Hannah’s wide eyes swung back and forth as they followed the sway of the bag between his fingers. In a breathless voice, she said, “Another dead bird.”
“Yeah, odd, huh?” He carefully placed the bag back in his pocket.
“D-did you tell the detectives?”
“They didn’t give me a chance.” He raised one shoulder. “They chased me off before I could tell them what I found. It’s not like the bird wasn’t there when they canvassed the area. Unless someone moved it over there, the condition of the bird indicates to me that it had been there at least a few hours. They either missed it or didn’t think it was important.”
Hannah wound her hair around her hand. “They didn’t bag the bird from the scene of Zoey’s murder, either. But you’d think a second dead bird might trigger something.”
“You’d think.” He scratched his chin. “I have a feeling the cops are already getting tunnel vision on this one. Both women used drugs, had contact with local drug dealers and ran with a druggie crowd. I know they’re questioning Chase Thompson, but I think they’re gonna start looking hard at the island trade, round up the usual suspects and do a full-court press.”
Hannah screwed up one side of her mouth in a gesture reminiscent of their time in chemistry class when she was trying to figure out the valence of an element. “Why would a drug dealer leave a dead bird at the scene of a hit? As far as I know, cartels don’t have mascots. And if they do, I doubt it’s a cute little bird.”
“Maybe the cops have more evidence of a drug hit than they’ve let on. They probably assumed the bird was part of the landscape. It’s not like the poor little guys are out of place. They’re part of this forest ecosystem and death is a part of that ecosystem.”
“It’s part of ours, too.” She rubbed her palms against the thighs of her jeans, which fit her just right. “What now?”
“How about dinner?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. It was those damned tight jeans hugging Hannah’s...curves.
He held his breath, bracing for a refusal. He’d been trying his best to push her away, so he didn’t deserve her acceptance...even though he wanted it.
“Dinner.” She cocked her head. “You’re giving me whiplash here, Swain.”
“I just thought you might be able to help me on the case. God knows, I’m not gonna get much from the cops, and you’re responsible for the kids.” She opened her mouth, and he thrust out his hands, palms first. “Not that I expect you to tell me anything the kids say, but you do have connections in the sheriff’s department. Connections I can use.”
She lifted her dark eyebrows in a perfect arch. “So, this is a working dinner?”
“Sort of. I’ll buy.”
“Not necessary.” She flicked her fingers, and his heart sank. “I put some chicken in the fridge to defrost, and now I’m going to have to eat it. You can help me.”
He swallowed. “I don’t want you going to any trouble.”
“Who said I’m going to any trouble? Especially for a work dinner.” She opened her car door. “Follow me home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He put his fingers to his forehead as she slammed her door and punched on her engine.
He watched her taillights disappear, and then jogged to his truck, which he’d parked outside the subdivision. He hadn’t given dinner a thought until he blurted out his invitation, but brainstorming with Hannah might be just what he needed to kick-start this investigation. He didn’t want to fail Michael again.
By the time he arrived at Hannah’s house, the oven was already preheating and she had poured two glasses of iced tea. He didn’t drink alcohol, but he didn’t care if others drank in his presence. He never considered himself an alcoholic, but his father had covered that ground thoroughly and Jed didn’t want to tempt his genetic makeup. He not only had his own family as evidence, but half the guys in prison were there because of issues caused by substance abuse. He’d had enough problems in his life. He didn’t need to invite more.
On his way to the kitchen, he shrugged out of his hoodie and hung it on the back of an ornately carved dining room chair, the baggie with the dead bird crinkling in his pocket. The dark dining room and empty table, polished to a glistening sheen, signaled they’d be eating in the cozier breakfast nook in the kitchen. That suited him much better.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a cat wound itself around his ankles and meowed. He bent forward and scratched under its chin. He called out. “Is this cat going to go for the bird in my pocket?”
“Siggy? He’s only interested in live birds.”
He whispered to the cat, “Siggy, huh? I’ll bet your full name is Sigmund Freud, but I won’t tell anyone.”
He joined Hannah in the kitchen and washed his hands, and then he picked up his glass and clinked it with hers. “Have some wine or a beer, if you want.”
“I want to be alert for this discussion.” She tapped her fingernail against her glass. “I wasn’t kidding about a low-key dinner. I’m just going to dump some barbecue sauce from a jar over this chicken and stick it in the oven to bake. I’ve got some stuff for a salad, and I can pop some red potatoes in the microwave and toss them with a little butter and pepper.”
“Sounds like haute cuisine to me.” He reached for the fridge. “I’ll make the salad.”
They worked side by side in silence, Siggy making the rounds every few minutes to check on the chicken. This had been about the closest Jed had been to domesticity since the Law Project sprung him from the joint. He hadn’t dated much since his release. Most women ghosted him once he told them about his past, and he didn’t blame them. How could they be sure he hadn’t really been guilty?
He stole a glance at Hannah’s left ring finger as she used a spoon to spread the barbecue sauce over the chicken pieces. Astrid had been sure to tell him Hannah wasn’t married or engaged. Had she ever worn a ring on that finger? Was there someone she still dreamed about at night like he dreamed of her?
She poked him in the back, and he almost sliced off the tip of his finger. “If you chop those cucumbers any smaller, we’ll be able to drink them.”
He glanced at the cutting board, a warmth crawling across his skin. “I promised you a chopped salad, and I’m gonna deliver.”
She giggled and placed the chicken in the oven, the glass baking dish clanging against the metal rack. “The chicken’s going to take about forty-five minutes, but we can eat the salad while we talk about those birds.”
“I can wait.” Using the knife, he scraped the cucumbers from the cutting board into the salad bowl and held up a green pepper. “You want this in there?”
