eleven
RYAN THRUMMED HIS FINGERS against his desk, agitation churning the delicious cinnamon roll he had for breakfast into a ball of sludge. It had been just over two weeks since he watched the questionable video of Harold and someone who might be Lauren Holt. Ryan tried to confirm the identity of the girl from the video, but if it was Lauren, she was no longer living in Walton. Her move was sudden according to her neighbors and left him very interested in finding her.
But he was equally, if not more, interested in whoever was behind the video and link. Harold was being blackmailed by someone who had enough computer skills to leave Ryan stuck. He’d tried every trick he knew, even reached out to a few of his friends, but they were right back to what Vivian’s friend had said. Whoever the Watcher was, he didn’t want to be found and had gone to extreme lengths to protect himself.
There was only one other option. Ryan could use some of his not-so-legal methods to track down the origin of the email, but . . . He picked up the phone and dialed someone who could help keep him out of prison if he decided to try it.
“Tell me you’ve finally decided to join the team.”
Ryan rubbed his forehead. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been neck deep in a case, which is why I’m calling, actually. Need a favor.”
“If you’re calling me, then you’re either stroking my ego or breaking a law.”
“Justifiably doing the former to earn favor to do the latter.”
“Tell me what you got, kid.”
Agent Robert Hannigan was the director of the FBI’s Cyber Crimes Division and one of his instructors at ATRT in Quantico. He was also brilliant and the only person Ryan believed could break through the Watcher’s digital fortification.
After Ryan finished explaining the situation, he was met with several seconds of silence before Agent Hannigan let out a long, low whistle.
“It sounds like you’ve exhausted every avenue we’d pursue.”
“Legally,” Ryan added.
“Correct.” Agent Hannigan chuckled. “You have an idea?”
“I do, sir, but it’s not exactly going to make your agency happy.” Ryan pulled open his top drawer, eyeing the stack of envelopes still awaiting his response. “Or anyone else for that matter.”
“You’re not hearing this from me, and I’ll deny these words ever left my mouth the second I hang up. I’ll also destroy the recording of this conversation.”
Ryan laughed. “Go on.”
“If, say, you decide to go through with whatever your idea is—and it’s better I don’t know at this point—then all I ask is that if you hit something that looks official, you back off. I’ll run a check on the Watcher character, but I don’t need you interfering in an ongoing operation.”
“Yes, sir.” A familiar face filled Ryan’s vision. “I’ll keep you posted if I make any progress.”
“You better. And this favor better give the FBI the advantage in your decision.”
“Yes, sir.” Ryan ended the call with Agent Hannigan and stood to greet his friend. “Marriage looks good on you, man.”
Charlie Lynch shook Ryan’s hand before pulling him into a brotherly hug. “Marriage is fantastic. I highly recommend it.”
Ryan’s cheeks warmed. “How’s Lane?”
“Amazing.” Charlie’s eyes shone.
The man was definitely smitten, and a tinge of envy fluttered within Ryan’s chest. Would he know that kind of adoration? Vivian’s smiling face appeared in his mind and he shook away the image. It was coming far more frequently and only added to his stress. The woman wasn’t staying in Walton—he needed to remember that. And to remember that his job was to keep her safe until she left.
“Sheriff says a certain reporter is keeping you on your toes.”
Ryan cleared his throat and his thoughts, again. “That’s the truth.”
Charlie sat in the chair across from Ryan’s desk, setting a piece of paper on it. “This probably isn’t going to help.”
It was the forensic report with the findings from Harold Kennedy’s car. Trace amounts of peanut oil were found on the steering wheel, seat belt, and radio panel, most likely transferred by Harold’s hand from the origin, which was determined to be on the outside handle of the driver’s-side door.
“Someone put peanut oil on Harold’s car.” Ryan met Charlie’s grim gaze. “It’s official. Someone wanted Harold dead.”
“Appears so.”
“If Vivian finds out about this . . .” He didn’t want to think about it. This information in her hands would only spur her forward in her search for the story Harold had wanted to tell her—or had died while trying to tell her.
“Then keep her close.”
Ryan blinked. “What?”
