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“And anyway,” he said, continuing as though she hadn’t spoken, “we’d like to take a look inside that box.”
Chapter 7
4:02 a.m.
The two squad cars arrived at the sheriff’s department at the same time, but Rye and Brynn were kept separated as Rawlins and Wilson escorted them toward the building. They didn’t want them collaborating on their stories.
Police procedure. Rye got it. He just didn’t like it. He was being treated more like a suspect than a material witness. The implication made him angry and apprehensive.
Just what the hell was going on? The answer lay with Brynn. She might not have aimed that laser at him herself, but were she and that damned box the reason someone had? Something was keeping her from being up-front, and not just with him. The deputies smelled a rat, too.
The four of them entered through a door marked “Official Personnel Only.” No sooner were they inside than a gruff voice called out, “Brynn! Is that you, honey?”
The woman lumbering down the corridor toward them wore a deputy’s uniform stretched to capacity over her full figure. With iron gray hair and lips so thin they were nonexistent, Rye placed her age as sixty-something. Her no-nonsense bearing was belied by her smile as she approached Brynn.
“I heard your name over dispatch and knew you were coming in. Couldn’t wait to see you!”
Brynn smiled at her with genuine warmth. “Hello, Myra.”
Myra wrapped her in a hug that looked bone-crushing, then set her back and held her at arm’s length. “Look at you! I’m so proud of you, girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Still in Atlanta? And a doctor?”
“Yes to both.”
“Mercy sakes,” the woman said. “That’s wonderful. Pretty as ever, too.”
Brynn’s smile became a bit more tentative, as though the woman’s flattery made her uneasy. “I thought you would have retired by now, Myra.”
“To do what? Sit and rock? Take up knitting or rose-growing? Just shoot me now. Besides, this department would fall apart if I wasn’t here to hold it together.”
Brynn laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”
Myra continued to beam, then seemed to remember that Brynn hadn’t simply dropped by to say hello. “What happened out there at the airfield? Brady White’s in the ER. What’s going on?” She’d addressed the questions to Rawlins in a tone that was almost accusatory.
“We’re trying to determine that,” he replied. “Excuse us.”
Under his and Wilson’s prodding, Rye and Brynn were shepherded toward the staircase. Over her shoulder, Brynn said, “It was good to see you, Myra. Happy Thanksgiving.”
As they started up the enclosed stairwell, Rye slid off his bomber jacket and folded it over his forearm. Rounding the landing, Brynn happened to bump elbows with him. When she turned her head to excuse herself, she caught a glimpse of the jacket’s lining.
It stopped her where she stood on the tread above him. Her gaze snapped to his.
With exaggerated care, he refolded the jacket so that the well-endowed pinup girl, hand-painted on the silk lining, was no longer visible. “Sorry,” he said, with all the sincerity of a snake oil salesman. “There’s a world map on the inside.”
“How convenient.”
“It is, actually. Unfamiliar terrain can be tricky to navigate.”
From behind them, Wilson said, “Move it along, please.”
Brynn turned and continued up the stairs just ahead of Rye. He was tempted to grab a strand of wavy hair and yank her to a stop, then tell her she had her nerve being pissy with him, when it was he who had every right to be furious. He, who only ever wanted to be left alone to go about his business, now found himself embroiled in one hell of a mess of her making, and the nature of the mess was still a mystery to him.
The situation had gone tits up the instant that laser had skewered his eyeballs. Things hadn’t improved. They continued to get worse.
A sheriff’s office was never a good place to find oneself in the predawn. He had the uneasy feeling that he was entering the lions’ den and realized he was bracing himself for whatever nasty shock came next.