“Sure.” She scooted around him and ducked into the fridge, emerging with a bottle of dressing in each hand. “I have Italian and ranch.”
“Italian is fine.”
She placed the bottle of salad dressing on the small table in the breakfast nook that looked out on the dark forest. No drapes or blinds covered the three-paned window, and his reflection stared back at him as he placed the salad bowl on the table.
“You ever consider covering some of these windows?” He pulled out a chair at the same time she placed a laptop next to the salad. She’d been dead serious about this being a working dinner.
Looking up, she squinted outside. “Window coverings distract from the view.”
He scooped the salad into the two bowls she’d set on place mats covered in yellow sunflowers and grabbed the dressing. “I noticed you have a security system, though.”
She sighed. “I don’t think I have to worry about the same killer who’s targeting Zoey and Stephanie, do you?”
“We don’t know yet why those two women were killed, so yeah, you kinda do.” He stabbed a multicolor selection of raw veggies with his fork and stuffed them in his mouth.
“Then let’s get on that.” She pulled the laptop toward her and brought up a search engine. With her fingers flying across the keyboard, she said, “I’m going to search for crime scenes and birds. Do you think that’s a good place to start?”
“That’s a general place to start.” He pointed a fork at her bowl. “Your salad is going to get soggy.”
“I can actually eat and type at the same time.” She punched Enter on her keyboard and attacked her salad with as much gusto as the search engine returned a page of results.
He turned the computer toward him and scanned the results. “Not promising, although there are a lot of weird stories here. Try entering ‘finches.’”
“Finches?” She dragged the yellow napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “That bird was a finch?”
He pulled the laptop toward him, nudging his bowl out of the way. “It’s a house finch to be exact—a female. Males are prettier.”
Bumping his elbow with hers, she said, “Both of those birds were finches?”
“Both female finches and both dead.”
“That’s not a coincidence, Jed.” She rubbed her arms and hopped up from her chair. “I’ll rinse off those potatoes and stick them in the microwave.”
He did a search for house finches in Washington State while Hannah ran the water in the sink and Siggy weaved around her ankles. The microwave beeped as she set the timer for the potatoes. Then she walked back to the table and hung over his shoulder, the tip of her ponytail tickling his neck.
“Find anything interesting about our finches?”
Jabbing his finger at the screen, he said, “Their scientific name is Haemorhous mexicanus, they’re native to western North America and commonly kept as pets.”
“I wonder if Zoey or Stephanie had any pet birds. I don’t remember seeing any birdcages in Zoey’s place.” Hannah perched on the edge of her chair, clasping her hands between her knees.
Jed jerked his head up. “You were in Zoey’s house? Before her murder?”
“After. Remember last night when Sheldon said he’d gone home to get a toy? I was allowed to collect the keys to Zoey’s house to retrieve that toy.”
“Do you still have the keys to Zoey’s house?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was on my way to the sheriff’s station to return them when I made that detour to Stephanie’s house.”
He nodded, storing that information away for later. “Okay.”
“I don’t like that look on your face.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“Stephanie’s and Zoey’s murders are related. Stephanie’s brother asked me to do some nosing around, and you have the keys to the first victim’s house. What do you think?”
“If anyone finds out I let you into Zoey’s house, the sheriff’s department may never trust me again.”
“Let me in?” He widened his eyes. “It wouldn’t be your fault if I lifted the keys from...”
“They’re in my purse.”
He nodded. “...your purse and let myself in.”
“You’re sneaky.” She smacked him on top of the head with a square pot holder.
As the timer beeped on the microwave, he held up a finger. “Saved by the bell.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes eating the baked chicken and potatoes, which Hannah had dismissed as basic, but tasted like heaven to him. He enjoyed the food, but he enjoyed the company more, even the cat rubbing its head against his shins.
When he finished, Jed pushed away his plate and pinched a little piece of chicken between his fingers. He held it out to Siggy, who snapped it between his teeth.
“Whoa, he’s a tiger.” Jed wiped his fingers on the napkin, glancing at Hannah’s pursed lips. “What? He’s not allowed to have chicken?”
“Not from the table. It raises his expectations and teaches him bad habits.”
“That’s what I do best.” He waved the napkin over the table. “Let me clean up, and you can take the laptop and look into finches some more. Maybe there’s some weird symbolism to them.”
“You got a deal.” She swept the computer from the table. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have that glass of wine now.”
“Go sit down. I’ll bring it to you.” He pushed away from the table and stacked some dishes. He dumped them into the sink, cleared the rest of the table and yanked open the fridge door, calling over his shoulder. “Do you want white, and do you have any open?”
“Yes, and yes. Top shelf, open bottle of chardonnay.”
He grabbed the bottle by the neck and thumbed off the rubber stopper Hannah had inserted. He poured the golden liquid into a wineglass and swirled it. It caught the light, winking at him, as he carried it out to Hannah. The stuff didn’t even tempt him.
He placed it on the coaster at her elbow. “Find anything interesting?”
“Nope.” She picked up the glass and took a sip. “You can just leave the dishes if you want.”
“No way. Keep looking.”
He returned to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher and tipped a bottle of soap over the greasy baking pan. One blue bubble formed at the tip. “Hannah, you’re out of dishwashing liquid. Any under the sink?”
“There’s a new bottle in the pantry—to your left when you open the door.”
He remembered where the pantry was located. In his younger years, the pantry in the Maddox house had intrigued him—not just cupboards for food but a whole room for it.
He pulled open the door to the pantry and flicked on the light. Turning slightly to the left, he tripped over a box on the floor. A flurry of dust made him sneeze.
He leaned forward to shove the box out of the way, and a scribble of black writing caught his attention. The date on the box was seared into his soul, and he dropped to a crouch.
Why was Hannah looking into his case?