Chapter Six
“The facts may not always be what you want to hear. But learn to listen.”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #61
Cal unlocked the door to his grandmother’s house Saturday evening and pushed it open to a dark kitchen. He was almost too tired to cross the threshold, and it was barely seven o’clock.
Blowing out an exhausted breath, he forced himself to move, flipping on lights as he went and dropping the box he’d picked up outside onto the kitchen table. He then went straight to the fridge and pulled out a Coke.
He eyed the empty case of beer sitting on the top shelf and slid a glance around the room. A couple of empty beer bottles sat on the countertop, as well as the ones he’d shoved in the garbage can the night before. Muttering a curse, he tossed the two empties before grabbing a can of cat food and dumping it into the ceramic bowl on the floor.
“Lily,” he called out. The cat usually met him at the end of the day.
He leaned his head into the hallway and looked up the stairs when she didn’t appear, but there was no sign of her. He knew she was around, though. And that she’d come out only when she felt like it. Because she, like everyone else in his life, did only as she pleased.
Grabbing a bag of chips, his soda, and the monthly guilt package off the table, he headed for the living room, turning on more lights as he went. He’d wanted to check out the other jobsites today instead of being stuck over on Pear Street, but they’d had one problem come up after another. To top it off, the plumber needed an extra day to replace all the lines, so Cal would be meeting him at the house first thing in the morning, just to keep from starting the week off behind schedule.
All of that meant he wouldn’t make it out to his place that weekend at all. As well as no Sunday visit to see his granny. He hated when that happened.
Dropping to the couch, he propped his feet on the coffee table and eyed the hand-printed label attached to the box he’d brought in. Neither his dad nor his dad’s flavor of the month would have been the one to address the package. Nor would they know what was in it. His phone beeped as he turned on the television, and he used that as an excuse to shove the box out of his lap. It was Marci wanting to know if she should come over or if he would be picking her up.
He frowned as he thumbed out a reply.
Can we reschedule? I’m seriously tired tonight. And grumpy.
And he simply wasn’t in the mood. He and Marci had been going out for a couple of months, and though she was fun, he was finding that most days she was a bit too much. She was so damned cheerful all the time.
Occasionally, he didn’t feel like being charming Cal. He just wanted to sit and stew.
Marci also always wanted to be going out or being seen. Or she wanted to talk things to death. Whereas he often preferred to relax, eat a good steak, and just “be” with the other person in the room. Silently. Or better yet, go out to the farm and work. By himself.
Which wasn’t fair, he knew. If he ever wanted a relationship to last, he’d have to give more than that. But at the same time, he had yet to find a relationship he wanted to give more to. They simply didn’t seem to be worth it.
I don’t mind, Marci replied. I could rub your tired muscles.
He dropped his head to the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. Marci was already frustrated with him because he’d cut their date short the night before, but she was still trying. That’s more than he could say for himself. But after a week of the stress of keeping the Cadillac project on schedule, along with cameras in his face every time he turned around, he was too tired to even fake it tonight. And too frustrated.
And too damned mad at his ex-wife.
That sledgehammer episode . . .
He groaned at the thought. What the hell had he been thinking by going over there? The majority of his stress that week had been due to having witnessed that.
He’d seen her through the windows when he’d come back to the house. He’d known what she was about to do the instant he’d caught sight of the tool in her hand. And he’d remembered—with clarity—how much anger she could hold.
He’d also recalled how she’d once been likely to express that anger.
He blew out a breath. She’d been fifteen the day she’d climbed that ladder behind him at Blu’s house. Furious over something that had happened at school. He’d looked over his shoulder to ask what she thought she was doing coming up behind him like that, and she’d had a look on her face similar to what he’d witnessed the other night. She’d ignored his demand to get off the ladder, reaching out a hand to him instead, and demanded he give her a hammer. So she could pound on something.
He’d given her a sledgehammer instead.
