Ophelia reached for her notebook. “Wow. Very quickly. Name and age of the bride?”
“Loretta, and I have no clue as to her age. Late twenties, I’d guess. A good two decades younger than Leo.” Brock sat back and crossed his arms, revealing cut muscles beneath his T-shirt.
Interesting. “I need to interview them.”
Brock sighed. “Lots of folks move here because they don’t like people, just so you know. Other people, I mean.”
“Yeah, I caught that.” She sat back, pretending nonchalance as she switched topics. “You and your brothers? Are you close?”
His chin lifted. “We’re brothers.”
That didn’t seem like an answer—unless it actually counted as one. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do for them?”
“Nope.” His matter-of-fact tone held no defensiveness.
Okay. She had to tread lightly here. “Is there any reason one of your brothers would’ve wanted Hank dead?”
“Of course, not.” His expression gave nothing away, but he stopped moving. Completely. His eye contact remained sure and solid on hers.
She was missing something, but she had no clue what. The thrill of the mystery, of the hunt, rippled through her. “Was Hank a good guardian?”
“The best.” Brock tugged off his leather gloves and tossed them onto the scarred table. “Taught us to hunt and fight. How to survive this world no matter what it threw at us.”
Sounded helpful but not all that warm. “Was there love? Comfort?” she asked.
Brock’s upper lip quirked. “Not exactly. But there was a solid form at our backs, a wall of family, and that’s better than any hug.”
She needed their damn military records. Had they undergone psych evaluations? “So, your guardian taught you to hunt and kill, but he didn’t teach you about emotion?”
A glint entered Brock’s eyes. “I guess he figured we’d learn that from women when we got old enough.”
Was that a challenge? “Have any of you been married?”
“No.” Brock lifted a shoulder. “Well, not really. Damian had a short-lived marriage for a couple of months, but I think they annulled it, so that doesn’t count, right?”
She perked up. “Damian was married? To whom?”
“Hell if I know. He just mentioned it one Christmas after we’d gotten into the Knob Creek whiskey, and that’s all he said. Except her name was Stella. Great name, right?” Brock tapped a finger on his glove. He held up a hand when she started to ask more questions. “Honest. That’s all I know about Stella, and Damian hasn’t mentioned her since.”
Well. There had to be records somewhere. “All four of you happened to be home, on leave, when Hank died.”
Brock changed in front of her eyes—in a way she could never explain. His expression remained calm, his body still, and his gaze direct, but he…changed. “I don’t think that’s relevant.”
“Sure, you do,” she countered. “All four of you are suddenly home on leave, from different units in the Navy, at the same time? It’s statistically impossible that’s a coincidence.”
His chin lifted. “You’re right. I had just been honorably discharged, and my brothers came home for Christmas on leave and also for Hank’s seventieth birthday. He died the day after he turned seventy, three days after Christmas.”
Her skimpy case file hadn’t revealed that fact. “You know, the sheriff’s case file on this is as sparse as I’ve seen a file, especially Blazerton’s. Is there any reason the sheriff would’ve wanted to hide the truth about Hank’s death?”
“Nope.”
“I need to speak with your brothers,” she pushed.
He nodded. “We’ll meet Ace in about thirty minutes at the diner for an early supper. You can question him all you want.”
Good. “The little I gleaned from the notes the FBI assistant director gave to me showed that your discharge occurred last December, then Ace’s in April, and Christian’s just this recent October. I couldn’t find anything on Damian.”
Brock shrugged. “He’s in intelligence, and that’s all I know.”
