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He dipped his chin, and followed the sheriff toward his office, an office Dean knew well since he’d carried out repairs there not that long ago.
“Take a seat.” The sheriff pointed to a wooden chair before his small metal desk, and Dean sat.
“That was a pretty impressive showdown at Maynard’s tonight.” The sheriff groaned and took a seat at his desk, a couple of tall metal filing cabinets behind him, all with locks to secure whatever hid inside. “I’ve talked to Blaine and searched some records pertaining to his version of events. Now I want to hear yours.”
The sheriff picked up a cheap plastic pen, ready to record whatever Dean had to say.
Dean didn’t meet the sheriff’s gaze, instead choosing to stare at the pen. “I’m sure whatever Blaine told you would be close to the truth.”
The sheriff let out a sigh. When Dean peered up, the man’s brow formed a hard line. “He says you and Anthony ran him out of LA ten years ago in an unprovoked attack. While he confirmed you didn’t hit him, he says you pushed him into a car window and prevented his escape. Is that correct?”
Dean bowed his head and nodded, the churn in his belly intensifying. “Yes.”
A tide of memories swept through his mind. That night. Emilia and Blaine were not much younger than himself. A supposedly non-violent intervention instigated by Anthony, which had ended in blood. The screams still rang vivid in his ear.
“And Anthony Stucco.” The sheriff’s voice drew Dean’s attention. “He wasn’t married to Emilia at the time, but he attacked Blaine with a knife and proceeded to kidnap her?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and pulled a quiet breath, centering himself, before nodding. He’d known the situation was unfair but was new to the job. New to working with Luciano. Needed the work and knew he had little room to protest. Frankly, he’d also become numb to helping in a crisis.
On the surface, in light of his years in the service, the whole event seemed insignificant. Two little boys, inexperienced with true misery, scuffling over a girl. Even if he had intervened, by that point, he had more to lose than his job and freedom. Chances were, he’d end up with a bullet in the head and a shallow grave in some deserted part of town. Luciano would have made sure of it.
The sheriff leaned back, his chair creaking while he blew out a hard breath, his narrowed glare sweeping over Dean. “How did you know Mr. Stucco?”
“I didn’t. I was hired to help him.”
The sheriff’s expression dropped. “Hired?”
“Yes, hired. I did what I was told and within my limits.”
The sheriff leaned in, his elbow propped into the desk, his stare hyper-focused. “What limits were they?”
“I never murdered anyone if that’s what you’re looking for.” Dean returned the sheriff’s stiff stare.
The sheriff responded by pressing his back into his seat again. “So that’s what you meant when you said your time after the military involved doing ‘odd jobs’. You weren’t fixing leaking roofs and broken mail boxes. You were muscle for hire. Is that right?”
Dean shrugged. “I had a special knack for finding people. It’s just a bonus that I look like I might hurt them while I’m at it. But I never went out of my way to hurt anyone, certainly not on command.”
“And that’s what brought you to Emilia and Blaine’s doorstep ten years ago, and again more recently? Money for finding people?” The sheriff’s gaze searched Dean’s face as though he saw him in a whole new light. Not a surprise, really, but Dean had never learned to dull the sting of that look.
He peered around the desk, trying to escape the sense of judgment, a sense he deserved, but coming from the sheriff, it hurt even more. Dean could handle disgust and indignation, but the sheriff—in all his fatherly and good-natured glory—gave none of that.
He peered up, wanting to end the aching silence. “Aren’t you going to ask who I was working for?”
The sheriff didn’t answer right away, though his brow dipped and formed a stiff line, suggesting thought. “I guess a more important question would be whether you’re on the job right now?”
An impulsive laugh escaped Dean. Maybe because working for the syndicate felt like a million years ago, like he was a different man after just mere weeks away from it all. But he shook his head anyway, answering the sheriff’s question. “Would it make you feel safer to hear I quit the job the night Anthony went rogue on me?”
“Rogue?” The sheriff lifted a brow, though the rest of his face didn’t move.
“I had no clue Mr. Stucco had a gun that night, much less that he would use it. As you recall, I wasn’t even there.”
The sheriff continued his stillness, though he offered a slight and repeated nod. “I’m less convinced with what you’re saying, Mr. Holloway, so much as your actions, thus far. Your intervention with the Chadleys, maybe I could figure was just you playing the part to fit in. But your reaction tonight, not retaliating against Blaine, and your interaction with Sarah”—he shook his head through a long pause, his stare unwavering—“that was something else, now, wasn’t it?”
“Why?” Dean lifted his chin, trying to escape the swelling pain from within at hearing Sarah’s name. “Because I didn’t beat the shit outta Blaine Callaghan?”
The sheriff shot out a short laugh. “Less that, more the look on your face when you had to tell Sarah the truth. That look was more than guilt over getting caught. It was something less easy to fake. Frankly, I’m starting to think it wasn’t Anthony’s off-script behavior that had you looking for a different life. It would have been a million times smarter to disappear somewhere far away from Harlow, now wouldn’t it, Mr. Holloway?”
Dean held the sheriff’s gaze, his insides stiff and buckling that he was so easy to read. So openly pathetic. So unrecognizable to the man he’d been. Not a bad thing, maybe. But to what benefit? He would be in prison within hours.
