Sully
“Dead?”
My eyes immediately seek out Pippa, who is sitting on the steps into the RV, her face drawn as she stares out on the lake. So much for a quiet few days away. I hate this place is permanently stained by an asshole with a rifle. This news would make it even more so.
“Gunshot wound to the head. Stippling present. Glock 42 in the victim’s hand.”
I turn back to Jonas. “Suicide?”
“Or made to look like it. It was a fresh scene.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Happened to be in Wayne’s office when the call came in this morning,” he explains. “I’m sure the feds are still out there processing that scene and Ewing is en route here, but Woody was out on a poaching call just down the road from here and followed us.”
I already showed the game warden the tree trunk where one of the slugs lodged, inches from my face. Jonas arrived with James and Fletch, who are both helping look for the other rounds, with Pippa looking on. Of course, Fletch had to make sure she was all right first.
This news is going to come as a blow to her, and what kills me is it doesn’t look like we’re any closer to ending this fucking mess. Especially now the person topping the short list of possible suspects was found in her trailer, fifteen miles north of town, with a bullet in her head.
Which leaves me to wonder; who the fuck was shooting at us?
“Sully? What’s wrong?”
I catch sight of Pippa getting to her feet, a worried look focused on me. I move toward her, urging her up the steps and inside, where she has some privacy when I break the news to her.
As is becoming her habit, Pippa surprises me again. No tears, but a pained look on her face when I tell her what I know.
“I don’t know why but I had a feeling things wouldn’t end well for her,” she says, shaking her head before she continues firmly. “However, I don’t buy for a minute she’d hide out somewhere for over a week to then suddenly decide to kill herself. That’s bullshit.”
I don’t disagree with her. Suicide seems a little too convenient. Perhaps someone’s attempt to tie off loose ends. Maybe the same person thought Pippa was a loose end as well and was out here trying to take care of her. Were they hoping to make it look like Marcie shot Pippa and then killed herself? Maybe hoping by the time the bodies were discovered it would be too difficult to pinpoint exact time of death and, therefore, the time line?
Which brings me to my earlier question; how the hell did the shooter find us? I still don’t have an answer.
“Eckhart?” I turn my head to find the sheriff sticking his head in the door. “Wouldn’t mind a word.”
When he starts climbing into the rig, I get to my feet right away. It’s cozy with only Pippa and me, but with Ewing as a third it’s definitely a crowd.
“We’ll come out,” I inform him.
I wait for him to back out and turn to Pippa holding out my hand.
“You okay? There’ll be more questions.”
Her deep brown eyes lift up to me and I see pain, but also resolve.
“Let’s get it done,” she says, putting her hand in mine so I can pull her up.
I take the time to wrap her in a hug—those guys out there can wait—and for a moment I feel her cling to me like I’m the only thing keeping her standing, but then she lets go, straightens her back, and precedes me outside.
It’s already close to the dinner hour by the time we pull up to the cabin. Once again, Pippa’s motorhome was taken, this time to retrieve one of the bullets lodged in the exterior paneling, so we hitched a ride home with the team. After a long day of questioning from all branches of law enforcement—the feds showed up shortly after Sheriff Ewing was done with us—we’re finally home.
Sloane, who’d heard about what happened through the grapevine, comes barreling from the cabin next door. After we’re able to assure her we’re both unscathed she returns next door, leaving us alone.
“Hungry?” I ask Pippa, who is on the couch, her feet pulled up under her.
“Hungry is a big word, but I’ll eat. For this one, if anything,” she adds, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “But can we do something easy? I don’t feel up to cooking.”
I open the fridge and as I’d hoped, Ama did not disappoint; a tinfoil covered oven dish is sitting on the top shelf, with cooking instructions on a sticky note attached. I lift a corner of the foil.
“How does baked ziti sound?”
“Divine.”
Pippa takes a call from her sister, while I shove the dish in the oven to heat. Then I wander into what is supposed to become the nursery, where the faint smell of paint draws me, and find the reason why Bo didn’t show up with the rest of the team. I suspect Ama may have had a hand in this as well.
The walls are painted the sage green color Pippa and I agreed on. The crib, changing table, and the dresser have all been assembled, and a brand-new light fixture hangs from the ceiling. The latter, I’m sure, Ama’s doing since I don’t see the mini-chandelier to be Bo’s contribution.
I can’t fucking believe this is my house. I’m standing in a nursery, looking at a crib my baby will be sleeping in soon. Suddenly light-headed, I sink my ass on the floor, letting my head catch up with the sudden wave of delayed panic.
“Sully, are you…” I hear Pippa walk into the room. “Oh, my God, it’s so pretty. Look at that chandelier… Sully? Are you okay?”
She crouches beside me, her hand on my shoulder, and her expression one of concern.
“It only now occurred to me; I could’ve lost all of this today. You, the baby…” I gesture my hand around the room. “This. It could’ve become a shrine.”
“Honey, we’re fine. Both of us.”
“I know, I just need a minute.”
She gives me that by sinking down on the floor beside me, folding her legs in an impossible pretzel—like she’s some kind of contortionist—and putting a hand on my knee.
Invading my space.
And I’m so fucking thankful.
Pippa
I can almost hear the wheels turning.
Wish I knew what has him sitting on the floor of the nursery looking so forlorn all of a sudden, but I resist the urge to question him. He looks like he’s still working out the answer to that for himself.
