Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands like she hadn’t figured out how to frame the words yet. “There were . . . odd lesions on Tyler’s brain. Like cancer.”
“Cancer?”
She shook her head, her brow pinching. “Not exactly, but Dr. Ortega has sent samples to the lab, so we’ll see. Dr. Ortega does not guess, which I appreciate. He wouldn’t want to raise any alarms quite yet.”
“Raise the alarms.” Amusement caught Huck. “Look at you getting all into recent vernacular.”
She almost smiled. Almost. But something in her gaze remained shadowed and distant.
He shifted, leaning against the cluttered edge of his desk. “How’s Walter doing?”
“He says he’s doing all right,” she said, her lips pursing, the motion tight and troubled. “I don’t know if he actually is. I’m not . . . great at reading people, but I’m getting better.”
“You’re getting good at it,” Huck countered. “And Walter’s probably just trying to keep himself from crumbling. He lost a brother he barely got the chance to know. Feels guilty about it, too, I imagine.”
Laurel blinked, her eyes weary. “I imagine so.”
“You manage to wrestle jurisdiction away from the locals?” Huck asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.” Her lips turned down, and hell, if the expression didn’t make her look adorable. Those unique eyes, all exasperated and stubborn. “So far, no luck. There’s no federal case here. Dr. Ortega said the locals need to request our assistance before he’ll tell us anything else about Tyler’s death.”
“At least Ortega had the decency to give you something.” Huck glanced at her, cataloging the faint lines of tension in her shoulders, the way she kept tucking her hair behind her ears. She had truly glorious hair. Thick and gorgeous in a deep, rich reddish-brown that reminded him of fall leaves and firelight. He loved tunneling his hands through it, feeling it spill through his fingers like silk.
She tilted her head in that analytical way of hers. “Did you interview Abigail?”
“Sure did,” Huck muttered.
“She likes you.” Laurel held up a hand before Huck could scoff. “Well, that’s not true. She doesn’t like anybody. But you intrigue her, and she very much wants to impress you. You can use that when you interview her again.”
Huck leaned back, and the office chair creaked under his weight. “I’d think she wouldn’t want to end up dead. So you think she’ll work with me?”
“You never know what Abigail’s going to do.” Laurel’s tone was as dry as a Montana summer before a storm rolled in. “I don’t even know, and we share DNA.”
He nodded. “I’m headed out tomorrow to interview everybody at the church. I called Pastor John, and he arranged for me to speak with people he thought were most disturbed by Pastor Zeke’s death tomorrow. I’m also going to see that Tim Kohnex.”
“Good luck with him. I believe he truly thinks he’s psychic.”
Huck would worry about the odd man tomorrow. “How about we grab a pizza, head home, and you stay the night with me?”
She smiled, and damn, if the sight didn’t punch him straight in the chest. The kind of smile she only gave him when they weren’t in the middle of a murder investigation or tangled up in half-truths and bitter memories. It was warm, real, something like peace. “I think I’d like that very much.”
“Good.”
They were on the same page at least when it came to that. Which was something, considering how much of their lives felt like one wrong turn after another, all roads leading back to Abigail’s troubles and Laurel’s too-sharp focus. For some reason, everything bad that touched Abigail seemed to come for Laurel as well. Like their shared blood marked them for some kind of twisted fate neither of them had asked for.
Not this time.
Huck was going to find the bastard who wanted Abigail dead. Not just because it was his job, but because he couldn’t stomach the idea of Laurel in danger again. She had too many scars already. He’d lock this case down, track every lead, interview every suspect until he got the truth. And if it meant ruffling feathers or kicking down doors, then fine. He’d do it with a damn smile on his face.
Because whatever storm was building, Huck wasn’t about to let it take Laurel down. Not now.
Not ever.
Chapter 12
More spring weather arrived in the morning as Laurel hopped out of Huck’s truck, a light rain drizzling the earth and releasing the fresh, sharp scent of pine and damp soil. The snow in town had finally melted, although the jagged peaks surrounding them remained dusted with white. Higher in the mountains, winter clung stubbornly, refusing to relinquish its hold. Maybe it never would. And that was fine by her. She liked the view. Something about the distant frost made the world feel clean, untouched by the messes she spent most of her days sorting out.