Page 92 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

“Jordan!” I yell, thrashing through brambles that scrape up my legs. Stripes of pink burn along my bare arms but I keep going. “Jordan! Jordan!”

Finally, I break through into the flat area where the front of his house is. It's packed with more cop cars, as well as a white van I don't recognize. The number of people in uniform is staggering; almost as many as the engagement party.

Multiple sets of eyes lock on me. An officer with a barrel sized chest and a bulldog-like scowl advances on me. Before he reaches me, I see the face I want —green eyes that pierce my soul, gray flecked temples that proclaim maturity. Jordan has longer legs than the cop, he weaves around a car, cutting him off, reaching me first. “Lorikeet,” he rasps, hugging me tight.

The cop backs off, his face going purple. He has no clue what to do about our loving embrace. Rubbing his neck, he turns and leaves us alone.

Jordan cups my cheeks, lips parting—he wants to kiss me. He resists, barely, with everyone looking at us. Pulling in a shuddering breath, like he's being tortured with me so near but so far, he lets go. Takes a single step back. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I'm fine,” I assure him, looking at the mess of people. “What's happening, why did you call the cops here? Dez sent them to my place to search my backyard. He told them … that my dad was …”

Jordan flinches, sweeping a paranoid look to see who's listening in. “I found something,” he says, louder than he needs to. He wants everyone to hear what we're saying.

My eyebrows fly to my hairline. “What?”

He tenses his jaw, working the muscles there. Then he faces the house—the place he designed as a gift for his older sister. There are men with badges stalking in the backyard around the area where Jordan hand-fed me strawberries, where Dezmond grabbed my ass, and I slapped him for daring to touch me.

Strangers with grim expressions gaze at me from a distance. Then they lower their eyes, like they're ashamed. They know something they don't want to tell me. Jordan has the same face.

But as much as they want to shield me from their discovery, they can't. I can read their lips from here. The words are simple. They rend what's left of my strength away from my heart.

“We found a body.”

Chapter 30

It'salloverthenews the next day. Body found in Crestwind Cliffs. The deceased is identified as Samson Jones, lottery winner gone missing last year. No murder weapon found, cause of death multiple stab wounds.

Dezmond Hartford arrested on suspicion of murder.

Evidence in his car, house, and a history of violence and drugs all paint him as the main suspect.

The rumors start instantly. You can't go anywhere in town without someone offering a juicy tidbit. Mrs. Pomoran tells the tale of how she overheard Dezmond bragging that he knew how to hide a body in his own backyard while attending his shameful engagement party. Alemo fills his poker tables easily, everyone wants to learn how desperate for money Dez was from mounting gambling debt.

Time passes in a blur for me, especially at the police station where they apologize between their questions, like they feel awful for putting me through this process, assuring me it's paperwork. Nothing personal. It's the same for me; lying to the cops is easier than lying to Jordan ever was.

They ask me things like:

When did you last see your father?

“March, over a year ago.”

Yes, we spoke to your friend, Cadence? She confirmed you were with her all night at the bonfire. She also mentioned seeing Dezmond leave after you told him off. We think he went after your dad out of revenge.

“I had no idea he was so furious about that.”

Did you think something had happened to your dad; did it cross your mind when you couldn't get in touch all this time?

“Not really, I figured he ran off to start a new life without me and my mom.”

I heard those rumors, too. I mean—I'm so sorry for your loss. I really am.

“Thank you. Can I ask something?”

Anything.

“Why did he send the police to my place if he buried the body on his own property?” It was bothering me that this would be what didn't add up for a jury, either.

The officer frowns at my question. Then she flips through a little notebook she's been writing in, as if the answer is hidden in the pages. “He has a history of drug abuse. Maybe he asked an accomplice to do it for him and he forgot. Or he did it himself and forgot, both are possible. We saw how unhinged he was at your house.” She glances at my face, seeing the scab on my lip. “We know he's dangerous. He had a wild plan from the start. Did you know about the letter we found?”

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