Page 79 of Jayson
Jayson doesn’t speak. The look he gives Hawthorne is the kind of quiet that promises ruin.
Lopez’s pen is back in her hand before I’ve even finished the sentence.
“Well,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. “This is an unexpected turn.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I murmur.
And for the first time since they arrived, neither of them knows what to say.
Because in their eyes, I’ve just become something worse than a witness. I’ve become a complication. And people likeHawthorne and Lopez don’t know what to do with complications.
The detectives exchange a look—frustration, suspicion, maybe fear. Hawthorne slips me a card.
“If you remember anything,” he says, eyes softer for a beat, “call. Cold cases don’t stay cold forever.”
When they leave, I watch the cruiser vanish down the drive, heart hammering. Jayson stands casually beside me, his hands in his pockets.
“You think they’ll come back?” I whisper.
“Absolutely.” He glances toward the cellar door I once thought led only to wine. “Question is, what do we want them to find when they do?”
A shiver zips through me—half dread, half thrill. Because I’m no longer certain I don’t want the police to go snooping around. Some truths deserve to be unearthed. Others need to stay buried with the men who birthed them.
I slip the detective’s card into my pocket, feeling its sharp corners against my fingers. The game just changed squares.
And I’m not sure which side I’m on anymore.
32
JAYSON
The sky is still black when I step onto the wide balcony that wraps around the east wing of the mansion. A single wall lamp glows behind me, but I stay in the dark. The cold air helps me think. My breath turns white in front of my face.
Below, the grass shines with dew. At the edge of the yard, tall cedar trees stand like guards. I paid a fortune to make this place a fortress:
Thin wires with heat sensors run along the fence. Pressure plates hide under the leaves. Motion lights hang on thick branches, ready to burst into blinding white if anything moves the wrong way.
Nothing should get through.
So when I spot a shape at the tree line—still as stone, right between two cedars—my pulse kicks hard.
The alarms never squealed. The lights never flashed. Yet someone is down there, twenty yards from the front gate, just watching the house.
A pro … or a ghost.
I slide my hand to the Glock at the back of my jeans. Thumb to the safety. I don’t draw it yet. First I need eyes on the target.
I slip back inside, move fast through the hallway, then down the servant stairs. My bare feet make almost no sound on the wood, but the house creaks anyway. Old timber always tattles.
I exit through the side door, staying low. The wet grass soaks my feet and chills my skin, but I ignore it. The figure is still in the same spot. No flashlight, no phone glow, no breath mist I can see.
Ten yards. Eight. Six.
He bolts.
“Damn,” I hiss, blasting forward. My legs burn. Branches slap my arms. He’s quick—too quick to be a lost hiker. I chase him past the cedars, deeper into the brush.
I catch a rasp of his breathing—close. I push harder.
