When he returned to the house, she noticed for the first time that he only wore a tee and jeans. He’d hurried to come to her rescue. She was grateful.
“Thank you. For whatever you did out there.” She laughed, the sound bubbling up from her throat unexpectedly. “You were like some sort of ninja. Those guys didn’t stand a chance.”
He chuckled. “Nothing new or original—certainly nothing ninja-like. The two were making so much noise I had the element of surprise.” A shrug lifted his broad shoulders. “The fact that they were both inebriated made it considerably easier.”
She passed him the pillow and quilt. It wasn’t until her arms were empty that she realized she had gone through this whole ordeal in her aunt’s vintage nightgown that sported a Smoke More Weed logo.
Rory crossed her arms over her chest and the faded letters. “Well, thank you again. I really appreciate…” How did she even describe this?
“You don’t need to thank me, Rory. I’m here to help.”
She nodded, felt that choking sensation again. She was so tired of the emotions and the urge to cry. “Good night then.”
“Good night.”
Rory headed to her room. She couldn’t wait to climb into bed and turn off her brain.
If only the dreams didn’t come.
But they would. They always did.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, June 16
Kindred Residence
Tupelo Pike
Scottsboro, 7:00 a.m.
The coffee had brewed, the rich scent filling the small kitchen.
Chance had been up since before six. He had walked around the property. Checked the tree line. The area was well wooded to be so close to town. Only a few miles up the road was the intersection where his motel was, and near that area, things were far more densely populated with businesses.
He’d found no issues outside. No indication of new trouble. Nothing except the splats of red that dotted the front of the small house Rory called home. A good pressure washing would likely take care of that problem. If he’d been able to locate a water hose, he would have taken care of the mess as soon as he got up. But there was no water hose or scrub brush or anything else that would help with the task. They could pick something up when they went out today. Leaving Rory at home alone was obviously not doable under the circumstances. They would need to discuss the issue at some point today. Staying at his motel, even as close as it was, might not be the best option for her safety given the level of animosity directed at her in the space of only a few hours.
He poured a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. If she was willing and emotionally up to the challenge, he wantedto visit the crime scene today. The sooner they got that difficult task behind them, the better. The agency had rented the cottage where the nightmare took place for the week, so there was plenty of time if today wasn’t good for Rory. His concern was that the police would suddenly decide to take possession of the property for their own purposes.
With a long draw of his coffee, he considered what others saw when they looked at Rory. He’d read all the statements and interviews associated with her case. Some—clearly not friends—had mentioned Rory being called a witch back in school. Her really dark black hair and incredibly light blue eyes were unusual for sure. Her skin was inordinately pale, and her build was slight. Yet her voice was strong. Her determination remarkable. All those contrasts made for a rare combination. Add to the mix her bohemian aunt, and Rory had been called many things in her young life—witch was likely the nicest of all those unkind terms.
But as an adult, she’d proven herself by landing a teaching position at a local elementary school and being honored as teacher of the year her second term. Her involvement with the son of one of the town’s wealthiest and most prominent families had set her life on a different path. She’d become a respected member of Scottsboro society.
Until the wedding.
Everyone around her—except her brother and aunt—had turned on her. She’d been fired from her job. Found guilty of murdering her husband and called the most vile name—theMurder Bride. Some, in their statements, had gone so far as to suggest they had always thought that perhaps she’d set the fire that killed her parents.
Chance had dug up the file on that long-ago house fire. Arson had never been suspected. The house was an older one with two fireplaces. One cold spring night, the fire the father had started hadn’t completely died down before they went to bed.Rory’s parents had awakened to the house in flames. The smoke and confusion had them searching desperately for their children when they were exactly where they were supposed to be—in their beds. The father found Rory and carried her out, then went back in for Austin. When he emerged with the boy, he realized his wife hadn’t come out. He went back in to find her, and the two never came out. An elderly neighbor had witnessed the frantic desperation. What happened had not been anyone’s fault. A simple, deadly mistake.
“Good morning.”
His attention shifted back to the here and now. Rory stood in the doorway. He smiled. “Good morning.” He gestured to the counter. “Coffee’s ready.”
“Thank you.” She walked in his direction. “I hope you slept okay on that lumpy sofa.”
“I slept just fine. Thank you.” The truth was he never slept well when on assignment. Knowing someone else’s safety and future depended on him was always at the forefront of his thoughts, and sound sleep didn’t work well with being on alert for the slightest shift in the environment.
As she poured her coffee, he couldn’t help watching her delicate fingers work. She was like a fine porcelain doll. How had she ever survived prison for two minutes, much less nearly two years?
