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“He said that Marty wasn’t my biological father.”
“Oh my God.” Joe tightened his grip on my hands. “You believe that?”
I nodded. “It explains a lot, Joe. How he treated me.”
“Did Cat know?”
“Which part? Actually, it doesn’t matter. She for sure knew he was alive, they’d been keeping in touch, but chose not to tell me. Her intentions may have been good, but seriously. It was a time bomb.”
“Brad Mitcham also gave me these.”
I fumbled in my jacket pocket, brought out the ring I’d seen on Mom’s ring finger for so many years and the letter she’d written to me just before she died.
“This was my grandmother’s engagement ring. It’s a family heirloom. I’m going to wear it as a pendant for a while, I think. And she left me this letter. I haven’t read it yet. I want to be in a cooler mood.”
Joe nodded.
I was starting to slur my words, not from the half tumbler of wine but from the stress of the day. But I still had more to say. So, I tried.
“Also, Marty had a new wife. Darla. And a stepson named Austin. Cat gave me the wife’s number. I need… to… interview…”
I heard Joe as if from a distance. A long way away.
“Conklin. You want Conklin.”
I didn’t understand.
CHAPTER 21
I WOKE UP at the table where Joe caught me before I fell off my chair. He walked me to the bedroom, helped me undress, and had his hand at my elbow as I stepped into the shower. It had to be midnight. I didn’t care. I was done.
Joe had given me his arm and I’d climbed out of the tub and stood on a sodden bathmat as he toweled me off. Five minutes later, I was in our big bed, tucked under Joe’s arm, holding him tight. I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder.
It was still black outside our windows when something shocked me awake. Joe was sleeping. I may have had a dream. And then, I heard it again. It was the crack of gunfire. One shot.
I shook Joe’s shoulder and he started awake.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I think I heard a gunshot.”
And then there was another. Joe swung his legs out of the bed, asking me questions as he got to his feet.How many shots? Had I heard voices? A speeding car?He kept the lights off as he went to the window and looked down on the street. Then he dressed, stuck his gun in his waistband, put on a Kevlar vest and a windbreaker.
“Joe. Don’t go out. I’m calling for backup.”
“I’ll be careful. Be right back,” he said.
I scrambled out of bed. I found my phone in my jacket pocket and called dispatch, gave my name and badge number to the night supervisor.
“What do you need, Sergeant?”
“Shots heard, near 1023 Lake Street between 11th and 12th. Three minutes ago. Request backup, forthwith.”
I told dispatch that my husband was an off-duty FBI agent, armed, looking for the shooter and described his clothing.
“Plainclothes operative on the street. Copy that, Sergeant.”
I watched from the window as Joe, looking like a shadow, stepped out from the alcove surrounding the front door. He stood still for several minutes then got into his black Mercedes, parked only yards away.
