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And he believed Scott Pascal. That man had been frantic to convince them he had nothing to do with Jessie Brentwood’s and Renee Trudeau’s deaths. His emphatic denial had rung with truth and indignation, as if it made any sense that he could feel self-righteous about not killing the women when he’d admitted to murdering the men-two of his best friends. And for what? Money. Debt.
Lost in thought, he picked up the smooth bit of oyster shell found near Jessie’s grave between his forefinger and thumb. A piece of shell from an oyster found in the inlets and bays off the northern Oregon coast.
Everything led back to the beach.
Jessie Brentwood’s parents owned a cabin overlooking the ocean in Deception Bay.
Jessie was known to have been hitchhiking on the road running from the ocean shore inland not long before she disappeared.
Renee Trudeau, doing research on a story about Jessie, had been killed on her way back from Deception Bay.
Mac glanced at the picture of Levi propped up on his desk. Why not head to the beach, do a little poking around, see what was up. He could take Levi for the weekend, spend some father-son time at the beach while he explored the town of Deception Bay. He could check in with Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and see if they were any further in their search for the vehicle that had rammed Renee’s. The biggest roadblock to that plan would be Connie, his ex. She seemed to think his time as a father should be spent in structured, planned activities all revolving around schoolwork. No wonder the kid was having problems. Connie was pretty insistent that Mac not retire, either, but then she had lots of ideas about how he should run his life; especially when it came to raising their boy, who, she sometimes conveniently forgot, was his as well as hers.
Schoolwork be damned, this weekend he and Levi were going to hang out at the beach. Maybe do some crabbing down on the docks at Deception Bay, watch basketball, play cards, reconnect.
And yeah, he’d do a little investigating as well.
He needed to put the murder of Jezebel Brentwood to bed.
Just like that, his life had changed irrevocably, Hudson thought as he drove to his ranch the next morning. He’d lost a sister and then learned he was going to be a father.
One life ended; another started.
It was a weird sensation.
Not that he ever thought he’d be a father; but this, an unplanned pregnancy, was a shock to his system and an out-and-out high. He hadn’t suggested Becca marry him, wasn’t rushing out to buy a diamond ring, it was all happening way too fast. But he couldn’t imagine not living with her. He wanted to raise their son or daughter together and spend the rest of his life with her.
So marriage was definitely in his plans.
He just had to think things through.
Squinting against the harsh rays of sun that slipped through the clouds, he turned down the long drive to his house. More storms were predicted from the west. It was the end of March and winter would not let go of its grip.
But he was going to be a father!
Becca and he had talked. All yesterday afternoon and into the evening, and after spending the rest of the day and night together, they were on the same page about raising a kid, but it was a little early to ask her to move her things to the ranch. Hell, her little dog still wasn’t certain Hudson wasn’t an enemy. And there was something else, something he didn’t really understand. A “feeling” that Becca wasn’t being entirely honest with him-not about the pregnancy, he trus
ted her on that one, but there was something off about this whole vision thing. He felt she was holding back. He feared it was physical and that she was in denial, that something was causing these delusions.
Yet…her visions were strangely prophetic.
He parked near the garage and studied the old farmhouse with its mossy roof and often-repaired gutters. The windows needed replacing, a family room and third bath added. He had plans drawn nearly a year earlier but hadn’t started the renovation. Now he’d give them to Becca, get her input, and adjust accordingly.
If she wants to move in with you.
She wasn’t a hundred percent on that, now, was she?
They’d skirted the subject, each stopping short of saying, “Let’s live together.” He figured when the time was right, they’d move in or marry, didn’t really matter which order it happened. They had more than a few emotional hurdles to leap over if they were ever going to find happiness, and a lot of those hurdles had to do with Jessie Brentwood and why she was killed.
With the weak sun warming his back he slid out of the Jeep, nearly whistled to Booker T., then stopped himself short. His dog was gone and he couldn’t really see Ringo riding with him in the truck, trotting out to the barn to feed the stock, but then you never knew.
He headed alone down the path past the old pump house and willow tree where he was certain his twin sister had spied him and Becca making love years before. He felt more than a little pang of grief and anger when he thought of Renee. He missed her.
No two ways about it.
Sorrow surged but he tamped it back down, deciding to look to the future, and as he did, one side of his mouth lifted. In a few years he’d be walking down this path, a young son or daughter at his side.
You should have told him about your first pregnancy at the hospital. You had the opportunity. Why didn’t you take it?
