Chapter 48
Forty-Eight
FOLLOWING THE ARREST of Andres Xavier—and that of George Phillips, Randolph Palmer, and Hank Weathers—Deckard and Harper were happy to retire to his house to recuperate after the gala.
The crimes had come down to two men. The first man, Randolph, enraged by what he deemed his wife’s “neglect,” had killed her, and his actions morphed into a lucrative business of killing his friends’ wives when their husbands wanted them out of the picture too.
The scheme was smart. Natural-looking deaths, at least a year apart, in different states or precincts, followed by a strict plan for how to handle the aftermath.
Apparently, Nick got too greedy too fast, and it had cost him his life.
But the rest of them would be spending a very long portion of their lives behind bars.
And Andres Xavier, once revered, was now in FBI custody and would be behind bars for the foreseeable future, no doubt.
A deep satisfaction at seeing justice done welled inside Deck as he curled up with Harper on the couch. He wrapped his arms around her, and she cuddled into his hold. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, a peaceful smile curling his lips.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty played on the TV, and Harper laughed harder than she’d laughed since returning to the US, and it brought joy to his heart.
She’d be all right. It would take time and lots of love, but he wasn’t going anywhere and, deep in his soul, he trusted God would bring healing in time.
He was so proud of her bravery and resilience. Loved her quirky sense of humor, and he could forgive her for being a Cubs fan—maybe.
She snuggled deeper into him, and he covered her with a throw blanket.
“Is this okay?” She lifted her head up. “I mean, it’s not uncomfortable with me basically lying on you?”
“Trust me,” he said, his voice low. “I couldn’t experience anything more perfect than you in my arms.”
She smiled. “Is that right?”
He winked. “Yes, ma’am.”
She sat up and scooted even closer, then she cupped his cheek and pressed her lips to his.
Electricity shot through him. He kissed her back, soft and gentle, but when she deepened the kiss, he did as well, splaying his hands through her hair.
Ding-dong.
“Are you kidding me?” he said against her mouth, then inched back. “Maybe if we’re quiet, they’ll go away.”
She straightened. “It might be important.”
Man, this sucked. “You’re right.” He got to his feet and lumbered to the door.
Reaching it, he looked through the peephole. A woman, in an evening gown of all things, stood with her back to him, snow falling down around her.
He opened the door, and she turned to face him, mascara streaking down her face.
His jaw went slack. “Bristol?”