He’s proven himself to be here for me when I needed it on several occasions now, the least I can do is show my support silently. I can wait.
“My parents didn’t exactly provide us with a safe upbringing,” he starts abruptly.
“Sure doesn’t seem that way,” I agree softly, remembering the picture he painted of his childhood only a few days ago, although it feels a lot longer.
“It scares me…”
The pause that follows is so long I wonder if that’s all he’s willing to share. I’m about to prompt him when he starts talking again.
“The weight of responsibility. I fucked up today, almost lost both of you as a result. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this.” He turns to me and I can see the struggle in his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not backing out. I’ll fucking work my ass off to be a good father, a decent husband, but I’ve had no example. I’ll be flying by the seat of my pants.”
“I love you.” The words tumble from my mouth unprovoked but they feel necessary. “I had a good example and still managed to fuck up my marriage. I’ve been tested and failed; you haven’t even been tested yet. Already you’re doing better than I am.”
I know I’m rambling but I don’t like seeing him so troubled. I’ve started to rely on him as my stalwart, my rock.
“So I’m not sure I’m cut out for this either, but I’m here, with you.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “And I know I’m a better person for it.”
He bumps my shoulder back, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You love me.”
Not exactly a question, it’s more of a statement, so I don’t feel compelled to respond. I hopped over that fence, just like I was the one to put my heart on the line last New Year’s Eve, but I’m not about to do it again unless I know he won’t leave me hanging.
He reaches out, gently stroking the backs of his fingers down my cheek before brushing the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip, following his own movements with keen interest. Then his eyes come up to meet mine, the words that follow already visible in their depths.
“I love you back.” He shakes his head, lowering his eyes. “Only people I ever occasionally heard those words from, or spoke them to, are Isobel and Sloane. Hearing them from you and giving them back feels unfamiliar, but right.” Then he looks up. “Our daughter is going to hear them a lot.”
My nose stings, but I’m not going to get sloppy. Instead, I lean in, curve a hand along his stubbled jaw, and press my mouth to his.
“She’s already a lucky girl,” I mumble against his lips.
Sitting here on the nursery floor, with my arms around a good man, it’s hard to believe my friend is dead and someone is out to hurt me. This feels like a sanctuary of sorts; a place sheltered from a world gone crazy out there.
Unfortunately, reality strikes with the incessant beep of the oven timer, bursting our little bubble.
Sully gets to his feet, helping me up, and goes to take care of dinner. I follow him to the kitchen and maneuver around him to set the table. It’s surprising how easily we move about in the small space, instinctively aware at all times where the other is.
We don’t talk much during dinner and today’s events start replaying in my mind. The shots, the fear, the urge to get to Sully, his team arriving with law enforcement, and the sudden disappearance of the shooter. Gone, no trace of him or her. And then the devastating news Marcie was murdered. The suggestion she may have taken her own life out of some kind of remorse, which is a load of bull.
I was shocked to find out Cade Jackson was in FBI custody at the time of the shooting. In fact, he’d been held over in the local jail since last night. Agent Wolff mentioned they were questioning him about the murders and his connection to the Yokum family. He finally confessed to the two incidents of vandalism at the garage, which he justified as protecting family investments, even though Wolff suspects that what ignited those actions was my rejection of him. Your guess is as good as mine, maybe he had visions of a second Jackson’s Automotive. Who the hell knows?
But if not Cade, then who? I’m not sure who else the FBI has on their suspect list. What would they want with me? That’s the part I don’t get. Did I do something? See something? I’ve been racking my brain since Wolff and Powell questioned me earlier. They wanted to know if Marcie had maybe shared something with me she didn’t want anyone else to know, but that was assuming she’d done the shooting, which we already know couldn’t have been the case since she was already dead. Besides, I don’t know anything.
“How did he, or she, find us?” I ask out loud.
Sully doesn’t need clarification; he immediately knows what I’m talking about, which tells me he was mulling things over as well.
“Tracker. While you were answering questions for the feds, Fletch and I dove under the rig to look. It was stuck to the back of the black tank. Another reason why the FBI decided to take your camper in again.”
“Why?” The whole thing simply boggles my mind. “I mean, I’m not sure what I’ve done, or done wrong? Why kill Marcie or focus on me?” Frustrated, I get up from the table and start pacing. “Those agents were hammering on that again yesterday, like there has to be a reason.”
Sully shoves back from the table, folding his arms behind his head as he regards me calmly.
“There does have to be a reason,” he confirms to my annoyance. “But that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to know what it is. Wanna know what I think? I think it was Marcie who knew something. The way you describe her reaction to the Yokum name suggests she realized something the moment she heard it.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not like she shared that with me.”
“You know that, I know that, but the shooter may not know that,” he clarifies.
“Which could be why he’s after me,” I conclude.
“That would be my guess.”
I start clearing away dishes, but when I lean over, Sully pulls me down on his lap.
“Are you okay?” he asks, way too gently.
His arms tighten around me when I try to get up. I need to walk, wash dishes, do something—anything—to keep myself busy, before the sudden wave of grief for my friend drowns me. But Sully doesn’t let go.
“Let it go, Honey.” Again with the soft, caring voice, and I shake my head as if to ward off its effects. “All of it,” he persists. “Let it go.”
The first tear is one of frustration. The ones that follow are all for Marcie.
By the time my tears dry up, my eyes are gritty and swollen and I’m so exhausted I don’t even blink when I feel Sully carry me to bed.