One Wrong Move, page 18
“So did I.” She scanned the report. “But I think I got a second wind.”
“Okay.” He chuckled. “Where would you like to start?”
“Well, the autopsy report shows no defensive wounds on the victim. How is that possible, unless we go with my theory of her being hit from behind first?”
“Fair enough assumption.”
“And the depth of the wound to the back of her head shows a strong impact. I’m holding by my theory.”
He glanced over. “We’ll have to see how it plays out, but I’m starting to think it’s not good to bet against you.”
She smiled, then shifted. She needed to ask him . . . but how to approach it. She shifted again.
“What’s up, squirmy?”
“Sorry . . .” Her mind was diverted, and if she didn’t ask, it appeared it would stay that way. “I have something to ask you. Well, more of a thought to express, but it brings things into question, so I’m . . .” She was hesitant to ask, given the ramifications if she was right. How Deckard would feel if it was true.
He released a chuckle beside her.
“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
He chuckled again. “Do you always ramble like that?”
“No . . . yes.” She gave a sheepish smile.
“Don’t get me wrong.” He smiled back. “I think it’s adorable, but not something I’ve encountered before.”
“Really? Riley never goes around and around like that?”
“No. As peppy as Riley is, she keeps most of her thoughts to herself.”
Much like him, she imagined. “That’s one way to go,” she said, slipping her shoes off and dropping them on the floorboard—always more comfortable without them on.
“I think I’m afraid to ask what’s in that mind of yours.” A smile curled on his lips, headlights bouncing across his handsome face.
Too bad she couldn’t have a relationship. Not while serving like she did with ICRC for two months every year, and a mission trip nearly every vacation week she got. Her attention and devotion needed to remain where God had called her—protecting the dignified treatment of the dead after conflict, disasters, or situations of violence, and helping to identify lost loved ones. It crushed her spirit seeing such death, such hurt, but God kept telling her to go, so she did, fully dependent on Him to carry her through and make her helpful.
Andi argued she could at least give a relationship a try, but what was the point? She didn’t date just to date. She wanted to eventually find someone she could build a lasting relationship with, but given her work with ICRC, now was most definitely not the time. She couldn’t have divided devotion. And why was she going there? It wasn’t like Deckard had shown that type of interest in her. Great. Now her thoughts were rambling too.
“I lose you there?” he asked.
“Sorry. Woolgathering.”
“Haven’t heard that word in a while.”
“No?”
“Nope. Riley calls it daydreaming, and boy, does that girl daydream.”
“I think daydreams are nice.” It was easy enough to slip into them while soaking up the sun on her patio, just letting her thoughts fly free.
“I suppose.” He tapped the wheel.
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think so?”
“Just never done it.”
She sat forward. “You’ve seriously never daydreamed?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that stinks.”
He arched a brow, shooting a quick glance at her. “How do you figure that?”
“It’s a great way to let your thoughts run free, to have dreams while you’re awake and can remember them.”
He drummed the wheel. “I’ll take your word for it.”
She reclined against the passenger door. Wisps of clouds slipped over the moon, casting an eerie atmosphere. Night held inky black around them. She shifted her gaze, focusing on the stars blanketing the sky.
Deckard shot her a smile, the movement crinkling the corners of his deep blue eyes, eyes that lit with the passing of a lone car—its headlights sweeping across his face. “You really shouldn’t sit like that,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
She tilted her head, confusion anchoring inside.
“If we were hit,” he continued, “the airbag would jam your knees into your chest. I’ve lectured Riley on the same thing. Granted, as kids we never buckled. For goodness’ sake, we’d sit on the floor of the backseat playing games or Riley—always the sun seeker—would lie up on the slim space by the rear window of the car, reading her book.”
“I remember those days,” she said, enjoying the slice of his childhood he’d just shared with her. “Okay,” she said, lowering her knees and sliding them at an angle.
“Let’s see, where were we?” she said. Or rather, where were her thoughts? “Okay, so we’ve run through what Andi did the night of Anne’s murder in the lab. What I did and saw at the crime scene. Simmons’s alibi and the fact his shirt went missing from the cleaners, which explains why none of his epithelial cells were in it—a seeming mistake on the killer’s part in trying to set Simmons up.”
