The empty clip in his Glock should probably concern him more, but Rowan had brought down Alden Jenkins once before with nothing but his fists—and tonight, that might feel more satisfying anyway.
The stopover in the mayor’s office had turned out to be a dead end. And frankly, he wasn’t interested in letting Martinelli’s backup have first crack at Alden anyway, so yeah, he’d gotten lucky.
And then, just in case, he’d turned off his phone. Taken out the SIM card. No need for company.
He pulled into the circular driveway of the Jenkins house, gravel crunching under his truck tires as amber light spilled from the windows of the log home.
Rowan cut the engine and climbed out, his boots hitting the ground with purpose. The front door opened before he reached the porch steps, and Catherine Jenkins appeared in the doorway, wearing a cream cashmere cardigan over dark slacks. Her graying hair hung loose around her shoulders instead of its usual neat bun, and mascara streaked her cheeks in dark trails.
“Rowan.” Her voice cracked on his name. “I heard about the fire. About Sierra and Huck. Are they?—”
“They’re safe.” Rowan’s tone cut through her question. “Where’s Alden?”
Catherine’s hands twisted together, her wedding ring catching the porch light. “He’s not here. He left hours ago, right after—” She stopped, pressing her lips together.
“Right after what?”
“After Detective Martinelli called looking for him.” Catherine stepped back from the doorway, her shoulders hunching inward. “Rowan, he’s never acted like this before. He was pacing, making phone calls, throwing things. He broke my grandmother’s vase.”
Rowan studied her face, noting the genuine fear in her eyes. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Something flickered across Catherine’s expression—a shadow of recognition, maybe. “Or maybe you do.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “He was never like that with me. But I heard about…about how he was with you. Dolly and others. I never…I couldn’t…” She sighed. “Your mother was a good soul. I knew her from church—a number of years older than me, but…Rowan. Please don’t hurt him.”
He stared at her. Her hand moved to her throat, fingers finding a pearl necklace.
“Where would he go?” Rowan said quietly.
“He has another office,” she said softly. “He keeps files there. Important papers. He said he had to—” She pressed her hands to her mouth, cutting off whatever she’d been about to reveal. “Promise me you won’t hurt him.”
“He tried to burn my son and my…the woman I love alive.” He barely stopped himself from yelling. Took a breath. Held up his hand. “Please tell me where he is…”
“Hammer.”
He looked up. Mack stood on the stairs. He looked wrecked, almost?—
“Did you get into a fight?” Rowan said, his voice almost a whisper. Mack wore a bruise on his face.
Catherine looked at him. “Mack?—”
“Yes.” Mack’s voice cracked. “He was here when I came home, and I confronted him.” He came to the bottom of the stairs.
Only then did Rowan see the finger bruises on his neck. “He tried to strangle you.”
“He was angry.”
“Shut up! Do you hear yourself?”
Mack held up a hand. “I’m fine.”
“You’re traumatized.” He looked at Catherine. “You both are. Don’t you get it? You live in fear of being hurt—physically, emotionally—and that’s not okay. It’s never okay. Because people who can’t control their emotions damage other people.” He raked a hand through his hair. Blew out a breath. “Listen. Okay. I won’t…I won’t hurt him.”
Sheesh, that felt weird to say. But the words settled in, grounded him. “But I do need to bring him to justice.”
Mack had sat down on the stairs. Put his face in his hands. “I can’t believe he’s done all this. I thought he’d changed. Thought he was trying to make up for how he treated you.”
Rowan sighed.
