Dylan drove away from HCI feeling more unsettled than before they’d arrived. Somebody was spreading rumors about Chelsea.
Were those rumors motivating the would-be killer? If Zeke Granger didn’t work for the company any longer, why would he care? He likely wouldn’t, which meant he was working for someone else. Who’d hired him?
He’d asked Tabby before they left if she knew of any employees who were angrier than the rest or perhaps capable of murder. Her face had paled, but she’d promised to think about it and pass along any names that came to her. Maybe, if they got a name, they’d be able to connect it with Granger.
Beside him, Chelsea stared out the window. The skin on her cheeks had paled, and her arms were crossed despite the stuffy heat in the cab of his pickup.
He turned up the AC. “Tell me about how the stock works,” he said.
She looked his way, sighed. “My parents owned sixty percent. I owned twenty. So now, I own eighty percent.”
“And Frank?”
“Five, I think. The rest is owned by others who invested over the years, people Mum and Daddy trusted.”
“You’ve inherited your parents’ stock. What happens to it if you die?”
She looked away, out the far window again. “Daddy set it up so the company would remain in the family.”
He waited, though he already guessed what the answer was.
“If something happens to me, the stock is to be distributed evenly among the remaining family members.”
“So, Frank?”
“It doesn’t mean he’s done anything wrong.”
“Of course. I was just curious.”
They drove in tense silence. He let a few miles pass before he said, “Tabby’s idea was a good one, you know. You should make a statement. Just not in front of the whole company, but I’m sure you could get an interview on TV. Your company is one of the biggest employers in the state.”
Chelsea barely glanced his way. “I’ll ask Frank.”
“You’re the CEO, right?”
“Not officially.”
Oh. Did that matter? “I don’t know how all that stuff works.”
Her muttered “me, either” was barely audible.
Chelsea was the majority stockholder. Which meant she was in charge, whether she had the title yet or not. And if that was the case… “We could call the TV station today, get that set up ASAP. And there must be a local newspaper you could—”
“I said, I’ll ask Frank.” Her irritation was obvious.
Except Frank didn’t seem competent. If something happened to Chelsea and he was left in charge, the business would likely collapse. “Why don’t you call him now?”
She blew out an annoyed breath but reached into her purse and yanked out her phone. She dialed. He could hear the faint sounds of the phone ringing, then, “This is Frank Hamilton. Sorry I missed you. If you leave…”
She ended the call. “I’ll just text him.”
“But you need to do something, sooner rather than later. There’s a void at HCI.”
She turned to face him. “I told you I needed to get to work, and you told me that keeping me safe was more important. Do you remember that?”
He turned the truck—probably too fast—onto the little town’s main drag. “It was yesterday, so yeah, I remember.”
“Yesterday?” A short pause, then, “Seems like weeks ago.”
No joke.
His stomach growled. If yesterday had been weeks ago, then it stood to reason that breakfast had been days past. No wonder they were both irritated.
“We need food.”
Fifteen minutes later, he parked alongside the grassy park on the shore of Lake Ayasha and led Chelsea to a picnic table in the shade of an oak tree, where he could keep an eye on the surroundings. She took a seat with a view of the lake, and he sat beside her. They’d had enough conversation for a while. And the view was pretty. They dug into their meals from the Greek restaurant in town. They hadn’t spoken much beyond deciding where to go and what to eat. Now, he pulled open her small sack of chips before opening his own.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Sure.”
The gyro was delicious, just what he needed.
Chelsea had ordered a Greek salad wrap, which had sounded insubstantial at the time but looked delicious.
The lake sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. Boats motored past, some pulling children on inner tubes, others followed by water-skiers.
“It’s pretty here,” he said.
“Daddy called me Ayasha sometimes.”
He glanced her way. “Your pet name was after a lake?”
“Ayasha means little one. I don’t know which Native American language it comes from, but they called the lake that because it’s smaller than Squam, and way smaller than Winnisquam and Winnepesaukee.”
“Ayasha. It’s a pretty nickname.”
Quiet settled again, and the tension between them dissipated.
Beyond the tree-shaded park, the beach teemed with people, and the sounds carried on the warm breeze—children playing, parents calling, friends laughing.
Chelsea lifted her hair off her neck. “I wish I had a ponytail holder.”
“I left all mine at home.”
She offered her first smile in hours. “I can’t picture you with long hair.”
“Had it when I was a teenager. Not long, really. Shoulder-length.”
