good news.
She felt him tense before he pulled back to check the screen. His brow furrowed. “It’s Sheriff Abe Martelli,” he told her. “From Lawless Canyon.”
Her pulse jumped. “Lawless Canyon?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
That got her full attention. Lawless Canyon sat about a half hour from Crossfire Creek, and Lauren had kept a house there. It was where Roman and Jessa had spent entire summers growing up. Quiet land. Rugged terrain. And it was where her mother was buried.
Deacon lifted the phone and hit speaker. “This is Sheriff Raines.”
A man’s voice came through, calm but tight. “Deacon. Sorry to call this late, but we’ve got something you’re going to want to hear.”
Jessa moved closer, every nerve suddenly alert.
Sheriff Martelli didn’t waste time. “Got a call a few minutes ago,” he continued. “Someone reported a man acting suspiciously in Whispering Pines Cemetery.”
Her pulse jumped. Whispering Pines was where Lauren was buried. Where her grave had been desecrated the night before. Where everything kept circling back.
Deacon’s voice sharpened. “Suspicious how?”
“He’s pacing in front of one grave,” Martelli said. “Yelling. Like he’s arguing with someone who isn’t there.”
A chill slid through her, cold and sharp.
“The whole area’s still taped off,” Martelli added. “It hasn’t been cleared yet by county CSI.”
Jessa didn’t have to look at Deacon to know he caught that immediately. He had sent the CSI team himself. He knew exactly what that meant. What evidence might still be exposed.
Deacon leaned closer to the phone. “Do you know who the man is?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Marty Wynn. I’ve seen him around town enough times when Lauren was still alive to recognize him.”
Hell. Wynn, again. He kept turning up like a bad penny. But maybe this would be their chance to catch him.
“I need him arrested,” Deacon insisted. “Immediately. He’s possibly responsible for two attempts to kill me and others.”
Martelli exhaled slowly. “I hear you. I’ve got deputies staged and ready, but we’re holding off.”
“Why?” Deacon asked.
“Because he’s not just pacing and shouting,” Martelli said. “He’s agitated. Unstable. And we’ve got reason to believe he’s wired.”
The word landed like a punch.
“Bomb squad’s en route,” Martelli continued. “We’re not making a move until they’re here.”
Jessa’s pulse roared in her ears as Martelli finished, his voice grave and certain. “Pretty damn sure that Wynn’s got explosives strapped to him.”