“You and I both know Vivian goes after what she wants . . . aggressively”—he raised an eyebrow—“if necessary. My opinion, if you want it, is to keep her close. Work with her. Share a little information with her. Get her to trust you so she shares what she has with you.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea—she was injured in the break-in at the Gazette.” Ryan couldn’t believe his friend was suggesting this. Maybe Vivian did have information that could help him solve this case, but at what cost? Would Charlie offer the same advice if Lane were the one being put in danger? “Isn’t our job to keep her safe—away from danger?”
Charlie’s jaw flexed, understanding filling his eyes. “What better way to keep her safe than to keep her close?”
Ryan wasn’t sure that was the best idea. He was already toeing the line when it came to remaining professional with Vivian. “What about Sheriff Huggins? I don’t think he’ll agree.”
“Ask him.”
“That easy?”
“It’s only as complicated as you make it. If there’s one thing I learned last year, it’s that things often line up exactly the way they’re supposed to. It may not seem like it in the moment, but you’ll see looking back that had it happened any other way, you’d be less than blessed.”
Ryan wasn’t certain if Charlie was talking faith or what, but it only took a brief glimpse into his past to see that blessed wasn’t exactly what Ryan would call his life. He smarted. Was that really true?
He was here in Walton, working as a deputy. Frankie was getting ready to graduate and go to college. His mom . . . well, his mom was doing good. He kept trying to check into the dentist, Dr. Murphy, but Harold’s case and Vivian’s involvement had him preoccupied. At least his mom seemed to be happy. Was Ryan looking at the complications in his life and missing the blessing? He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking of Vivian. Where did that put her? Complication or blessing?
“I’ll talk to Sheriff Huggins.”
The Georgia sky had melted from a bright blue into a delicious peachy-pink color, reminding Vivian that dusk had arrived. The grumbling in her stomach was another reminder that she’d missed lunch. Again.
Lunch was the last thing on her mind, however. Ever since her conversation with Ryan, she’d spent every free second, in between her work for the Gazette, trying to figure out what he’d meant when he said there’s more to the case. She’d seen the worry in his eyes when he asked her not to keep digging. Genuine concern. She so wanted to do what he asked, but in the end, she couldn’t. Harold had a story and her gut told her it was important.
Her cell phone rang. A quick glance and her mood buckled into irritation. Why was he calling? She declined the call with an enthusiasm most therapists would say was unhealthy. A minute later, her phone pinged with a message.
Just erase it. Vivian’s finger hovered over the delete button . . . but she couldn’t. A glutton for punishment, she hit the play button.
“Hello, Vivian.” He cleared his voice. “Um, I wanted to call because I heard about your boss and wanted to say . . . well, to see how you are.” She rolled her eyes. This was rich. Her father calling to see how she was handling the death of the man who’d acted more fatherly to her than he ever did was ironic. “And, uh, if you need anything . . . you know I can help you find another job . . .”
A fiery heat burned inside her chest. Did Russell Bradley think he was playing some role? A hero coming to her rescue? She deleted the message, not caring what else he had to say. She did not need rescuing. And even if she did and he was the only one left in the world, she’d rather die.
Whatever reservations Vivian had about pursuing this case her father effectively erased the second he offered his help. She did not need it. She did not need him. An ache ricocheted inside her chest, sending angry tears to her eyes.
“Vivian?” She jerked her teary gaze up and found Ryan standing in the doorway. “Is everything okay?”
Talk about timing. Vivian hadn’t seen Ryan since their talk on her porch, and here he was showing up during an unexpected bout of emotion. She quickly wiped her eyes, sniffling. “Yeah, yes. Allergies.” She tilted her head toward the open window. “Honeysuckle outside.”
His frown said he wasn’t buying it, so she redirected her attention and unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—it landed on his muscular legs. Ryan was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt that invited her to take in the noticeable expanse of his defined chest.
Avert! Avert! She turned and picked a piece of paper from her desk to focus on. First Family Church Potluck Social. Yes, definitely a safer choice for her attention—though not nearly as appealing. She bit her lip. “So, uh, is there something I can help you with?”
“Dinner.”
Her eyes swung up to his. “Dinner?”