After she’d beaten a rotting tree trunk to a pulp, he’d suggested another way she could work off some steam. Because he was an ass.
And because he’d heard the rumors about her.
Yet despite him being an ass, she’d been all for his suggestion.
He dragged a hand down over his face as he futilely attempted to stop the memories. He hadn’t touched her for two years after that. Not one hand anywhere on her body. And though he shouldn’t have let his little head dictate his big head that day, he could still remember every detail from that afternoon. And he still loved those details.
Therefore, why in hell’s name had he taken one look through that kitchen window the other night, and let his feet walk him straight to her door?
Because he was an idiot. Obviously.
And because he apparently still got a kick out of pissing her off.
He sent Marci a reply.
Really sorry, but no. Going to bed early. Working tomorrow, too.
She would be ticked at the cancellation, but there was no way he could be around her right now. He shouldn’t have gone out with her the night before, either. Not when his ex-wife wouldn’t get the fuck out of his head.
Then maybe I’ll be busy next weekend . . .
He stared down at the reply. Yep. Ticked. He tossed his phone to the couch and turned on the TV, then he pulled a knife from his jeans pocket and cut through the tape on the box. Ever since his dad had moved out of town, he’d sent a monthly guilt package. Neil Reynolds knew Cal visited his grandmother on a regular basis—therefore, the shipment came to him.
Cal sorted through it now.
Lotions, a new toothbrush and toothpaste, a gown and robe set.
There was also a new bedside radio and a shoebox full of yarn and knitting needles.
She didn’t need any of this stuff, but he’d take it to her anyway. And she’d be thrilled to get it. To know that Neil was thinking of her. Not that her oldest son bothered to visit her enough to count. He put in twice-a-year trips—with whomever he happened to be shacked up with at the time—to the home where he’d stuck her, and he sent monthly packages of junk. No calls. No other concerns.
She’d been in the home for seventeen years now. She’d started going blind before Papaw had died, and only two years later—because of one stupid accident with the kitchen stove—Cal’s father had shoved her into a twelve-by-fourteen-foot room that was forty-five minutes from everything she’d ever known. After that, he’d basically written her off.
Cal pulled out a smaller box that had his name written on the top and tossed it into the kitchen, aiming for the trash can. The box clattered with the empty beer bottles, tumbling everything to the floor, and the cat, who’d finally made her way to her food bowl, shot back out of the room.
Cal sighed. “Sorry, Lily!”
The cat didn’t care.
The kitchen door opened, and his uncle appeared, and upon spotting Cal on the couch, a smile broke out on Rodney’s face.
“There he is.” Rodney headed to the living room. “Big celebrity.”
“Hey, Uncle Rodney.” Cal patted the couch cushion. “Have a seat. Missed you at the set yesterday.”
“Yeah. Uh . . . Something came up.” Rodney grimaced with the words. “I’ll get out there, though. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Sure.” Cal focused on the TV instead of his uncle. A game show was on.
Rodney had been scheduled to be filmed helping with the demo, but he’d been a no-show. Cal hadn’t seen anything of him at all the day before, and likely wouldn’t have known where he’d ended the evening if not for the 2:00 a.m. text from a bartender buddy over at Joe’s. Joe’s was a little dive on the outskirts of town that catered to loose women who liked cheap beer, and Cal’s buddy tried to help out when he could. He’d text if things looked like they might get out of hand, and Cal would climb out of bed to go and retrieve his uncle.
He and Rodney never talked about it the next day, nor did Cal ever know how his uncle got his truck back after he sobered up. These things just had a way of working themselves out.
“How about you stay in tonight?” Cal suggested. He flipped to the local news. “Just me and you. I’ve got a couple of steaks I could thaw. I’ll toss them on the grill.”
His uncle looked toward the fridge. “I’ll think about it.”
There was no beer in the fridge. They both knew Rodney would be going out.
“You don’t have a date with Marci?”
Cal shook his head. “Too tired.”