“Very true. I hadn’t considered that angle before, but valid point. And remind me what epithelial cells are?”
“Epithelial just means the thin tissue forming the outer layer of a body’s surface.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“No problem. I know it is a scientific niche, and a lot of people don’t understand what all we do.”
“It sounds fascinating. Not my thing.” He smiled. “But fascinating.”
“It definitely can be.”
“So your earlier question . . . ?” he asked.
“Right.” She just needed to say it. “I’ve been wondering . . . what if the person or people who set Andi up . . . probably the same people in your office tonight or those working for them . . . What if they did so to intentionally get Mitch Abrams off?”
FORTY-THREE
HE HADN’T SEEN that one coming. “Are you saying you think Mitch is guilty?”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility. Whoever set Andi up did so with the evidence that convicted Mitch Abrams. Discrediting her, destroying the DNA sample, and losing the shirt . . . or rather someone having stolen it is my guess. All of it exonerated Mitch . . . or at the very least, vacated his sentence.”
“And if Andi made a mistake?” If he was considering her supposition, she needed to at least consider his.
“You still think she botched the job?” Disappointment filled her eyes and tone, which made him feel like a heel—questioning her friend. But they both had to stay open to the possibilities until definitive proof was found either way. After working for Mitch, he’d thought it had already been found. And it still might turn out that way, but given those in Andi’s life, given how his brother looked at her, given the smart, enjoyable woman Andi turned out to be, for the first time, he prayed he was wrong.
“Not botched on purpose,” he added, trying to cushion the blow. Why did Harper’s disappointment hit him so? “If she botched the job, I believe it wasn’t on purpose, but her results and testimony were the evidence that convicted Mitch.” Even now, out of jail, Mitch had to live with that weight of stigma around his neck. Last time he saw Mitch, he’d split with his wife, was living in a rental place, and was focusing on rebuilding his company. He was a shadow of a man.
“So, you’re saying you think Andi was negligent?” Harper pushed as they wove their way along the twisting road.
“No. I’m not. She has asked me to investigate whether or not she was set up. I can’t have any opinion until I thoroughly investigate. Which means, I need to come at this as neutral as possible.” And he was torn. If he proved Andi was set up, then the question became who’d done so and why. Which meant reevaluating everything he thought he knew.
“When you find Andi’s innocent—and I have full faith you will—you’ll have to ask yourself who stood to gain from setting her up. But even more so, why was she set up in the first place?”
That was a hard one to swallow, but Harper wasn’t wrong. He no longer worked for Mitch. He worked for Andi, and more so for his brother, who’d pleaded with him to take the case. He needed to shift his mindset. Start the entire investigation from scratch—for Andi’s sake and, even more importantly, to find the truth. “Good questions to ask, but remember Mitch had an alibi that night.”
“And his alibi . . .” she said. “We should run through it.”
“Right.” He tapped the wheel, collecting his thoughts. “Mitch was down in Las Cruces at a conference when Anne was killed.”
“Okay. What kind of conference?” she asked.
“He’s a real estate developer, and the conference was about the development of public works and new planned communities.”
“And did anyone vouch for him being there?” she asked.
“Everyone. It was a small conference. Maybe fifty people at most.”
“So he was seen at the time of Anne’s murder?”
“No, he said he had an awful headache and went to his room at about eight thirty.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious?”
Granted, it was odd timing, but . . . “People get headaches.”
“So at the time Anne was murdered, Mitch was alone in his room?” she said, skepticism rich in her soothing voice. He’d never had a voice calm him before, but hers oddly did, despite the topic of their discussion.
“Yes,” he continued. “Mitch said he called Anne to say good night a little after ten and went to sleep.”
“So there’s a call between them that night?” She shifted, sitting with her back fully against the seat.
They rounded the last bend, and the brilliant lights of Albuquerque and expansive metro areas shone like a thousand candles in the midst of a dark desert.
He looked over, and she was smiling—a wide one that lit her face in the hazy moonlight.
She glanced over. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she said. “I never tire of entering the city at night.”
“Beautiful,” he said, more of her than the lights, but she was right.
“So back to the phone call . . .” It didn’t take her long to refocus.
“Right. It lasted roughly five minutes.” The case details were cemented in his head.
“Did Anne receive any other calls that night?”
