Chapter 11
Huck finished the last interview of the day so far, his voice scratchy from repeating the same questions over and over.
He’d managed to speak personally with everyone present during the courthouse steps shooting, and he had his team tracking down anyone else in the vicinity.
CCTV from the courthouse showed nothing except the bullet hitting Abigail.
No hint of a muzzle flash, no stray figure lurking in the shadows.
Whoever took the shot had done it clean. Professional.
CCTV along the routes the sniper probably took had so far revealed nothing of value.
Not surprising. Huck was a trained sniper himself; he knew how to avoid cameras, how to blend into the landscape so thoroughly even the best digital eyes wouldn’t pick him up.
The shooter had likely used alleyways and pedestrian routes, maybe even public transportation.
No car to trace, no license plates to run.
He’d been good. Hell, if Abigail hadn’t been wearing the vest, the shot would’ve been fatal.
Huck had put out feelers to old contacts from his military service, asking them to track down any signature or style that might match this shooter. But it was like fishing in an empty lake. No nibbles, no leads. Which meant the guy was good.
Obviously he was good if he’d hit Abigail from that distance, threading the needle between columns and across a windy square. It was skill, sure, but also a damn message.
A knock at his door pulled Huck’s attention from the sprawling mess of files and notes carpeting his desk.
Laurel appeared in the doorway. “Hi,” she said, her voice as steady as ever, even if the subtle lines at the corners of her eyes betrayed her weariness.
“Hi, come on in.” He waved her toward the one chair that wasn’t drowning under stacks of paper.
How he’d gone from pretty much living alone with his dog to now not only being part of this office but running it, he still couldn’t entirely grasp.
It had happened gradually, then all at once, like falling asleep on guard duty.
Monty, the other captain in the office, was healing nicely from chemo, but the guy still needed frequent breaks.
He was currently on a Bahamas cruise with Laurel’s mother, Deidre.
They seemed like a good pair, but if things went south, it’d get awkward for them all.
So Huck was hoping for everybody that they ended up in love and married and all happy.
Laurel walked inside, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She looked pretty today, in a feminine green sweater and jeans. That was probably Deidre’s influence. Her mother had an uncanny way of getting Laurel to wear whatever she thought best, whether it was comfortable or not.
Her earrings were dangly and pink, the necklace sparkling with tiny stones arranged like blossoms on a vine. Deidre had definitely given those to Laurel as a gift. And Laurel had worn them because his brainiac woman had a huge heart.
“You look like you’ve been living in here,” Laurel said.
Huck scratched the back of his neck. “Feels like it. But we’re not getting anything useful from the cameras. Whoever took that shot at Abigail was a pro.”
“I figured as much.” Laurel settled into the chair. “Abigail’s bruised but still breathing, thanks to the vest. She’s fortunate to be alive.”
He tried not to let frustration bleed into his voice. The more he dug, the more dead ends he found. “I’m reaching out to some old contacts to see if there’s any chatter about a sniper fitting the bill. So far, nothing.”
“Maybe he’s that accomplished,” Laurel said, her voice thoughtful.
“Perhaps he’s not working alone.” Huck leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, studying the woman he’d do anything to protect.
When she’d been pregnant, they’d started making plans to move in together, maybe build a barndominium on her mother’s property. Something rustic but solid, with thick logs and wide porches with enough room for them and whatever life they’d managed to piece together.
He knew Laurel still intended to build the place eventually.
Rent it out, maybe, or use it as a safe house when one of her cases went sideways.
She was pragmatic like that. Even in grief, she kept moving, eyes forward.
But Cabo . . . Cabo had been different. They’d spent their time there like two people trying to escape the world.
No badges, no crime scenes, no mixing themselves up in other people’s pain.
Just ocean and sun and late nights tangled up in each other’s arms.
He wanted a future. Still did, even if she wouldn’t quite look at him the same way since the miscarriage. Like she was afraid of asking too much, of hoping for anything other than the here and now.