“I want to take you to dinner.”
Vivian licked her lips and looked around. “I’ve got a lot to do—”
“I promise it’ll be worth it. A real marmalade dropper.” He winked, holding his hand out to her. “Besides, it looks like you could use a break.”
Even if he hadn’t piqued her curiosity using Harold’s saying, the hunger pangs in her stomach were making it impossible to resist. And she did need to eat. Yeah, she was going with that. “Fine.”
Four blocks later, Vivian and Ryan were sitting at one of a handful of picnic tables outside a tiny screened-in restaurant called Smokin’ Hog, licking barbecue sauce from their fingers and breathing in the woodsy scent wafting from the smokers.
“This is really good.” Vivian dropped a rib bone she’d stripped clean.
“I can’t believe you’ve lived in Walton for months and haven’t eaten here before.”
“I like to cook.” She didn’t sound convincing at all. “And who would’ve guessed the best barbecue in Walton was a joint connected to a gas station?”
“So you like to cook and get into trouble.” Ryan wiped his face with a napkin and balled it up. “What else should I know about you? Names and numbers of your parents in case they need to bail you out of jail?”
Vivian threw her napkin at him and he ducked. “My record is clean, thank you very much.”
Her mouth popped open. “No you did not.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He sipped his sweet tea, a smile playing on his lips, making him look . . . irresistible. “Well?”
This was not Vivian’s favorite topic. Talking about her parents had a souring effect, which maybe wasn’t a bad thing given the rapid speed of her pulse since Ryan asked her to dinner.
“Hey, Frost.” A guy with wavy brown hair walked over. His navy blue shirt matched the tactical pants he was wearing. Vivian recognized him as one of the EMTs who took care of her after the break-in. “How are you doing, Ms. DeMarco?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Hey, Troy.” A flicker of something passed through Ryan’s face. Was it jealousy? “Picking up food to take back to the station?”
Troy smiled, picking up on the not-so-subtle hint. “Yep, but I’m glad I ran into you. Peach Bowl is coming up and the guys back at the station are wondering if you’re going to play this year.”
Ryan shifted on the bench. “I’m not sure.”
“What?” Vivian squeaked. According to Harold, the Peach Bowl was Walton’s summertime claim to fame. The event put on by the First Responders’ League brought out the crowds to root and cheer for firefighters, paramedics, and law enforcement officers who signed up to play kickball on a tarp-covered field laden with water and soap, making it dangerously slippery. She would be there to take pictures for her column. Watching Ryan play would be icing on the cake. “You have to.”
“Why?” Ryan’s eyes slid to Troy and back to her. “It’s a broken leg waiting to happen.”
“Aw, come on,” Troy said. “It’s fun. And frankly, we’re ready for some real competition.”
“Doesn’t the fire department beat you every year?”
Troy cringed. “Yeah, but some of them backed out this year because they got hurt.”
“See?” Ryan gave her a pointed look. “Not interested.”
The man at the counter called out a number and Troy waved. “That’s me.” He clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Think about it, man. Show your beautiful date what a stud you are.”
When Troy had collected the station’s order and left, Vivian fixed her attention on Ryan—who was doing his best to avoid eye contact with her.
“So?”
“So what?” he said, sipping the last of his sweet tea.
“Are you going to show me what a stud you are?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do I need to?”
Vivian’s cheeks flushed. She waved the waitress over and was handing her cup over for a refill when an idea—a brilliantly evil one—came to her. “I’m cashing in.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bet from game night. Remember? You have to play in the Peach Bowl this year.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” She accepted her drink back from the waitress. “The deal was you had to do anything I asked.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” He eyed her suspiciously. “Or are you trying to take me out so you can chase after your story?”
“Ooh, I hadn’t thought about that.” She winked at him. Why was flirting with Ryan so easy?
“Fine.” Ryan forced a pout to his lips and Vivian had to look away. “But only under one condition.”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “A bet’s a bet.”
“You might want to hear this one out, DeMarco.”
