It actually took her only two and a half minutes before she was moving quietly down the stairs. Ian, having been preemptively banned by the investigator from being present at her interview, stayed upstairs with Jack. Only one man was waiting in the living room. Since his back was to her, she was able to observe him before he realized she was there. Although he wasn’t very tall or bulky, he had a lean strength that reminded her of her father. The similarity made her stomach lurch. Her dad had been the first—although not the last—man to try to kill her.
The investigator’s dark hair was neatly combed from the side part, and it was carefully trimmed above the nape of his neck. His clothes were appropriate for the mountains in March—warm and casual layers—but something about how he wore them made Rory feel extra mussed in her recycled outfit.
He turned and saw her then, so she descended the final stairs and crossed the living room, stopping several feet away from the investigator. They eyed each other, and neither extended a hand to shake. His eyes were calm and as cold as the snow outside.
“Rory Sorenson?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes.”
“I’m Investigator Paul Strepple with the Colorado BCA.”
Since she wasn’t sure how to respond to that—as “Nice to meet you” didn’t seem appropriate—Rory settled for a nod.
“Have a seat.” He gestured toward Ian’s couch, and Rory had to restrain a tense smile at the investigator’s attempt to claim the space and gain the upper hand. There was no way she was going to sit on the sofa, since it faced a wall of windows, so she headed for the doorway.
“Mind if we talk in the kitchen?” she asked over her shoulder. “I was too tired to eat this morning when the shift ended, so I’m starving.”
He followed her. Having a stranger behind her made her twitchy, and she wished Ian could’ve been there. The thought surprised her. Since when did she consider anyone—even Ian—trustworthy enough to watch her back?
Strepple leaned against the counter as she explored Ian’s cupboards. To her surprise and delight, he had the cereal with the marshmallows in it. She’d never tried it as a kid, but the box had fascinated her during their rare trips to the grocery store. After her parents died, she’d bought a box of that cereal and ate the entire thing in one sitting. Afterward, she’d been sicker than she’d ever been in her life, but the taste had been worth it. Grinning, she grabbed the cereal box and started hunting for a bowl.
“New to this place, are you?” Strepple asked, reminding her of his presence and bringing her back to reality with a jarring thump. The cereal find had been distracting. Pausing her bowl hunt, she glanced over her shoulder.
“This house, you mean?” At his nod, she said, “Yes. Ian’s letting me stay here until my shop’s no longer an active crime scene.”
“You two aren’t together, then?”
There was a set of mixing bowls in the next cupboard she opened. Grabbing the smallest one—which was still large enough to hold half the box—she focused on closing the cupboard doors, keeping her back turned so Strepple wouldn’t see her blush at the question. She didn’t want to show the investigator any weaknesses, and the vulnerability and uncertainty that flared up when she thought about Ian definitely felt like weaknesses. “No.”
“Huh.” His weighted tone made her look at him. “Not what he said.”
There was no way to hide her blush at that, but she did her best, diving into the fridge and taking a long time to find the milk. “Oh. Well, we… Uh, he…” Talking wasn’t helping, so she clamped her lips together.
When she emerged with the milk carton, she saw a small smile on his face. Scowling, she asked, “Didn’t you come here to ask about what happened at the shop?”
“I did.” Strepple had an unsettling way of watching her. It was cool, almost clinical, and it made her feel flustered. She tried to hide it, focusing again on her cereal, dumping an excessive amount into the mixing bowl. After pouring the milk and then putting it away, she found a spoon in the third drawer she checked.
The cereal was as good as she remembered. Processed sugar and artificial flavoring were amazing things, and they were a temporary distraction from the piercing regard of the investigator. After a few bites, she waved her spoon at Strepple. “So?”
“How long have you known Ian Walsh?”
Frowning, she answered, “Since I was twelve. What does this have to do with the burglary?”
“I’ll ask the questions.” Instead of sounding hostile, his tone was completely even. Somehow, it still made her want to cringe and apologize. Biting the inside of her cheek, she straightened her shoulders and mentally told herself to quit being weak. “How long have the two of you been dating?”