“Too tired for a woman?” Rodney grunted. “Some days I’m not sure you’re deserving of the Reynolds name.”
Cal shrugged. It wasn’t a concept his uncle was familiar with, but Cal had grown tired of chasing skirts some time ago. He’d put his years in and he’d done a fine job of it. And if the women around town were to be asked today, they’d likely say that he was still chasing. But that was only because every relationship he tried ended before it really took off. The women were the ones to dump him, though, so at least they couldn’t claim he was a player. It was their choice to end things. They just blamed him for them having to make that choice.
The local news came on, and Rodney muttered something about forgetting to pick up something while he’d been out. He headed for the kitchen. “I won’t be long,” he called before the door slammed behind him.
Cal went back to watching the news. They both knew Rodney wouldn’t be back soon.
After the top news story finished airing, Cal’s and Jill’s pictures splashed on the screen. He put his feet on the floor and sat up.
“Local companies We Nail It Contractors and Bluebonnet Construction are making Red Oak Falls proud this week, with exes Cal Reynolds and Jill Sadler leading the charge.”
The picture cut to the houses as the story continued, showing Jill, Heather, and Trenton standing on the other side of a camera while one of the producers fed them questions. Cal had managed to eavesdrop on that interview when he’d been doing a preliminary walk of the yard with his landscaper, but he hadn’t noticed the news van there at the same time.
The camera panned to him, hovering at the corner of the house. He’d been standing with his lawn guy, but neither of them had been talking. They’d both been watching the women.
The reporter commented on that fact, chuckling at what she called a tongue-hanging-out moment for “the boys,” and he scowled at the TV. His tongue had been securely inside his mouth the whole time.
The clip cut to the interior of the Bono House then, and as the reporter spoke to Heather, Cal tuned her out. He watched for glimpses of Jill instead. The three of them were good at what they did. He remembered their budding skills when they’d first started working with him out at Blu’s, but he’d also seen some of the retreats they’d built. They knew what they were doing, and he’d best not forget it or he might find the Bluebonnets giving him and Pete a virtual ass-kicking on national television.
Jill stepped into the house behind Heather, and the instant she saw the camera, she put on her “face.” That’s what he’d been watching for.
They brought her into the conversation, and Cal had to acknowledge that she had full control in front of the camera. She was personable in a way that he knew was both her true self and also not. It was acting, he admitted. She had the ability to highlight the traits that would win her the most favor, and she even seemed to have a knack for comedic timing with the one-liners. She was damned mesmerizing to watch, actually, and he found himself wondering how much of that was natural and how much had been learned during her stint in Hollywood.
How much had he missed when he’d been dating her?
He eyed his phone where it lay on the couch. He still had her number. It was the same one she’d had as a kid. Maybe he should call and apologize for the crack he’d made about her acting skills Wednesday night. He’d just been trying to get under her skin.
And maybe he could cut off his balls and hand them over while he was at it?
Because that’s how she’d take it. Him conceding her win. Giving in.
Him begging her to quit ignoring him on set and to once again speak to him.
He shoved his ex-wife from his head for the umpteenth time that week and reached for his phone. He’d call his granny instead. That would be a conversation worth having.
They talked for twenty minutes, him telling her about the first week of filming, and her sharing details of her week. He also let her know that he wouldn’t be able to make it the following day. He’d try to see her during the week, though. He routinely made a trip or two during the weekdays.
She asked about Rodney, as well, and as was standard, Cal lied. Cal told her that her youngest son was doing great. Because he couldn’t tell her the truth. He wasn’t about to be the one to inform his grandmother that though she’d already lost one son to drinking and driving when he’d been only sixteen . . . her youngest had been heading down that very same path for a number of years.
At least her oldest wasn’t an addict. She had that going for her.
But then, Neil Reynolds also had nothing to do with her.
They said their good-byes soon after, and Cal decided to use the evening to do something useful. Like figuring out a way to rile up his ex enough to get her to acknowledge his existence.
