Adelaide looks between us, swallowing hard. “Summer?…”
I force the words out, my voice barely my own.
“The hospital called Benny’s brother. He came in tonight.” A breath shudders through me. “He said the man in that bed isn’t him.”
Adelaide’s grip on me falters, her hand slipping from mine like she’s lost her anchor. Constance sits back into her chair, eyes hollow, mouth parted. Confusion adorning her face.
Jacob doesn’t give them time to argue. He strides to the front desk, each step heavy, controlled, a predator moving through prey. The receptionist straightens, nervous under his shadow.
“The second that man opens his eyes,” Jacob says, his voice low and lethal, “I want a call. Direct to me. No one else.”
The woman swallows, nodding quickly. “Yes, Sheriff.”
He leans in just a fraction, his stare pinning her in place. “If someone else hears about it before I do, I’ll know.”
She scribbles his number down, cheeks flushed, and nods again. Satisfied, Jacob turns back, his gaze sweeping over me, Constance, Adelaide.
I wrap my arms around myself—all I can see is the battered stranger lying in that bed, breathing through a machine, carrying Benny’s name like a stolen coat.
And I wonder if I ever knew him at all.
Chapter 23
Jackson Moore
Summer
The coffee machine hisses like it’s mocking me, the burnt scent clawing at the back of my throat. I watch the plastic cup fill halfway before the liquid sputters, brown foam sloshing against flimsy edges. My hand shakes when I reach for it. I’m not sure if it’s grief, or adrenaline, or both.
Headlights slash across the polished floor-to-ceiling windows. A black SUV pulls into the space closest to the entrance. The engine cuts. Two doors open. Two people step out.
Not in uniforms. Not nurses. Not hurried visitors clutching flowers or takeout bags. No, these two are different. They move the way hunters do when the chase is over—steady, unhurried, certain the prey is theirs.
The first is tall, broad through the shoulders, his stubble catching the glow from the overhead lamps. His eyes cut like flint when they lift toward the building, cold and assessing. Even from here, even through the glass, I can feel the weight of them.
The second is a woman, smaller, her movements quieter but no less certain. Her hair is pulled tight at the nape of her neck, her coat fitted and neat. She glances at the man beside her once, the briefest flicker of communication, before they cross the lot in step.
My stomach knots. Something in me whispers: not right.
The automatic doors slide open as they get close to the entrance, the rush of night air pushing against my face.
They don’t hesitate when they enter, they don’t scan the signs for direction. The man walks ahead—he reaches the receptionist and flashes his badge, just long enough to confirm what I already suspect. Detectives.
My skin prickles. Detectives. Here. For him. For the man in ICU who isn’t Benny Harrow.
I force a sip of coffee, nearly gagging at the taste. My pulse won’t calm, won’t slow. I glance down the hall, searching for Jacob. He disappeared ten minutes ago to corner his deputy, his boots echoing into the distance. He should be here. He has to be here. Because suddenly, I feel exposed.
The detectives split the room with their presence. The man plants himself near the desk, leaning an elbow like he has every right to bend the space around him. The woman stays standing, scanning. Eyes solid, watchful. They’re not looking for trouble. They’re expecting it.
“Sheriff Darnell,” the male says, his voice gravel and smoke.
And my blood chills—because Jacob headed to make a phone call five minutes ago and hasn’t returned.
The receptionist stutters, eyes wide. “He’s… I can call him?—”
“No need.” The reply doesn’t come from her. It comes from behind me.
Jacob.