“According to her phone records, which Mitch’s defense attorney let me see, no. Mitch’s was the only call that night, but Simmons had called the night before, and they had a twenty-minute conversation. Mitch said Anne told him about the call—that Simmons said how desperately he wanted to be back with her, but she’d told him she’d found someone new. According to Mitch, he did not take it well.”
“According to Mitch, huh? I’m assuming the police asked Simmons about the nature of the call?”
“Yes, according to my sources, Simmons claimed he only called to say he missed her, and noted that she sounded ‘off.’”
They rolled into the city, lights surrounding them. “Take a right on Tramway. I’m up in Sandia Heights.”
“So you’ve got a great view,” he said.
She nodded. “A breathtaking one.” She inhaled, then streamed it out, raking a hand through her golden hair.
“Oh, you’re going to want to take a right up here onto San Rafael. You’ll see O’Beans Coffee just before the corner.”
“Got it.” He flipped on his blinker and made the right.
“Head straight back. It’s the second-to-last driveway on your right before you hit Honeysuckle Drive.”
“Wow. You live way back here.” He looked to the foothills the community nestled against.
“I love it. You can hear coyotes at night, see the lights of Albuquerque almost as good as when you enter on 40.”
Deckard followed the road, and she waited to point her driveway out. “One more question before we get home . . . my home . . . You know what I mean.”
Home. He was just starting to get the concept with his ranch. But it still didn’t feel permanent . . . settled. The fear it could be ripped away still lingered, and he hated his parents for that.
“Is it possible Mitch drove back or was already on the way back toward Albuquerque when he placed the call?” she asked. “He met her, killed her, and headed back to his hotel in Cruces well before morning?”
“It’s a three-hour drive each way,” he said.
“Next driveway.” She pointed.
He turned onto her drive and pulled to a stop in front of her condo’s two-car garage. “Nice place,” he said.
“It’s home.” She smiled.
Home. There was that notion again.
“What do you think?” she said, her hand on the door handle. “Is it possible?”
“That Mitch drove there and back? It’s possible.” He exhaled. “But we really should focus on Andi’s situation—work the facts to figure out whether or not she was set up. That’s the job.”
“Job? That sounds so . . .”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “It’s easy to get pulled in too deep. I’ve found I need to keep a level of distance between me and the case. That’s why I worry about you working it. It’s hard to remain neutral when a person cares so much.”
She climbed out, and he did the same, grabbing his backpack from the backseat.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, leading him up the shale stone pathway around to the front door, which sat on what looked like the side of her house. “But I’m good.” She held out her hand, and he dropped the keys into her palm. “Thanks for driving.”
“No worries. But seriously, what if the investigation proves Andi botched the job?” He wasn’t trying to be harsh. He just wanted her to be prepared if it came out that way.
“We won’t find that because she didn’t,” she said, continuing before he could get another word in. “Now, back to Mitch.” She unlocked the door and shoved it open with a push of her shoulder. “It sticks,” she said with a shrug.
He stepped in after her. “You really should leave at least one interior light on while you’re away. It’s not safe to come home to a dark house.” He looked around, the front door still open behind him. “Especially being so far out here.”
“You’re probably right. Andi gets on me all the time.”
“You two are close.”
“Very,” she said. “She’s my bestie.”
He smiled at the term. Riley had a few friends, but none she’d label as a bestie. She, like her brothers, kept her emotional distance, never relying on anyone outside of one another.
Harper flipped on a light. “Grab the door, would you?”
“Sure.” He shut it behind them, locked it, and put the chain in place. He turned to find her standing there, hands on her hips.
“Look,” she said, “we’re coming at this case from opposing perspectives, so for now I say we agree to disagree.”
“Sounds fair.”
“But just for the record, I believe the two cases are intertwined—Mitch and Andi’s. Intertwined so deeply that if we only pull one thread, we’ll miss the full picture.”
FORTY-FOUR
ANDI PADDED in bare feet toward the bedroom door. She’d waited so long to make a decision, to know it was the right thing to do, she feared Christian was already crashed out on the couch, but she had to see, had to try, or she’d never sleep.
She eased the door open, having heard him enter the house a while ago. A small light was on in the front room, but he could have fallen asleep with it on. She tiptoed out and peeked around the corner but found the couch empty.