Jill stood in the outdoor interview spot with her foster sisters and fought to keep her nerves from showing. The day had come for them to talk about their pasts. Patrick had pulled them aside that morning to go over the discussion points for telling their story, and she was equally as nervous for Heather and Trenton as she was for herself. None of them liked talking about how they’d come to be at Bluebonnet Farms, but they were as ready as they’d ever be.
She waved at the people standing behind the rope on the other side of the road. The crowd had been growing daily, and some of them even had signs with either “We Nail It” or “Bluebonnet” printed across the front. And surprisingly, a lot of them boasted “Bluebonnet.” So much for the Reynolds charm.
“We have fans,” Trenton whispered at her side.
It was a giddy feeling.
“It’s crazy,” added Heather. She smiled, her dimples flashing, as someone from the crowd called out her name. Their lives would certainly be different after this, no matter the outcome. They had several new clients lined up now, as the phones continued to ring. People were anxious to get on their radar before their schedule filled.
“Let’s start with Jill,” Patrick said, looking up from his clipboard.
Heather and Trenton squeezed her hands as all three of them turned their attention to the camera.
“I understand you showed up at Bluebonnet Farms first,” Patrick started.
“I actually only got there one day before Heather.”
She wouldn’t have gotten there that soon if Aunt Blu hadn’t overheard the police reporting a 10-56 at the apartment where Jill and her mother lived. Since Janet Sadler had worked for Big Gerry, Blu had known Jill long before her mother committed suicide. Therefore, she’d dropped everything when the call went out.
That would be the extent of her talking about the day of, though. On camera or off. Only one person knew the entire story.
The three of them answered questions for the next forty-five minutes, recounting many good memories of their years together, several of which overshadowed some of the worst ones, and as they talked, Jill noticed that Cal spent more time outside the house he was supposed to be working on than in it.
He was eavesdropping again. She’d caught him doing that several times over the past few days, and if not eavesdropping, he would occasionally just . . . be there. She’d come out of the house and practically trip over him supposedly retrieving something the wind had blown her way, or she’d go to her truck, only to discover him heading to his own truck. Which would be parked directly behind hers.
His continual encroachment into her space had even caused her to give up the battle of making no direct eye contact, and she’d switched to scathing looks instead. But that hadn’t gotten her far, either. He didn’t give a hoot about her go-jump-off-a-cliff glares.
So this time, when his gaze landed on hers, she screwed up her face and crossed her eyes. Maybe that would clue him in that he needed to back off.
He only laughed.
Len pulled away from his camera and looked in Cal’s direction at the same time that Cal laughed at her, and Jill realized she’d forgotten for a second that she was being recorded.
Oops. They’d have to edit that one out.
She stopped herself before making another face when Cal continued to watch. She still hadn’t talked to him since the night of the sledgehammer, and she’d perfected her sidestepping abilities when it came to Patrick trying to get the two of them together. But she’d swear that Cal had joined in on Patrick’s cause.
Nothing in her contract said she had to be on camera with their competition, though. Therefore, Patrick would have to up his game if he expected anything different.
“And that should do it,” Patrick announced, and she realized she’d missed the last few minutes of filming. Hopefully she hadn’t looked too ridiculous by not paying attention.
The three of them got back to work, and it was several minutes later before it occurred to Jill that it was only the three of them in the house. Not even Len. She looked up from the budget she’d been reviewing. Heather sat on an overturned five-gallon bucket at a makeshift desk of two two-by-twelves resting across a pair of sawhorses.
“Where is everyone?” Jill asked.
Heather glanced around. “I don’t know.” She had her cell phone in hand and was tapping on the screen.
“Trenton?” Jill yelled out. She knew Trenton had come back in with them.
“Up here.”
Jill tilted her head to look up at the exposed rafters. “You seen our trades anywhere?”
“Not since we got back in.”
Laughter trickled in from the open windows. Female laughter.