“We’re not.” When he raised an eyebrow and remained silent, she continued, “We’ve been spending time together because he was worried about someone trying to break in to the shop. It’s not dating, though.”
“So, you’re spending lots of time together, including dinner at a restaurant, and you’re staying at his house, but you’re not dating.”
“Right.” Rory quashed the urge to babble by shoving a huge spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
“Do you know Willard Gray?”
The change of topic made her blink. “Willard Gray? That sounds familiar, but I can’t place him.”
“He owned a shotgun he bought at your shop two years ago.”
“What kind?”
“A Remington tactical shotgun.”
Tapping the spoon against her lips, she thought. “Quiet guy in his fifties or sixties? About your height and weight?”
“Sounds about right.”
“He bought the 870.” Although she didn’t like talking about her customers and their purchases, Strepple already knew what the guy had gotten from her, so Rory figured it wouldn’t do any harm to confirm it. Plus, talking about guns calmed her. After another bite of cereal, she added, “Over a week or so, he stopped in three or four times. I was starting to think he was just a lookie-loo, but then he got the Remington. That’s a nice shotgun. Dependable. Kind of heavy, though.”
“Did you have any other interactions with him?”
Since her mouth was full, she waited to answer until she swallowed. “I didn’t see him again after that.”
“What about Walsh?”
Rory lowered the spoon still loaded with cereal. “What about him?”
“What was his relationship with Gray?”
“No idea. You’d have to ask him.”
Strepple eyed her for a long moment. Feigning nonchalance, she stuffed another spoonful of cereal into her mouth and chewed, not dropping eye contact with the investigator. His questions about her personal life made her babble, but she didn’t hesitate when it came to defending Ian.
“Tell me about Walsh’s involvement with the Riders.”
“No.”
His calm expression faltered a little. “No?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said, dumping her leftover milk down the kitchen sink drain. It had turned a pastel green from the dye in the marshmallows. “That’s another thing you’re going to have to ask him directly.”
“You can get into a lot of trouble by impeding an investigation.”
Rory took her time rinsing the bowl before setting it carefully in the sink. Turning, she met Strepple’s gaze. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
They had another stare-down before the investigator spoke, breaking the tense silence. “Why don’t you tell me what happened the night of the shootings.”
“You mean the night of the burglary, when an innocent shop owner and her…friend defended her residence and their lives as allowed by law?”
It almost looked as if he were holding back a smile. Inclining his head silently, he gestured for her to proceed.
As she told the story for what felt like the hundredth time, the mental movie started to play, but she shut it down fast. It was hard enough getting through this interview—or interrogation—without the added stress of seeing Rave’s death over and over again.
When she finished, Strepple asked a few questions about how she knew Rave, which she answered as succinctly as she could. With her belly full of artificial goodness, she was starting to get tired again, and she didn’t want to slip up and say something she shouldn’t.
When Jack trotted into the kitchen, followed by Ian, relief surged through her. Rory couldn’t hold back a smile when she met his gaze.
“Mr. Walsh.” Strepple pushed away from the counter and drew himself up to maximum height. “I thought you were aware that you couldn’t be present while I was speaking with Ms. Sorenson.”
“And I figured that two hours was a long enough time for you to grill her, when she had a twelve-hour shift at the fire station last night.”
As if sensing the tension in the air, Jack’s ears pricked forward, and he moved to stand in front of Rory, creating a dog-shaped wall between her and the men. She reached down to scratch him under his collar. Although his tail thumped against her leg in appreciation, his attention stayed fixed on the guys currently locked in a staring contest.
“I think we were about done, weren’t we?” Rory asked.
Although he didn’t look happy about it, Strepple gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll let you know if I have any other questions.”
After Ian ushered the investigator to the door, both he and Rory watched from the living room window as Strepple’s SUV pulled away from the curb in front of the house. They both stayed silent, standing close enough that their shoulders touched, until the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Rory was amazed by the comfort that small contact gave her.