Huh. Her shoulders dropped. She looked toward the dark kitchen and back to the bathroom with the open door.
Had he slipped back out to the firepit?
She wrapped her arms around her waist and stepped out back. The chill of night dipped low, and she wished she’d grabbed a jacket or a blanket, but he caught sight of her, and she wasn’t turning back.
“Hey,” he said, straightening on the sofa, one arm draped across the back of it.
She took a seat beside him.
“Here,” he said, offering her the throw blanket he had across his lap.
“Oh, I don’t want to—” Before she could fully protest, he’d draped it across her shoulders. “Thanks,” she said, “but won’t you be cold?”
“Nah, the fire is still pretty hot.”
She bit her bottom lip. “We could share.”
His heady gaze fixed on hers. “We can?”
She nodded and slipped the throw from her shoulders and laid it across their laps, scooting closer so it covered them both.
Knowing what she wanted to say but needing to gather her courage, she bit her bottom lip. How did the man make her feel at ease and at the same time so discombobulated? “I . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I rushed off.”
He shifted to face her head-on, his shoulder brushing hers in the process.
She warmed at his touch. He wasn’t making this any easier, dizzying her thoughts so. “I—”
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said. “I understand if you want to . . . if you need to . . .”
“What I need is to tell you . . .” She took a deep inhale and released it, gathering her boldness. “I’m so glad you found Jesus.” She reached out and took his hand.
He interlocked his fingers with hers.
“I’m so happy that He helped you become the man you are.” There, she’d said it. Part of it anyway, but now she knew God was carrying the words out of her. “We’re both a new creation in Christ. And I’m so glad you trusted me enough to tell me about your past.”
He gave a soft nod, his deep brown eyes searching hers.
“What you shared . . . the fact that you shared . . . only makes me want what is happening between . . .” She bit her bottom lip, emotions wobbling like a Tilt-A-Whirl inside her. Her thoughts dizzied.
He scooted closer still, the warmth of his leg rubbing hers. “Between?”
She fiddled with their fingers interlaced together, then looked up at him. “Between us.”
“So . . .” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “There’s still a chance for us to pursue an us?”
“Okay.” He chuckled. “Where would you like to start?”
“Well, the autopsy report shows no defensive wounds on the victim. How is that possible, unless we go with my theory of her being hit from behind first?”
“Fair enough assumption.”
“And the depth of the wound to the back of her head shows a strong impact. I’m holding by my theory.”
He glanced over. “We’ll have to see how it plays out, but I’m starting to think it’s not good to bet against you.”
She smiled, then shifted. She needed to ask him . . . but how to approach it. She shifted again.
“What’s up, squirmy?”
“Sorry . . .” Her mind was diverted, and if she didn’t ask, it appeared it would stay that way. “I have something to ask you. Well, more of a thought to express, but it brings things into question, so I’m . . .” She was hesitant to ask, given the ramifications if she was right. How Deckard would feel if it was true.
He released a chuckle beside her.
“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
He chuckled again. “Do you always ramble like that?”
“No . . . yes.” She gave a sheepish smile.
“Don’t get me wrong.” He smiled back. “I think it’s adorable, but not something I’ve encountered before.”
“Really? Riley never goes around and around like that?”
“No. As peppy as Riley is, she keeps most of her thoughts to herself.”
Much like him, she imagined. “That’s one way to go,” she said, slipping her shoes off and dropping them on the floorboard—always more comfortable without them on.
“I think I’m afraid to ask what’s in that mind of yours.” A smile curled on his lips, headlights bouncing across his handsome face.
Too bad she couldn’t have a relationship. Not while serving like she did with ICRC for two months every year, and a mission trip nearly every vacation week she got. Her attention and devotion needed to remain where God had called her—protecting the dignified treatment of the dead after conflict, disasters, or situations of violence, and helping to identify lost loved ones. It crushed her spirit seeing such death, such hurt, but God kept telling her to go, so she did, fully dependent on Him to carry her through and make her helpful.
Andi argued she could at least give a relationship a try, but what was the point? She didn’t date just to date. She wanted to eventually find someone she could build a lasting relationship with, but given her work with ICRC, now was most definitely not the time. She couldn’t have divided devotion. And why was she going there? It wasn’t like Deckard had shown that type of interest in her. Great. Now her thoughts were rambling too.