Hearing him say her last name like that tickled her nerves. It had been a long time since she had actively flirted with anyone while not trying to get information for a story. Was this a good idea? No—she was leaving town. She bit her lip. Yes. Maybe? She liked the way Ryan made her feel . . . it was okay to indulge in a little harmless flirtation, right?
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Her unsweetened tea sprayed everywhere—including Ryan’s shocked face. “Oh. My. Goodness. Ryan, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed a handful of napkins and started wiping at his face, her face, the table.
Ryan’s sudden laughter captured her attention. “That was awesome, DeMarco.”
Vivian’s mortification melted. “That was so embarrassing.”
He shrugged. “No big deal, but let me rephrase that. I wanted to see if you’d be open to helping me with Harold Kennedy’s case.”
Thank goodness she hadn’t taken another sip of her tea. “What? Really?”
“Before you get too excited, there are some ground rules—”
“I don’t do well with rules.”
“I know.” Ryan smiled. “Which is why I made them.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully—flirtatiously—at him. A warning voice echoed in her head that she was treading very close to the line she’d set out to protect herself, but at the moment the line was fuzzy at best. “I’m listening.”
“Next to Harold’s wife, you were the closest to him. You knew his schedule, what stories he was working on, the details of his life outside of the home.” His blue eyes grew somber. “Harold’s death is being ruled suspicious.”
Vivian’s heart twisted. “Why?”
“You can’t repeat any of what I’m about to tell you. Sheriff Huggins has given me permission to bring you in on the case because he thinks you can help us.”
“I’m a journalist, Ryan.”
“I know, and we’re not asking you not to do your job . . . just to hold off while we investigate.”
She thought this over for a few minutes. Working with Ryan would give her access to details she wouldn’t have otherwise . . . and she’d be working with him. What would that be like? Would he distract her? Prevent her from digging deep when her instinct said to? Would she be better off going forward on her own—with no one to answer to or rely on? “Okay,” Vivian agreed.
“Yes.” No matter what questions were swirling in her head, she needed to follow her heart on this, and if that meant working with Ryan . . . well, she’d have to remember she had a job to do and a story to find.
“The ME’s report came back. Harold didn’t accidentally ingest something with peanuts—he was poisoned with peanut oil.”
Vivian listened in utter shock as Ryan gave her the details of the medical examiner’s report. Her heart ached. Someone had killed Harold. The video replayed in her head. Was it the Watcher? Lauren? Her eyes met Ryan’s. “What do you need from me?”
Ryan licked his lips. “I don’t think the break-in at the Gazette or Harold’s stolen laptop or the email are coincidental. The night Harold died, there was a paper next to his body with a name on it—Lauren. I know you’re looking for her, but I don’t want you to do it alone. If she had something to do with Harold’s death, then she’s dangerous. Moving forward, we work together—and that means sharing information.”
She hesitated a second. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
His skepticism bothered her. “You don’t think I will?”
“I’ve seen you at work, DeMarco.” His fingers played dangerously close to hers again. “I wasn’t kidding when I said your safety is my priority.”
Vivian set her cup of tea aside. There must be something in the water in Walton. Something that turned her resolve to absolute mush. Moving here had been a calculated step. A step back into the industry that so quickly dismissed her when she had allowed her personal feelings to interfere with a story. Writing about Walton’s social events wasn’t as adrenaline-pumping or attention-grabbing as, say, uncovering a politician’s ties to the mafia, but the former had unsuspectingly been just as fulfilling. Maybe more so, if she were honest with herself—and that felt personal.
Harold’s death was personal. The story silenced by a killer was personal. And the sentiment lingering in Ryan’s eyes said it was personal.
“I won’t pursue any leads without letting you know first.”
“And you won’t do anything to put your life in more danger—”
“Than necessary,” Vivian added before he could finish.
“DeMarco,” he warned.
“I’m still a reporter, Ryan, sheesh.” She smiled. “Yes, I’ll do my best not to put myself in any danger, but”—she held up her finger—“I cannot be held accountable if trouble finds me.”
His blue eyes locked with hers and her breathing slowed. What was he thinking? Did he know what she was thinking? What was she thinking? That working with him was going to put her heart in danger and maybe she should back out.
“Good.” Ryan called for the check. “We start tomorrow.”