“Why was he fixated on Willard Gray?” she asked, turning to look at Ian.
His expression was grim. “He’s the headless body found in Mission Reservoir a few weeks ago—the one Lou discovered during that ice-rescue training exercise. She and Callum are unofficially investigating his death, since the local guys and the state investigators are all running in circles. Will was a reclusive guy who lived in Simpson. Apparently, no one except an old army buddy realized he was missing.”
She winced, remembering the quiet man who’d visited her shop. “He’s the one they found in the reservoir?”
“Yeah.” The muscles in his jaw were tight.
“The Riders are implicated in Willard Gray’s murder?”
With a rough sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m the one implicated. I owned a pendant with the Liverton Riders’ mark on it. My dad—not Julius, but my biological dad—wore it until he died, and then my mom passed it to me when I was fourteen. It was found by the body.”
Startled, she blinked at him.
“I lost it a month or so ago. It disappeared while I was showering at the clubhouse. I turned that place inside out but couldn’t find it. I have no idea how it ended up next to a dead guy.”
She was quiet for a few moments, absorbing this. “So Strepple thinks you killed Willard Gray.”
“He didn’t actually come right out and say it, but yeah. That’s probably a safe assumption.”
Looking through the window at the other houses, automatically picking out all the locations a sniper could be positioned, she shivered. It seemed like everyone—the Riders, the BCA, the local sheriff’s department—were gunning for them. It wasn’t enough to hide in her bunker anymore, though—she had to protect Ian, too. If only his house didn’t have so many windows. “Do you mind if we continue this discussion in my closet?”
“Your closet?”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Your closet.”
“I didn’t mean…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Yeah, we can talk in the closet. Can we run an errand first, though?”
“What’s that?” Rory took a couple of steps back from the window. She didn’t know how Ian could relax surrounded by glass. It was so easily broken and so transparent. Anyone could see her.
“I’ve called him a few times, but I haven’t been able to check on Julius in person for a couple of days.”
“Oh.” She suddenly felt selfish. Her problems had completely absorbed Ian’s life. “Of course. Do you mind if I come along?” Although the question made her feel clingy, she didn’t want Ian out of her sight with everything going on. “I should check on the chickens, too.”
Ian scowled. “I’d rather you not go by yourself. Billy’s pissed. He posted Zup and Duke’s bail, so those two are around, too.”
“Both of them?” Rory could understand bailing out his son, but Duke, too? That just seemed strange.
“Yeah.” Ian was still frowning. “Why don’t you come with me to visit Julius, and then we’ll both go to your place. I’m sure the chickens are fine, though. Squirrel’s been taking care of them, and he’s like the poultry whisperer or something.”
She smiled. “I know. I just want to see for myself that they’re okay.”
Accepting that with an easy nod, he changed the subject. “Did you get something to eat?”
“Yes.” A beatific smile curled her lips as she thought about her breakfast—lunch, really, she mentally amended as she glanced at the clock.
His gaze seemed to be locked on her mouth. “What food caused that look?” he asked, his voice a little raspy.
“Cereal,” she told him, her smile growing. “With marshmallows.”
Ian laughed, his intent expression fading. “You ate that disgusting stuff? I just got it because Steve’s kids stayed over one night.”
Frowning at him, she said, “It’s not disgusting. It’s amazing. And you babysit?”
“Sure. We all take turns helping out. That time, Steve got knocked on the head on a call. They kept him in the hospital overnight, so his four kids crashed here.”
“He’s a single dad, then?”
“Yeah. His wife died about five years ago.”
Rory tried to imagine raising four children by herself and shuddered. Poor kids would be doomed. “How does he do it?”
“No clue.” Ian shook his head. “I couldn’t even keep a goldfish alive.”
“I do okay with the chickens and Jack,” she said. “Kids, though…”
There must’ve been a trace of horror in her tone, because he eyed her with the beginning of a smirk. “You don’t like them?”