“I lose you there?” he asked.
“Sorry. Woolgathering.”
“Haven’t heard that word in a while.”
“No?”
“Nope. Riley calls it daydreaming, and boy, does that girl daydream.”
“I think daydreams are nice.” It was easy enough to slip into them while soaking up the sun on her patio, just letting her thoughts fly free.
“I suppose.” He tapped the wheel.
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think so?”
“Just never done it.”
She sat forward. “You’ve seriously never daydreamed?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that stinks.”
He arched a brow, shooting a quick glance at her. “How do you figure that?”
“It’s a great way to let your thoughts run free, to have dreams while you’re awake and can remember them.”
He drummed the wheel. “I’ll take your word for it.”
She reclined against the passenger door. Wisps of clouds slipped over the moon, casting an eerie atmosphere. Night held inky black around them. She shifted her gaze, focusing on the stars blanketing the sky.
Deckard shot her a smile, the movement crinkling the corners of his deep blue eyes, eyes that lit with the passing of a lone car—its headlights sweeping across his face. “You really shouldn’t sit like that,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
She tilted her head, confusion anchoring inside.
“If we were hit,” he continued, “the airbag would jam your knees into your chest. I’ve lectured Riley on the same thing. Granted, as kids we never buckled. For goodness’ sake, we’d sit on the floor of the backseat playing games or Riley—always the sun seeker—would lie up on the slim space by the rear window of the car, reading her book.”
“I remember those days,” she said, enjoying the slice of his childhood he’d just shared with her. “Okay,” she said, lowering her knees and sliding them at an angle.
“Let’s see, where were we?” she said. Or rather, where were her thoughts? “Okay, so we’ve run through what Andi did the night of Anne’s murder in the lab. What I did and saw at the crime scene. Simmons’s alibi and the fact his shirt went missing from the cleaners, which explains why none of his epithelial cells were in it—a seeming mistake on the killer’s part in trying to set Simmons up.”
“Very true. I hadn’t considered that angle before, but valid point. And remind me what epithelial cells are?”
“Epithelial just means the thin tissue forming the outer layer of a body’s surface.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“No problem. I know it is a scientific niche, and a lot of people don’t understand what all we do.”
“It sounds fascinating. Not my thing.” He smiled. “But fascinating.”
“It definitely can be.”
“So your earlier question . . . ?” he asked.
“Right.” She just needed to say it. “I’ve been wondering . . . what if the person or people who set Andi up . . . probably the same people in your office tonight or those working for them . . . What if they did so to intentionally get Mitch Abrams off?”
FORTY-THREE
HE HADN’T SEEN that one coming. “Are you saying you think Mitch is guilty?”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility. Whoever set Andi up did so with the evidence that convicted Mitch Abrams. Discrediting her, destroying the DNA sample, and losing the shirt . . . or rather someone having stolen it is my guess. All of it exonerated Mitch . . . or at the very least, vacated his sentence.”
“And if Andi made a mistake?” If he was considering her supposition, she needed to at least consider his.
“You still think she botched the job?” Disappointment filled her eyes and tone, which made him feel like a heel—questioning her friend. But they both had to stay open to the possibilities until definitive proof was found either way. After working for Mitch, he’d thought it had already been found. And it still might turn out that way, but given those in Andi’s life, given how his brother looked at her, given the smart, enjoyable woman Andi turned out to be, for the first time, he prayed he was wrong.
“Not botched on purpose,” he added, trying to cushion the blow. Why did Harper’s disappointment hit him so? “If she botched the job, I believe it wasn’t on purpose, but her results and testimony were the evidence that convicted Mitch.” Even now, out of jail, Mitch had to live with that weight of stigma around his neck. Last time he saw Mitch, he’d split with his wife, was living in a rental place, and was focusing on rebuilding his company. He was a shadow of a man.
“So, you’re saying you think Andi was negligent?” Harper pushed as they wove their way along the twisting road.
“No. I’m not. She has asked me to investigate whether or not she was set up. I can’t have any opinion until I thoroughly investigate. Which means, I need to come at this as neutral as possible.” And he was torn. If he proved Andi was set up, then the question became who’d done so and why. Which meant reevaluating everything he thought he knew.
