Amka swallowed. “I came back to work. As usual.”
“I see.” Ophelia looked at her watch. “I’d like to formally interview you on the record in the matter of Tamara Randsom’s death. Say tomorrow at the station around three in the afternoon?” That should give her enough time to obtain a preliminary background check on the woman. Ophelia wanted to get all of her ducks in a row before she called in Jarod.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Amka asked.
Ophelia shook her head. “Not if you didn’t do anything wrong.” She pushed off the stool. “Brock?” She kept her mask firmly in place. She brushed a hand over his arm as if everything was normal. “Time to go?”
He nodded, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “Sure.”
Outside, the cold Alaskan air was sharp against her cheeks. Snow swirled in slow drifts under the glow of the streetlamp. The town felt quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in and left too much room for unspoken things.
“Let’s go to the station,” she said casually, though her words were a tight thread in the cold air. She would confront him there.
Brock studied her. “Sure. I don’t want to leave the sled here.” He slid his leg over and held out his arm.
She hesitated for just a second before she smiled, accepted his help, and swung behind him. He handed back her helmet, which had been hanging on a handlebar. She pulled it onto her head and secured the strap.
He did the same and started the beast.
Fury rolled through her. She wrapped her arms around Brock’s waist, feeling the familiar heat of him through his jacket.
The engine roared as they shot forward, the snow spraying out behind them as they sped down the street. But when they reached the end of the main street, he didn’t slow down and flip around. He kept going, his body a hard wall as he took the river road away from town.
Her fingers tightened around his waist, anger simmering in her chest. Apparently she wasn’t in a playing poker state of mind and hadn’t fooled him with her casual request. Damn, she needed sleep.
By the time they pulled up in front of his cabin, she was seething. The second he killed the engine, she jumped off and spun around. “What the hell, Brock?”
He tugged off his helmet, his face already stormy. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I said I wanted to go to the station.”
“I heard you,” he said bluntly. “But we’re both exhausted, and obviously something has you furious. So we’re talking about it here, away from everyone else. Period.”
She shoved her helmet into his chest, forcing him to grab it. “Fine.” She stomped to the front door and shoved it open to yank off her coat and hang on a hook. Then she kicked out of her boots and moved closer to the grand stone fireplace in the great room. She needed space. She needed answers. And she needed them now.
Brock followed her inside, shutting the door hard enough to rattle the windows. “All right.” He threw his helmet onto the table. “We’re here. Out with it.”
She whirled on him, anger blazing in her eyes. “You should’ve told me.”
“Told you what?” he asked, his voice hard but cautious.
“Monica,” she bit out, every syllable like a slap. “You spent the night with her last December. She was your alibi for Hank’s fucking murder.”
Brock’s eyes darkened, his nostrils flaring. “Jarod obviously knew that. How?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, stepping closer. “Who the fuck cares what Jarod knows? Monica can provide an actual alibi for you, and you still kept your night a secret. Why? Are you in love with her?” The last question shocked her. She hadn’t meant to ask that.
“Of course not,” he said, his voice tight, like he reined himself in. “We’re just friends. The night was stupid and we both regretted it. Nobody knows. Well, I thought nobody knew. David doesn’t, and I see no reason to hurt either one of them.”
Fury felt like acid in Ophelia’s throat. “You let me walk around in the dark, Brock. You let me think I had the whole story when I didn’t.”
“I made her a promise and wanted to keep her life from getting ripped apart.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through his composure. “Her presence when I found Hank’s body doesn’t change anything.”
“Oh, you’re wrong about that,” Ophelia hissed.
He crossed the room in two strides, standing close but not touching her. His energy was like a storm—electric and overwhelming. “I wasn’t trying to keep you out,” he said. “But you and I both know Monica wasn’t the point. She didn’t see who killed Hank. She didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“She had something to do with you,” Ophelia shot back. “And that makes it my business.”