“Any news about Walter’s brother?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands like she hadn’t figured out how to frame the words yet. “There were . . . odd lesions on Tyler’s brain. Like cancer.”
“Cancer?”
She shook her head, her brow pinching. “Not exactly, but Dr. Ortega has sent samples to the lab, so we’ll see. Dr. Ortega does not guess, which I appreciate. He wouldn’t want to raise any alarms quite yet.”
“Raise the alarms.” Amusement caught Huck. “Look at you getting all into recent vernacular.”
She almost smiled. Almost. But something in her gaze remained shadowed and distant.
He shifted, leaning against the cluttered edge of his desk. “How’s Walter doing?”
“He says he’s doing all right,” she said, her lips pursing, the motion tight and troubled. “I don’t know if he actually is. I’m not . . . great at reading people, but I’m getting better.”
“You’re getting good at it,” Huck countered. “And Walter’s probably just trying to keep himself from crumbling. He lost a brother he barely got the chance to know. Feels guilty about it, too, I imagine.”
Laurel blinked, her eyes weary. “I imagine so.”
“You manage to wrestle jurisdiction away from the locals?” Huck asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.” Her lips turned down, and hell, if the expression didn’t make her look adorable. Those unique eyes, all exasperated and stubborn. “So far, no luck. There’s no federal case here. Dr. Ortega said the locals need to request our assistance before he’ll tell us anything else about Tyler’s death.”
“At least Ortega had the decency to give you something.” Huck glanced at her, cataloging the faint lines of tension in her shoulders, the way she kept tucking her hair behind her ears.
She had truly glorious hair. Thick and gorgeous in a deep, rich reddish-brown that reminded him of fall leaves and firelight.
He loved tunneling his hands through it, feeling it spill through his fingers like silk.
She tilted her head in that analytical way of hers. “Did you interview Abigail?”
“Sure did,” Huck muttered.
“She likes you.” Laurel held up a hand before Huck could scoff. “Well, that’s not true. She doesn’t like anybody. But you intrigue her, and she very much wants to impress you. You can use that when you interview her again.”
Huck leaned back, and the office chair creaked under his weight. “I’d think she wouldn’t want to end up dead. So you think she’ll work with me?”
“You never know what Abigail’s going to do.” Laurel’s tone was as dry as a Montana summer before a storm rolled in. “I don’t even know, and we share DNA.”
He nodded. “I’m headed out tomorrow to interview everybody at the church. I called Pastor John, and he arranged for me to speak with people he thought were most disturbed by Pastor Zeke’s death tomorrow. I’m also going to see that Tim Kohnex.”
“Good luck with him. I believe he truly thinks he’s psychic.”
Huck would worry about the odd man tomorrow. “How about we grab a pizza, head home, and you stay the night with me?”
She smiled, and damn, if the sight didn’t punch him straight in the chest. The kind of smile she only gave him when they weren’t in the middle of a murder investigation or tangled up in half-truths and bitter memories. It was warm, real, something like peace. “I think I’d like that very much.”
“Good.”
They were on the same page at least when it came to that.
Which was something, considering how much of their lives felt like one wrong turn after another, all roads leading back to Abigail’s troubles and Laurel’s too-sharp focus.
For some reason, everything bad that touched Abigail seemed to come for Laurel as well.
Like their shared blood marked them for some kind of twisted fate neither of them had asked for.
Not this time.
Huck was going to find the bastard who wanted Abigail dead.
Not just because it was his job, but because he couldn’t stomach the idea of Laurel in danger again.
She had too many scars already. He’d lock this case down, track every lead, interview every suspect until he got the truth.
And if it meant ruffling feathers or kicking down doors, then fine.
He’d do it with a damn smile on his face.
Because whatever storm was building, Huck wasn’t about to let it take Laurel down. Not now.
Not ever.