“When you find Andi’s innocent—and I have full faith you will—you’ll have to ask yourself who stood to gain from setting her up. But even more so, why was she set up in the first place?”
That was a hard one to swallow, but Harper wasn’t wrong. He no longer worked for Mitch. He worked for Andi, and more so for his brother, who’d pleaded with him to take the case. He needed to shift his mindset. Start the entire investigation from scratch—for Andi’s sake and, even more importantly, to find the truth. “Good questions to ask, but remember Mitch had an alibi that night.”
“And his alibi . . .” she said. “We should run through it.”
“Right.” He tapped the wheel, collecting his thoughts. “Mitch was down in Las Cruces at a conference when Anne was killed.”
“Okay. What kind of conference?” she asked.
“He’s a real estate developer, and the conference was about the development of public works and new planned communities.”
“And did anyone vouch for him being there?” she asked.
“Everyone. It was a small conference. Maybe fifty people at most.”
“So he was seen at the time of Anne’s murder?”
“No, he said he had an awful headache and went to his room at about eight thirty.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious?”
Granted, it was odd timing, but . . . “People get headaches.”
“So at the time Anne was murdered, Mitch was alone in his room?” she said, skepticism rich in her soothing voice. He’d never had a voice calm him before, but hers oddly did, despite the topic of their discussion.
“Yes,” he continued. “Mitch said he called Anne to say good night a little after ten and went to sleep.”
“So there’s a call between them that night?” She shifted, sitting with her back fully against the seat.
They rounded the last bend, and the brilliant lights of Albuquerque and expansive metro areas shone like a thousand candles in the midst of a dark desert.
He looked over, and she was smiling—a wide one that lit her face in the hazy moonlight.
She glanced over. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she said. “I never tire of entering the city at night.”
“Beautiful,” he said, more of her than the lights, but she was right.
“So back to the phone call . . .” It didn’t take her long to refocus.
“Right. It lasted roughly five minutes.” The case details were cemented in his head.
“Did Anne receive any other calls that night?”
“According to her phone records, which Mitch’s defense attorney let me see, no. Mitch’s was the only call that night, but Simmons had called the night before, and they had a twenty-minute conversation. Mitch said Anne told him about the call—that Simmons said how desperately he wanted to be back with her, but she’d told him she’d found someone new. According to Mitch, he did not take it well.”
“According to Mitch, huh? I’m assuming the police asked Simmons about the nature of the call?”
“Yes, according to my sources, Simmons claimed he only called to say he missed her, and noted that she sounded ‘off.’”
They rolled into the city, lights surrounding them. “Take a right on Tramway. I’m up in Sandia Heights.”
“So you’ve got a great view,” he said.
She nodded. “A breathtaking one.” She inhaled, then streamed it out, raking a hand through her golden hair.
“Oh, you’re going to want to take a right up here onto San Rafael. You’ll see O’Beans Coffee just before the corner.”
“Got it.” He flipped on his blinker and made the right.
“Head straight back. It’s the second-to-last driveway on your right before you hit Honeysuckle Drive.”
“Wow. You live way back here.” He looked to the foothills the community nestled against.
“I love it. You can hear coyotes at night, see the lights of Albuquerque almost as good as when you enter on 40.”
Deckard followed the road, and she waited to point her driveway out. “One more question before we get home . . . my home . . . You know what I mean.”
Home. He was just starting to get the concept with his ranch. But it still didn’t feel permanent . . . settled. The fear it could be ripped away still lingered, and he hated his parents for that.
“Is it possible Mitch drove back or was already on the way back toward Albuquerque when he placed the call?” she asked. “He met her, killed her, and headed back to his hotel in Cruces well before morning?”
“It’s a three-hour drive each way,” he said.
“Next driveway.” She pointed.
He turned onto her drive and pulled to a stop in front of her condo’s two-car garage. “Nice place,” he said.
“It’s home.” She smiled.
Home. There was that notion again.
“What do you think?” she said, her hand on the door handle. “Is it possible?”
“That Mitch drove there and back? It’s possible.” He exhaled. “But we really should focus on Andi’s situation—work the facts to figure out whether or not she was set up. That’s the job.”
