Page 10 of Hunting the Crossbow Killer

And he wished he could ignore when he saw someone in trouble. Like at the festival when that arrow flew past him and into the boat. He was so angry that someone had shot closeto children that he’d whirled around and run after the shooter without once thinking about what might happen to him.

And it hadn’t done one whit of good.

The police had thrown him into a cell and immediately branded him the villain while the real villain got away. Even now he wasn’t sure why the chief had dropped the charges. Maybe because Dawson was stepping back to let the FBI agent have first dibs at him, convinced he was the serial killer she was after.

Rounding the end of the cabin, he stepped through the enormous double doors that were standing open on his workshop. Stopping beside the table in the middle of the building, he picked up the sander he’d been about to use before he heard an engine coming down his driveway.

“Whoa, are you making that?” she asked.

He was careful to set the sander on the table before turning, not wanting to do anything that might seem threatening and could end with a bullet in his chest. But Malone wasn’t even looking at him. She was staring at the table, her eyes wide.

She stepped forward almost reverently and gently smoothed her hand across the wood, over the rounded edge. “This is incredible. Your work?”

He nodded, mesmerized by the gentle movement of her hand.

Her fingers continued to slide across the wood as if she couldn’t help herself. The pleasure in her expression was such a joy to behold, all he could do was stare.

“Purpleheart wood, right?” She glanced up in question.

He blinked in surprise. “You’re familiar with it?”

“I know of it, but have never seen it in person.” Her cheeks flushed a dull pink. “I’m pretty sure I saw it on an episode of a house renovation show on TV. But it’s so beautiful I didn’t forget about it. Is this for your cabin?”

“It’s a custom order for a man in Montana, for his deck. He wanted something beautiful for outdoor dining that couldwithstand the harsh weather without being ruined. Purpleheart wood is extremely hard, resistant to insects, rot, decay.”

She sighed and stepped back. “It’s gorgeous. Will the color stay that brilliant purple?”

“Not forever, no. But I’ll put a UV protectant finish on it that should help it keep its color for several decades.” He noted the wistful look on her face as she admired the table again. “Have you ever done carpentry?”

“Only if you count using a block of sandpaper to help my dad in his shop behind our house. Woodworking was one of his many hobbies. He didn’t make furniture, certainly nothing grand like you’re making. But my mom and I got new handmade jewelry boxes every birthday and he put custom molding all over our house. The shelving in the garage was his pride and joy. I wouldn’t say he was an expert or even really good at carpentry, but he enjoyed it.”

“Sounds like you enjoyed it, too, or would have, if he’d let you do more than sand.”

She smiled. “I didn’t want to do anything more difficult than sanding. I didn’t crave the experience of hammering or sawing, nothing like that. What I did crave was my father’s attention. He always wanted a son and got a daughter instead. Helping him out, even if it was just to fetch tools or sweep sawdust, made him happy. And that made me happy.”

“Daddy’s little girl.”

“Daddy’s little tomboy to be more precise. Did you have your little boy with you watching you do woodwork? His name is Niall, right?”

His heart seemed to clench in his chest at her callous reminder about his son. It took him several moments to gather his composure as best he could. “It’s getting late. I’ll finish this up tomorrow.” He began putting his tools up.

Once again she surprised him. She helped him gather his hand saws and chisels and expertly figured out where they went, putting them up on the pegboard wall exactly where they belonged. When she finally faced him, he motioned toward the broom in the corner.

“Are you going to sweep, too?”

“You wish.”

He laughed. “I’ll do it tomorrow, or later tonight. Come on. The cabin’s more comfortable for an interrogation. It’s starting to get chilly out here.”

“I’m not going to interrogate you.”

“Regardless of how you try to soften it, you’re here to ask questions. You’ve brought up my past twice now. And I know darn well it wasn’t my sparkling personality that got you to drive all the way up here.”

“Fair enough. I do want to talk. I need to ask some tough questions, too. I hope you’ll answer them.”

“So you can arrest me?”

“So I can rule you all the way in, or totally out as a suspect if you truly have no bearing on my case.”

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