Flossy looked his way. “I’m glad you’re finished with your interview. Glennis McGillicuddy just called, and she needs help.”
Brock straightened. “What kind of help?”
Flossy shrugged. “Dunno, but she was crying. The old bag is in her nineties, you know.”
Christian coughed to cover an obvious laugh.
Brock reached for his jacket hanging on a peg by the door. “That isn’t nice, Floss.”
Flossy straightened her bony shoulders. “She called my tomatoesstore-boughtlast year during the fair, and she’s a cranky old bag. Period. To think I’d buy tomatoes. My greenhouse is twice the size of hers. I mean, really.” Muttering to herself, she started stacking papers again before turning and inserting different case files into the metal filing cabinets.
Brock pulled on his jacket. Too bad he couldn’t do the same with his patience.
Christian looked at him, his eye level exactly at Brock’s. “You aren’t staying for my interview with the Fed?”
“No,” Brock said shortly, readjusting the gun at the back of his waist. “You’re on your own.” He didn’t want to watch his brother answer questions, so he focused on Flossy. “I’ll be back after seeing what Glennis needs.” He brushed by his brother and opened the door.
“You sure seem like the sheriff to me,” Christian said, turning and stalking down to the conference room with the pup at his heels.
Brock slammed the door a little harder than necessary. He stomped down the icy steps, ignoring the constant ache in his left leg. The river road should be plowed by this time in the morning, so he took his truck, driving down the maindrag, checking both sides to ensure the stores stayed open and everything looked all right. Just like a sheriff would.
He shook his head, driving around the river and up to a subdivision of sorts set into the forest and surrounded by a cement-block fence that looked pretty covered in ice but remained useless for keeping out deer. He parked in the third driveway, noticing it hadn’t been shoveled.
A thrumming started in his temples as he slipped on the icy sidewalk, regained his balance, and then walked up to the small, one-story home with smoke curling from the chimney. He knocked once.
The door almost immediately opened to reveal Glennis, her mascara-caked eyes leaking but her red lipstick firmly in place. “Oh, Sheriff. Thank goodness.” She grasped his arm with bony fingers and pulled him into a small living room where the fire blasted heat in every direction.
He entered the house and shut the door, wanting to keep it open with every fiber of his being. It had to be a thousand degrees in there. A white cat with a huge belly sprawled across the top of the floral sofa, its blue eyes watching him lazily. “What can I do for you, Mrs. McGillicuddy?” he asked, his brow starting to sweat.
“It’s Ranger.” She wore a blue velour tracksuit with bleached white tennis shoes that matched her hair perfectly. Her shoulders stooped a little, but she was still a tall woman of at least five-ten, and she showed some strength as she pulled him through the living room and into the ultra-clean kitchen, where the older appliances sparkled. “He’s in danger.”
“Danger?” Sweat rolled down Brock’s back.
“Yes.” She tugged him to the sliding glass door and opened it.
Relief brushed across Brock along with a healthy, cold gust of wind, and he lifted his face in pure gratitude. “All right. Who’s Ranger?” The gun still lay reassuringly at his waist.
She pushed him out the back door and pointed to a tall paper birch tree in her backyard. “He’s my other cat, and he’s up in the tree. You have to get him down. Please, Sheriff.”
Brock froze. “You want me to get a cat out of a tree?” This had to be a joke. It just had to be.
“Yes.” Even very thin, the woman had power as she shoved him out the door. “You’re the sheriff. You have to get Ranger down before he freezes to death. The little monster ran outside when I opened the door to toss out old water from flowers that’d died, and he shouldn’t even be outside. Please, help.”
For God’s sake. If one of his brothers could see him, he’d never live it down. “I’ll be right back.” He paused. “If I do this for you, you have to back me with your neighbors that I’m not the sheriff.”
“Of course, you’re the sheriff.” She pushed him again, and he let her. “Now get Ranger. Be careful—his claws are pretty sharp.”
Of course, they were.
Ophelia studiedthe man across the table. Christian’s green eye appeared the same color as Brock’s eyes, while his jawline looked just like Ace’s. He’d hung his black jacket over his chair, revealing a clean, long-sleeved, blue T-shirt that covered impressive muscles. “Thank you for coming to speak with me today,” she said.
Christian tilted his head.
She swallowed and glanced at the sleeping wolf by his side before focusing on Brock’s brother. “Who killed Hank?”
If she hoped to surprise him, she’d failed. At least by looking at him, anyway. “Dunno,” Christian said, sitting eerily still.
She tapped her pen on the paper, once again having nothing to write down. “Did you kill him?”