“Kids are fine.” Even to her own ears, Rory heard the insincerity in her voice. “They’re just…”
“What?” Ian sounded like he was about to laugh.
“I don’t know. Sticky.”
“They’re sticky.”
“Yeah. And there’s usually some kind of bodily fluid seeping out of them.”
“That’s disgusting. What kind of kids have you been hanging around?”
“I haven’t really been hanging around any of them. I’ve just noticed the snot and drool and other stuff from a distance.” A large distance, if she noticed them first.
Ian was full-out grinning now. “Rory, are you scared of tiny, innocent children?”
“No.” As soon as it was out of her mouth, she knew she’d spoken too quickly to be believed. “Of course not. Who’d be afraid of kids and their stickiness and multitude of germs and their Children-of-the-Corn stares? Not me.” Her scoffing noise was weak, very weak.
“Uh-huh.” He had a look of satisfaction on his face. “Now I know two things that scare the fearless Rory.”
“I’m not fearless.” She spent most of her time being fearful. “And what’s the second thing?”
“Windows.”
“Ugh. I do hate your windows. Why do you have to have so many? And so big? And so see-through?”
Ian stared at her. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
Very ready to end the entire conversation, Rory suggested, “Should we go see Julius?”
* * *
As the Bronco approached Liverton, Rory thought of the Riders, and her stomach tightened.
“Will anyone else be there? Besides Julius, I mean.” Although she tried to keep her voice casual, Ian’s sharp glance told her that she hadn’t been completely successful.
“Could be.” After a pause, the telltale muscle in his cheek twitched, and he looked at her again. “You worried about seeing Billy?”
“No.” She made a face when the word came out rushed. “Not really. A little, maybe. Judging from his recent threat, he’s not too happy with us.” That was an understatement. She wished they’d brought Jack along, rather than leaving him at Ian’s. “After all, I did kill Rave and get his son arrested.”
With a shake of his head, Ian pulled the Bronco up in front of a barn-red, single-story house. “You didn’t get him arrested. The dumbass managed to do that all by himself.”
Rory was relieved that, other than Ian’s SUV, the immediate vicinity was empty of vehicles. Unless someone had walked over to see him, Julius was alone. “I don’t think Billy sees it that way.”
“Fu—forget Billy.” He set the parking brake with restrained violence. “If he wants to blame you for what Rave and Zup did, then he’ll have to deal with me.”
Her hand stilled on the door handle as she turned to look at his grim profile. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” The muscle in his cheek was flexing like crazy, telling her that it was definitely not nothing. When she didn’t say anything, he looked at her, and his face relaxed a fraction. “I need to talk to Billy about it.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but she knew it was all she was going to get right then. Opening the door, she stepped out of the Bronco, landing ankle-deep in snow. Looking at the driveway, she saw that it had been overtaken by drifts that climbed halfway up the closed garage door. The walkway and porch were covered, too.
“If Julius has a shovel or a blower, I can clear this for him,” she offered.
“No need.” Ian got out of the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. “Julius isn’t going anywhere.”
“Why not?” she asked, high stepping through the mounds of snow that rippled in crusty waves, hiding where the yard began and the pavement ended.
“Because,” he said testily, taking her arm to help her through the snow, “I have his car keys.”
She glanced at his hand, a little startled. No one had ever helped her like this before. It was odd, although not unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of nice.
“I’m not giving them back until he drags his ass out of the bottle.” Ian must’ve taken her silence as criticism, since he sounded defensive and his fingers tightened around her arm.
“Good idea.”
“He doesn’t—” Her words must’ve registered. He cut off whatever he’d started to say. When he spoke again, his tone was calmer, less tense. “Thanks.”
“Those couple of times he was at my shop,” she said, sliding her boot across each porch step to kick some of the snow out of the way, “he drove himself.”
“Sh—uh, shoot.” The muscle in his cheek was ticking again. “Was he in a blue Ford pickup?”
“No. Silver Oldsmobile sedan.”
His hand on the doorknob, he paused to look at her. “Good memory.”