“That sounds like our women.” Heather held her hand over her phone as she spoke, and at the sound of additional giggles, Jill moved to the living room windows to look out. And sure enough, there they were.
All seven of their female workers scheduled for the day were currently in the competing yard, all facing Cal as he held court on his front porch. Len stood off to the side, recording it all.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jill muttered.
She ignored her flickering anger long enough to study Cal. What was he doing?
His words weren’t loud enough to decipher, but the familiar rumble managed to reach her ears. Whatever story he told, he did it with the type of smile that any woman would be hard pressed to ignore. His arms were open, extending out from his chest, while his hands and fingers remained in constant motion. The women alternated their gazes from his mouth to his hands as if mesmerized, but it was the casual sexiness of his stance that got to Jill. Because she’d bet money that stance wasn’t casual at all. The man knew exactly what he was doing.
And what he was doing was being up to no good.
But two could play at that game. She hadn’t taken all those acting classes to walk away with nothing. She was halfway out the front door, ready to march across the yard and entice all his men over to her house, before it occurred to her that this might be a ploy.
She paused. Was she walking into a trap?
She slowly brought her foot back inside and glanced back at Heather. “Will you go get them? They seem to have forgotten which house they’re working on.”
Heather once again covered the phone with her hand. “I’ve just gotten someone on the line.” She pointed to the glass tile sample she’d chosen as the backsplash. “I need to make sure the tile will be here on time.”
Jill looked up, but before she could ask, Trenton called down, “You go, Jilly. You’re in charge of the trades. Plus, you can’t . . .”
At Trenton’s pause, Jill cocked her head. “I can’t what?”
Trenton stopped whatever she was doing and finally looked down. Her legs were spread wide, each foot on a crossbeam, while her hands matched that position, only gripping rafters at shoulder level. She stared at Jill, the look on her face a mix of both conviction and contrition. “Plus,” she said, more slowly that time, “you can’t keep avoiding him forever. You have to know that.”
Jill barked out a laugh. “Watch me.”
“But the thing is”—Trenton glanced at Heather, who’d turned her back to both of them—“it would make for a better show if you did talk to him. Which is what we want, right?”
Jill’s brows arched. “And how do you figure that?”
Trenton winced. “Surely you see what we see?”
“I have no idea what you see.”
When Trenton didn’t expound on whatever point she was trying to make, Jill looked back over at Heather—who continued ignoring them.
“What exactly do you see?” Jill asked, her words slowing as her breathing threatened to pick up.
And again, Trenton winced. She then pursed her lips as if trying to find the right words—or maybe considering not answering at all—but Jill held her ground. Whatever her foster sisters thought they were witnessing, she needed to know about it.
She never took her eyes off Trenton, yet she instinctively knew when Heather turned back to them. Trenton seemed to sense the same, as she flicked a glance toward the other woman before giving an almost imperceptible shrug.
“I see two people,” Trenton finally began, the words seeming to pain her, “who, were they to get into a room together, would go off like a bottle rocket.”
“In T minus ten seconds,” Heather added softly.
“And we don’t just mean your anger.”
Jill’s mouth dropped open. “Then what do you mean?”
Trenton released the rafters, now balancing herself with only her legs, and touched her fingertips together in front of her. She mouthed the word “poof” as she slowly pulled her hands apart. She followed the action with a shudder and a look on her face that could only be indicative of pleasure.
Jill gaped. “You mean sex?” Heat crawled up her neck. “Sex with Cal? Me and Cal?”
Trenton repeated her “poof” move, and Heather giggled into her hand.
“I would not!” Jill denied. She pointed a finger up at Trenton. “Putting him and me in the same room together would not end up with us naked. I hate him. Have you forgotten that?”
But hadn’t that been her biggest worry going into this? That she’d fall back into old habits?
“Some people have sex without getting naked,” Trenton offered. “That could possibly even make it better.”
