Ace finished more coffee, his eyes sparkling. “No shit. Some people wouldn’t understand that kind of thing.”
Brock took a deep drink from his chipped mug, his shoulders broad and appearing relaxed. “So long as my woman understands me, I’m good. Period.”
Oh, he did not. Ophelia’s mouth dropped open. “You’re about to get an understanding of your own, buddy.”
He gently, too gently, set down his mug and then pivoted fully to face her. “Bring it on, baby. I’m ready for another round.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
After the too cozy breakfast with the hot bodied Osprey brothers, two of whom were murder suspects, Ophelia carried the files from her three open cases to the conference room at the sheriff’s station, stepping around a stack of newspapers. She had to figure out who killed Hank so she and Brock could move on with their relationship.
Could they if she arrested one of his brothers? Her stomach cramped. She sat and stretched her neck.
She owed those two brothers of Brock’s for changing her tires the night before, and the feeling of being included in the family was way too tempting.
A blizzard absolutely attacked the building, and she considered turning up the heat. Flossy had called in sick with a cold, so Ophelia didn’t feel right using so much of the electricity.
At the moment, Brock and his brothers had planned a family meeting at his place. Well, in a half an hour or so. Her gut told her Brock would find out who shot Hank.
But would he tell her?
She doubted it.
Going on a hunch, she’d purchased online access to the local newspaper and had spent the morning reading about townevents starting in May when Tamara had disappeared through the previous December when Hank had died, just looking for any sort of lead. Taking a break from the computer, she now read through the case file for Tammy Randsom, now much thicker since her body had been found, and made a few notations of people she might want to talk to in town. She’d called and Leo had been adamant that she not speak with his kids, and she couldn’t blame him too much. Perhaps Brock could get her an in with Leo so she could speak with the children about their murdered mother, and she’d be gentle.
Sighing, she pushed the file aside and turned her attention to the nearly empty file folder regarding the dead man with his eyes gouged out who’d worn the EVE logo. Not even her boss had been able to get a handle on the place.
Sighing, she returned to the computer and conducted a search specifically for Hank Osprey. The paper had featured him many times through the years, showing him in town, at events, and during many fishing derbies. He won one a couple of years previous. She looked at his strong and still healthy features. So cancer hadn’t caught him yet. A knit cap was half off his head with some sort of symbol in the center. She peered closer, trying to make it out. For the briefest of seconds, she thought it formed the letters for EVE. But a closer examination proved it was some sort of smooth logo. What was that?
She couldn’t make out the shape.
Ugh. How freaking frustrating. She closed the laptop, and her stomach growled. Maybe she should run down to the diner for lunch. Standing, she shrugged into her coat and strode through the office, shoving open the front door.
Snow billowed all around, white and thick. She blinked and started toward her Jeep when something hit her hard in the back of the head. She fell sideways, her vision going black. What was happening? Pain echoed through her entire skull, and she shookher head to keep conscious. Rolling onto her back, she tried to lever up onto her elbows on the freezing concrete.
A thick white boot kicked her leg.
She focused on the boot until her vision cleared and then looked up to see Monica Luna standing above her, pointing a silver weapon. “Monica?” The woman’s face wavered in and out.
“Hi, Ophelia. Man, you have a hard head.”
Ophelia stared up at the barrel of what appeared to be a nine-millimeter. “That’s a lovely Smith & Wesson.” Her stomach clenched, and blood rushed through her head, ringing in her ears. With the storm, nobody ventured out on the sidewalk or across the street.
“Thank you.” Monica gestured with the weapon. “Nobody’s around except Amos, who no doubt is downstairs. Come with me, and I won’t have to shoot him, too.”
How was this happening? “Sure.” Ophelia stood and ignored the trembling in her legs, groaning as agony ripped through her head. She had a better chance of getting the gun if they were on the move. Her mind spun as she tried to keep control of herself. “This isn’t making sense. Have you been shooting at me lately?”
“Yep.” Monica’s eyes gleamed with an odd light. “You shouldn’t have come here. You don’t belong.” She turned and motioned again with the gun.
“I’ve heard that before,” Ophelia murmured, trying not to throw up. The woman’s hand remained steady on the weapon. “You know, you’re not a very good shot.”
Monica reared back. “This close to you, I don’t need to be.”
A true statement. Bile rose, burning Ophelia’s throat. Her vision kept going black. She reached to the back of her head, feeling blood and a large lump. The door to the interior of the office remained open. Could Amos hear them? “Did you kill Hank?”
Monica snorted. “Of course not.”
Why couldn’t Ophelia concentrate? The world spun around her. “You hit me with the gun?”