“Thanks. I watched him leave the second time he was at the shop.”
“Still, not many people would’ve remembered what he was driving.”
She shrugged. “That was part of my training—noticing my surroundings and remembering details.”
“Training?”
“Can we go inside?” she asked, not wanting to discuss it. In fact, she was kicking herself for letting that slip. “I’m freezing.”
“It’s not that cold. What training?”
“It is that cold.” Rory knew her expression was bordering on belligerent, but she didn’t care. The guy was like a dog with a bone when it came to discussing topics she really didn’t want to discuss.
“Fine.” He shoved open the door and stepped back to let her go inside first. “But we’re talking about this later.”
“No. We’re not.” Despite the lack of vehicles outside Julius’s house, Rory stepped forward cautiously, relieved by the empty entry.
“Hey, Julius,” Ian called as he followed behind her. “It’s me. Rory came along too.”
There was no response, and Ian frowned. After toeing off his boots, he quickly moved down the short hallway and passed through an arched opening. Rory removed her boots and followed. The entryway opened to a living room, where Julius was slouched in a worn recliner.
Even in just the few short weeks since she’d seen him, Julius appeared to have aged. Gray stubble covered his sunken cheeks, and the hair surrounding his good-sized bald spot looked greasy. He was a big guy, but he didn’t look it at the moment. In fact, his robe-clad body looked almost shrunken. Although he was facing the television, it wasn’t turned on. The worst was his expression, distant and dull.
“Julius,” Ian said, approaching the older man. Except for the slightest glance at his stepson, Julius didn’t react.
“Hey, Julius,” Rory said, but he didn’t respond at all to her greeting.
“When was the last time you showered?” Ian stopped next to the recliner.
“Fuck off,” Julius grunted.
Ignoring the slurred words, Ian leaned down to gently grasp Julius’s arm. “Come on, old man,” he said, the words filled with affection. “You need to get cleaned up before the flies start to circle.”
Julius struggled slightly, but his body soon sagged as he relented, and he allowed Ian to help him to his feet. As he stood, something hit the wooden floor with a thud. All three of them looked down at Julius’s feet, where a bottle of vodka had fallen. It was almost empty, the dregs spreading along the side of the bottle rather than spilling onto the floor.
“Julius.” Ian tilted back his head and closed his eyes. He looked suddenly and completely exhausted. “Who’s bringing you this shit?”
“None of your fucking business,” Julius snarled. “I’m an adult. I can have a drink if I want one.”
“You—” Biting off with visible effort whatever he was going to say, Ian pressed his lips together, his cheek muscles practically vibrating with tension. After a long moment, he blew out a breath. “Shower. You need to shower.”
All the pugnaciousness slipped out of the older man, and he wilted in Ian’s grip. Julius allowed Ian to escort him out of the room. Once she was alone, Rory let her own breath escape. Needing to do something, she picked up the bottle and went searching for the kitchen.
It was easy enough to find, just a room over from the living area. She dumped the small amount of remaining liquor down the sink and rinsed the bottle. The kitchen garbage was overflowing, so she lifted out the bag and tied the top, hearing glass bottles clanking against each other. Obviously, Julius was not much of a recycler.
A door on the other side of the kitchen led to the garage, she discovered. In there, she saw the blue pickup currently on lockdown, as well as a large plastic trash bin. As she turned around after depositing the trash into the container, a glinting reflection on one of the plywood shelves caught her attention.
Behind the paint cans, she found three full bottles—vodka and two different kinds of whiskey. Rory bit the inside of her cheek. It seemed wrong to take them, like she didn’t have the right to interfere. Then the look on Ian’s face when the empty bottle had dropped to the floor flashed through her mind. With renewed purpose, she pulled the bottles off the shelf.
When she reentered the kitchen, Ian was there, opening cupboards and shoving aside the contents.
“I found three bottles in the garage,” she said. “Not that he couldn’t have more.” When Ian took a step toward the door, she stopped him. “Already got rid of it.”