Jill gasped. “Stop it.”
Trenton shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“And you know how much he hurt me. You shouldn’t—”
“We know, Jilly.” Heather got to her feet. She’d put the phone down. “She’s just messing with you.”
“But you think it, too?” Jill asked.
Heather grimaced and Jill sighed.
“Really?” She looked out the window to where she could still see Cal on his porch.
“You two have just always been so . . . combustible,” Heather explained, apology in her voice.
Trenton “poofed” once again from up above, and if Jill had been close enough, she’d have punched her right off the crossbeams.
“I don’t want to be combustible!” she yelled.
Trenton stared down at her, her brown eyes reminding Jill all too much of the man she’d once loved. “But our wants and our actions don’t always make complete sense, do they?”
Jill scowled at her foster sister. She couldn’t believe either of them were even thinking these things, much less saying them. “I will not be acting on any perceived wants,” she announced.
“Good.” Trenton nodded. She gripped the rafters again. “Because I’d hate to have to kick his ass again.”
“What do you m—”
Raucous, high-pitched laughter filled the air, and Jill gritted her teeth. She had to go get their women.
She pointed at Trenton again. “We’re not finished talking about this.”
“I suspect we’re not.”
Irritation at her foster sisters had Jill tossing down the papers she’d been holding and stomping out the door. Before she made it beyond their yard, though, she was stopped by someone calling out her name, and when she turned she saw Little Red waving her down. Doug jogged her way, and even though she was still ticked, Jill couldn’t help but smile. He was just so darned cute.
And he’d kill them if he knew they called him Little Red.
“I’ve been trying to catch you for a few days,” Doug said when he finally reached her side. His cheeks were pink, but she couldn’t tell if that was from exertion or the thought of finally talking to her.
“And what have you been trying to catch me doing?”
Doug chuckled. “You’re cute.” He held out a hand. “First of all, I wanted to properly introduce myself.”
She shook his hand. “I know who you are, Doug.”
“Do you, now?” His cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink.
“I’ve seen your work at the Rusted Rooster. And as a matter of fact, if you had the right parts, I would have taken you away from that one a long time ago.”
She nodded Cal’s way, and they both turned to look at him as he continued entertaining the ladies surrounding him. She noticed that Doug took a step closer to her at about the same time that she recognized an irrational flare of jealousy when Cal put a hand on Bridget Mason’s shoulder. Bridget was gorgeous, single, and would have her MBA from Baylor in a matter of months. She’d be running her own company someday, and she likely wouldn’t have to go on TV just to build her business.
But if she did, the cameras would certainly adore her.
“He’s got a talent, that’s for sure.” Doug nodded toward Cal. “I’ve been watching them for the last few minutes. It’s almost as if he’s emitted some sort of siren’s call, and they’re incapable of looking away.”
Jill checked Doug out a little more. “You into Greek mythology, Doug?”
He grinned. “It was a hobby of mine in high school.”
“And when, exactly, was high school?”
“Come on,” he blustered. “I’m not that young.”
She bumped her shoulder against his. “Are you sure about that? Because you look that young.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
Though shocked that he was even in his twenties, she gave an overexaggerated cringe at the number. “That’s still almost a baby.”
He stepped in front of her then, his shoulders broader than she’d realized and now fully blocking her view of Cal, and suddenly the look in young Doug’s face was no longer that of an innocent boy. “Go out with me Friday night. Wherever you want. I’ll show you I’m not too young.”
Now it was her turn to blush. He was quite forward. “Don’t you think that might be a conflict of interest?” she suggested. “You work for my competition.”
“I’m not a conflict.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Cal, who—Jill noted—was now sliding them a look. “I’m easy compared to that one.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not interested in that one, isn’t it?” Before Doug could risk making the situation more uncomfortable, Jill angled her head toward her workers. “I really do have to get those ladies back to work, and something tells me Cal would want you to do the same.”
He shrugged, keeping up his bravado. “We get breaks.”