“Quite the rebel you were.”
“Hardly. I walked the straight and narrow.”
She tipped her head to the side, amusement apparent in the squinted eyes, the slight upturn of her pretty lips. “Always? You never rebelled?”
He shrugged, tossed the last of his gyro into his mouth.
“Why?” she asked.
He chewed slowly, not in any rush to answer her question. When he’d swallowed, he asked, “Did you?”
Her amusement faded. “We’ve talked enough about me.”
“You a sports fan? We could talk about football. Or are you one of those European types who think football is soccer, and soccer is better?”
“Patriots fan, obviously.” Her English accent notwithstanding. “But I want to talk about you. Tell me why you never rebelled.”
He balled up his napkin. “My parents had enough grief without me adding more.”
“From…?”
He didn’t want to share this with her, with anyone. But she had told him a lot about her life, and he figured he’d have to ask more probing questions before they were finished. And… maybe, a little, he did want her to know. Maybe in some needy place deep in his heart, he wanted to connect with someone about what he’d gone through. Not just someone, though. With Chelsea. Who’d had her share of grief and survived it. Who was surviving it still.
“My sister went missing when I was nine,” he said. “She was fourteen. She snuck out one night—she’d done that a few times.”
Dylan had heard the window slide open in the room across from his. A few minutes later, he’d felt the February chill seep under his door. He went into her room to close the window. Not all the way, though. She needed to be able to get back in. He didn’t want her to get caught. Because all he’d wanted in life was for Bridget to like him. She had, when she was younger. But once she entered the teen years, everything changed. He wanted his happy-go-lucky sister back. So he didn’t tell his parents she was gone. He never told on her.
“What happened?” Chelsea asked.
“She was missing for two weeks before the police found her body.”
Chelsea’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “No. Oh, that’s terrible.”
He looked away. Couldn’t bear to see the shock in her eyes. He’d worked hard to stifle it in his own mind, though it was still there, bubbling under the surface.
The evening Bridget had snuck out, for the first time in what felt like ages to his young mind, she’d hung out with him. They’d watched a rerun of 90210. She’d even acted like she liked him, for about thirty minutes. Then she’d done her homework, gone off to her bedroom without arguing with their parents, and turned off the light before ten. And then, she’d left.
Just like that.
“She was lured out by a man she met online,” he said. “The police tracked him down through her computer. He’s serving a life sentence.”
“Dylan, that’s…” She swallowed hard. “I can’t imagine.”
He tried to smile, to put Chelsea at ease. Based on the look on her face, she wasn’t buying his expression. “It’s the reason I became a cop. And the reason I quit being a cop. Because I wanted to catch bad guys, but catching them after they’d committed the crime…”
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
He should have told his parents Bridget had left.
He knew it wasn’t his fault. His sister had made a bad decision, and she’d paid the price for it. But the fact that he could have prevented what happened, that he could have protected her… It plagued him.
Men were supposed to protect women and children, not prey on them.
When Angel Gilcreast, his confidential informant, had almost been killed because Dylan’s partner had left her unprotected, Dylan had known he was in the wrong profession. He wanted to prevent crime, not clean up after it.
Problem was, trying to prevent evil was like trying to stop the ocean tide by standing in the waves. The water just seeped around and in and through. It soaked everything it touched. It left nothing unscathed.
Chelsea took his hand. “I’m sorry, Dylan.” Her voice hitched, shook when she continued. “I always wanted a sister. I can’t imagine losing one.”
He forced a steady voice. “I can’t imagine losing a parent.”
“It’s awful.”
“What a thing for us to have in common.”
She looked up at him, her sapphire-blue eyes brimming with tears. She blinked, and one escaped, dripped down her cheek.
He wiped it with his fingertip. Her skin was smooth, her cheeks pink. Everything about her pulled him in. This woman who understood heartache and kept fighting despite it.
He would do anything to protect her.
She was too vulnerable, and it was his job to take care of her, not to take advantage of her.
He needed to back away.
Yet, he couldn’t seem to make himself move.
Except forward. His lips brushed hers, the slightest graze.
When she didn’t shove him away, he did it again.
“I hate you!”
The shout came from behind them.
Dylan turned toward the voice just in time to see something hurling toward Chelsea. He reached to intercept the object. Made contact, sent it off-course an instant before it hit her in the head.
An ice cream cone. Some of it hit his hand. The rest splattered on the ground behind their picnic table.
Dylan was off the seat and standing between Chelsea and the attacker before he’d processed what had happened.