“Where?”
“Trash can. Under the garbage bags.”
He stood for a moment, staring at her. His arms were limp at his sides, and he looked…lost. It was so un-Ian-like that she couldn’t stop herself from crossing the few feet that separated them. Tentatively, she circled her arms around his middle and gave a squeeze. It felt extremely awkward at first, with her stiff and him unresponsive, and Rory regretted the impulse.
Before she could pull away from him to stammer apologies, his arm locked around her, yanking her into his chest. He held her for a long time, pressing his forehead against her hair so it felt as if he surrounded her completely. Like his hand on her arm earlier, it was odd, but not unpleasant. She relaxed into his warmth, and his grip tightened.
Definitely not unpleasant.
He shuddered as he exhaled, his breath hot against the top of her head. “Jesus, Ror. What am I going to do with him?”
“Rehab? There’s a place in Connor Springs.”
“He won’t go. If I drive him there, he’ll just leave.”
“Not to be all clichéd, but you can’t force him to quit.” She squeezed him, as if to temper the harshness of her words. “He has to do it himself. And he has to want to do it.”
“I know.” The despair in his voice developed an edge of anger. “I know that. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to punch him in the face until he sees what he’s doing to himself.”
A bubble of laughter rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back, since there was a good chance it would emerge as a sob instead. “I get that.”
“Yeah?” He pulled back far enough to make eye contact. Rory wished he hadn’t. It was easier to talk about private things when she didn’t have to look at him.
“Yeah. I want to punch people in the face all the time.” When he didn’t smile at that—looking disappointed instead—she swallowed and dredged up her courage. “My parents were crazy.”
The disappointment was immediately gone from his expression, replaced by a sharp look of interest and empathy.
“They weren’t that bad at first, at least from what I remember as a kid. They wanted to be self-sufficient, to be ready in case of a disaster. I get that.” She gave him a wry look. “You’ve seen my supply room.”
“The underground Costco? Yeah.” His smile was crooked, but real, and she relaxed a little. It was easier to share her messed-up childhood stories if they were actually making him feel better. That way, she didn’t feel so much like she was vomiting her issues all over him.
“My mom would even make an occasional grocery store visit for peaches—I told you about that.”
The other side of his smile lifted to match the first. “I saw you there, remember? When you first developed your obsession with processed sugar.”
Her laugh surprised her. She couldn’t believe she could expose the raw mess of her insides and still be able to find humor in it. “Right. So, anyway, they became more and more…militant about everything. Paranoid, too. Everyone was an enemy. Instead of just preparing for a possible what-if situation, they started seeing catastrophes around every corner. They began running drills all the time.”
“Training?” His arms had relaxed, but he still held her loosely, his hands resting warmly on her lower back. The heat was comforting.
“Training. As in, yanked out of bed at two in the morning to practice running from zombies.”
“Zombies?” His eyebrows shot up. “You had zombie drills?”
She scowled at him without any real anger. “Didn’t I mention that my parents were crazy?”
“Well, there’s crazy, and then there’s zombie crazy.”
Her glare dissolved when she couldn’t hold back an amused snort. “Quit making me laugh when I’m telling you all the traumas of my childhood.”
“Did you ever think about leaving?”
“Sure.” One hand had oh-so-casually dropped to her waistband, and the tips of his fingers slipped under the bottom hem of her shirt. The brush of skin against skin raised her voice to a high pitch. Clearing her throat, she tried to ignore the contact, even though it was all she could focus on. For her, being touched was a rare occurrence. Ian’s fingers warmed her back in a way she could easily start to crave. “Um, all the time. It would’ve scared them so badly, though, me being out in the evil, dangerous world. I couldn’t do it to them. Everything—the bunker, the drills, the isolation—was to protect me.”
Nodding, he opened his mouth, but a crash from the other room interrupted him. She spun, putting herself between the door and Ian, her hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. When she realized she was unarmed, Rory straightened her shoulders. Billy was going to have to go through her to get to Ian.