“Yeah, well, my ladies have been on theirs for too long.”
“I suppose they have.” Doug flicked a quick look over her, and dang if the heat that flared in his eyes didn’t try to warm her right up.
Something told her she’d be hearing more from Little Red before the six weeks were over, and she couldn’t find it in herself to be insulted in the least. It had been a long time since she’d had someone so brazenly come on to her.
He tossed out one more grin. “I’ll let you know if he steals them again.”
As Doug walked away, Jill ignored the camera now pointed at her. Len had shifted focus during her and Doug’s exchange, and had likely caught the entire thing. She also didn’t worry about the second camera crew, whose lens was on Cal. Instead, she put her fingers to her mouth, and with a quick burst of air, a sharp whistle ripped through the air.
Cal stopped talking midsentence, and one by one, the ladies turned her way. Once she had their attention, she motioned to the house, and without a word, the women filed across the yard. She couldn’t really blame them for getting caught up in Cal’s web, though. He was a heck of a good-looking man, and he’d been putting everything he had into that little show.
When the last woman edged past her, Jill turned a bored look Cal’s way.
He responded by blowing a kiss, same as he’d done the week before, and as had happened with Doug, she couldn’t find it in herself to be properly offended.
What was up with that?
He turned to go back inside, and a half second before he completely disappeared, she realized she was staring at the curve of his butt. Because damn. His smile wasn’t the only thing that could captivate a woman.
She forced her gaze away and marched back to her own house. What the heck was wrong with her, anyway? Had her libido fired to life from a multiyear hibernation, and now anyone was fair game? She heard a soft snicker coming from behind the camera now following her, and without looking back, she flipped Len the bird. At least she wasn’t undressing him with her eyes.
As she stepped up onto the porch, still focused on getting away from Cal, she literally bounced off Patrick’s chest.
“Whoa.” He steadied her. “Sorry about that. But I’m glad I caught you.” He gave her a wide smile. “Can we have a few more minutes?” He motioned for Len. “We forgot a couple things before.”
When Jill didn’t immediately follow him to the interview station, Patrick turned back.
“It won’t take but a few minutes,” he assured her.
She glanced at the door. She’d really rather Heather or Trenton go with her.
But Patrick stood waiting, and when a quick peek next door indicated that Cal didn’t seem to be involved, Jill gave up and decided this wasn’t a setup. She trudged across the lawn behind the two men, and hoped it really wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. She had far too much left to do today. Len slowed to align his steps with hers, and by the time they got her positioned with the best lighting, she’d already relaxed and was ready to go. And that’s when Patrick attacked.
“We just have a quick question about the day your mom died.”
Every hair on Jill’s body stood on end.
“I have down that you were the one who found her body,” Patrick continued. “That you’d left the apartment early that afternoon, but when you came back—”
“Where did you get your information?”
Patrick jerked his gaze to Jill’s. No one knew the details of that day, except . . .
Jill looked toward the Cadillac House. Her breathing picked up. What had he done?
“Is that not right?” Patrick asked. He flipped to another sheet on his clipboard. “It says that around six thirty—”
“I’m fully aware of what happened that day.”
She stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, though Len leaned out from behind his camera to peer at her. If she’d been in a better frame of mind, she would have appreciated the concern written in the larger man’s eyes, but as it was, she only wanted to lash out.
“And I will not talk about that day on camera.” Her voice rose. She forced herself to face Patrick. “We discussed that beforehand. It isn’t open for negotiation.”
“I’m not asking for specifics,” he countered. “More about the aftermath. We know that sometimes the people who are left behind . . .”
Blood roared in her ears.
“Sometimes there’s ‘survivor’s guilt,’” Patrick continued.
Cal stepped around the corner of his house then, and as she fired a glare in his direction, he stopped as if sensing her anger. With boxes balanced on both shoulders, he rotated to face her, and she didn’t even think. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to.
She simply screamed.