“Job? That sounds so . . .”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “It’s easy to get pulled in too deep. I’ve found I need to keep a level of distance between me and the case. That’s why I worry about you working it. It’s hard to remain neutral when a person cares so much.”
She climbed out, and he did the same, grabbing his backpack from the backseat.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, leading him up the shale stone pathway around to the front door, which sat on what looked like the side of her house. “But I’m good.” She held out her hand, and he dropped the keys into her palm. “Thanks for driving.”
“No worries. But seriously, what if the investigation proves Andi botched the job?” He wasn’t trying to be harsh. He just wanted her to be prepared if it came out that way.
“We won’t find that because she didn’t,” she said, continuing before he could get another word in. “Now, back to Mitch.” She unlocked the door and shoved it open with a push of her shoulder. “It sticks,” she said with a shrug.
He stepped in after her. “You really should leave at least one interior light on while you’re away. It’s not safe to come home to a dark house.” He looked around, the front door still open behind him. “Especially being so far out here.”
“You’re probably right. Andi gets on me all the time.”
“You two are close.”
“Very,” she said. “She’s my bestie.”
He smiled at the term. Riley had a few friends, but none she’d label as a bestie. She, like her brothers, kept her emotional distance, never relying on anyone outside of one another.
Harper flipped on a light. “Grab the door, would you?”
“Sure.” He shut it behind them, locked it, and put the chain in place. He turned to find her standing there, hands on her hips.
“Look,” she said, “we’re coming at this case from opposing perspectives, so for now I say we agree to disagree.”
“Sounds fair.”
“But just for the record, I believe the two cases are intertwined—Mitch and Andi’s. Intertwined so deeply that if we only pull one thread, we’ll miss the full picture.”
FORTY-FOUR
ANDI PADDED in bare feet toward the bedroom door. She’d waited so long to make a decision, to know it was the right thing to do, she feared Christian was already crashed out on the couch, but she had to see, had to try, or she’d never sleep.
She eased the door open, having heard him enter the house a while ago. A small light was on in the front room, but he could have fallen asleep with it on. She tiptoed out and peeked around the corner but found the couch empty.
Huh. Her shoulders dropped. She looked toward the dark kitchen and back to the bathroom with the open door.
Had he slipped back out to the firepit?
She wrapped her arms around her waist and stepped out back. The chill of night dipped low, and she wished she’d grabbed a jacket or a blanket, but he caught sight of her, and she wasn’t turning back.
“Hey,” he said, straightening on the sofa, one arm draped across the back of it.
She took a seat beside him.
“Here,” he said, offering her the throw blanket he had across his lap.
“Oh, I don’t want to—” Before she could fully protest, he’d draped it across her shoulders. “Thanks,” she said, “but won’t you be cold?”
“Nah, the fire is still pretty hot.”
She bit her bottom lip. “We could share.”
His heady gaze fixed on hers. “We can?”
She nodded and slipped the throw from her shoulders and laid it across their laps, scooting closer so it covered them both.
Knowing what she wanted to say but needing to gather her courage, she bit her bottom lip. How did the man make her feel at ease and at the same time so discombobulated? “I . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I rushed off.”
He shifted to face her head-on, his shoulder brushing hers in the process.
She warmed at his touch. He wasn’t making this any easier, dizzying her thoughts so. “I—”
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said. “I understand if you want to . . . if you need to . . .”
“What I need is to tell you . . .” She took a deep inhale and released it, gathering her boldness. “I’m so glad you found Jesus.” She reached out and took his hand.
He interlocked his fingers with hers.
“I’m so happy that He helped you become the man you are.” There, she’d said it. Part of it anyway, but now she knew God was carrying the words out of her. “We’re both a new creation in Christ. And I’m so glad you trusted me enough to tell me about your past.”
He gave a soft nod, his deep brown eyes searching hers.
“What you shared . . . the fact that you shared . . . only makes me want what is happening between . . .” She bit her bottom lip, emotions wobbling like a Tilt-A-Whirl inside her. Her thoughts dizzied.
He scooted closer still, the warmth of his leg rubbing hers. “Between?”
She fiddled with their fingers interlaced together, then looked up at him. “Between us.”
“So . . .” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “There’s still a chance for us to pursue an us?”