The attacker was a teenage boy. Shaggy brown hair, red-rimmed eyes, hands fisted at his sides. He glared at Dylan. No, past Dylan. At Chelsea. Was he hyped up on drugs? Drunk?
Chelsea stepped out from behind Dylan.
He moved to keep between her and the kid. “Stay back.” The words were directed at both of them.
The kid blinked, and… Were those tears? “It’s your fault. It’s all your fault!”
Chelsea, stubborn woman, moved again. When Dylan tried to step in front of her, she said, “No.” Then focused on the boy. “What happened?”
“Chelsea, he’s—”
“He’s upset.” She looked at the boy again. “Is there anything I can do?”
“If you cared about anybody but yourself—”
“Hey,” Dylan said. “You want to talk to her, then be respectful.” The kid wasn’t high or drunk. He was angry, though, and anger could be dangerous. “Men don’t throw things at defenseless women, no matter what they think they’ve done.”
The kid straightened at being called a man. Crossed his arms. Then lowered them.
“You have something to say?” Dylan asked. “Then say it.”
The boy pointed at Chelsea. “You’re going to close down the factory and destroy our town.”
It wasn’t the town the kid was worried about, though. This was personal.
Chelsea said, “Do your parents work for HCI?”
He crossed his arms again. “Dad. But he quit when he heard the factory’s closing down, got a job in Nashua.”
“I’m so sorry.” Chelsea seemed genuinely grieved at the information. She took a few steps toward the boy.
Dylan stayed at her side, glared at the teen—a warning.
A crowd was gathering. Mostly women, children, teens. A few men, who stood at the edge of the crowd, maybe prepared to step in and help. Maybe not.
“Please,” Chelsea said, “tell your father I have no intention of closing the factory in Coventry. I don’t know how those rumors got started, but they are only rumors. The factory isn’t going anywhere.”
“For how long?” A woman from the crowd stepped forward. “For a few more months? A year? Then what?”
Chelsea turned toward the woman, who wore a bathing suit and had two toddlers at her side, one trying to yank her back to the beach.
“I have no intention of moving the HCI factory this year or next year or ever,” Chelsea said. “HCI and the town of Coventry are a team.” Dylan could tell she was working hard to quell her English accent. “Coventry is my home, too, and, just like my mother and father, I intend to stay here and fight for it.”
“What’s going to Mexico, then?” another woman shouted.
Chelsea turned to her. “There are no plans to move anything to Mexico. All of HCI will stay right here in Coventry.” Her voice was strong, confident. “Things have been unsettled since my mother’s death. For HCI and Coventry.”
The woman who’d shouted didn’t smile, but she added, “And for you, I guess.”
“Yes.”
Dylan didn’t dare look at her, though he could hear the emotion in her voice. Too many threats, all around. His gaze roamed the crowd. Maybe fifteen adults, plus kids. They didn’t look angry anymore, just worried.
Chelsea faced the boy who’d started the whole thing. “What’s your father’s name?”
“John… I don’t want him to get in trouble.” He glanced at the ruined ice cream cone. “He’d kill me if he knew…”
“He’s not going to be in any trouble,” Chelsea said, “and neither are you. What’s his last name?”
The boy muttered, “McGregor.”
“Thank you.” Dylan could hear the smile in her voice. “If your father would like his job back, please have him call Tabitha Eaton. I’ll ask her to hire him back immediately.”
“Yeah, okay.” The boy’s fists had unclenched and hung at his sides. “I’ll do that.”
Dylan said, “You owe Miss Hamilton an apology.”
The kid shrugged. “Sorry.”
Dylan muttered to Chelsea, “Grab our trash and your purse, please.”
He assumed she did what he asked but kept his attention on the crowd. When she straightened beside him, he said, “You folks have a nice day.”
They got the message, started wandering back to the beach and other picnic tables. The kid slouched away, too.
He walked with Chelsea toward the trash can, where she deposited their wrappers. “I would’ve gotten it, but I didn’t want to turn my back—”
“I understand,” she said. “I’m sorry about that.”
As if it were her fault.
She’d done nothing wrong.
Dylan was furious with himself. Instead of keeping his eyes on the surroundings, he’d let himself be distracted. Talking about his past. Staring into Chelsea’s mesmerizing eyes. Kissing her.
It had been an ice cream cone this time, one he’d been able to intercept. If he wasn’t more careful, next time…
It could be a bullet.