He pulled out his cell phone and tapped on the screen, pulling up a photograph. Peyton stepped closer to view it. The warmth of his body bled through her jacket, and her pulse responded before her brain could intervene. She pressed her lips together and forced herself to focus on the image. A man stared back at her. Lanky with dirty dark hair and a calculating gaze. A tattoo peeked out from the corner of his collar.
She stiffened. “That’s the guy from the hotel.”
“Marvis Harrison.”
The name wasn’t familiar. “Has he been arrested?”
“Not yet. A BOLO has been issued for him, but so far he hasn’t been seen since he escaped after the attack. His last known address is Waco. He’s got a long rap sheet, including asecond-degree murder charge, but he’s never done any serious prison time. The cases were all plead down or dismissed.”
She frowned. “What’s his connection to Lilia?”
“We don’t know. Waco PD went to his last known address, but his mother claimed to not know where he was. She kicked him out last year and hasn’t seen him since. He doesn’t have any ties to Knoxville that we know of. His mother said he owns a motorcycle though.”
“So he could be a member of the Iron Serpents?”
“Maybe.”
Peyton took that in. Now that her concussion had faded, and she’d had adequate sleep, her brain finally felt like it was working again. “There were two guys at the train depot. If we assume Marvis was one of them, it doesn’t explain who the other one was. Or why anyone in the Iron Serpents would be after Grace.” She turned the thought over. Dread gripped her. “Marvis could be Grace’s father. Or whoever he’s working with could be.”
“It’s definitely possible.”
“Has anyone interviewed my Aunt Sandra? What did she have to say?”
“That’s the other thing I wanted to share with you. Sandra refused to talk to Jax and Liam.”
Peyton was incredulous. “They explained that Lilia’s life was in danger?”
Dawson’s jaw tightened. “They did. But she’s suspicious and doesn’t believe Liam and Jax are trustworthy.”
She scoffed. “Of course not. They’re cops.” Sandra had plenty of run-ins with the police, and none of them had been good. Peyton immediately knew what she had to do. “I’ll speak to her. Convince her to help us.”
“You’re not going alone.”
For heaven’s sake, she was a Special Agent. She could handle one conversation with her aunt. And while she appreciatedall the things Dawson had done for her, every minute in his presence was making it harder and harder to keep those walls up around her heart. “Dawson, I appreciate the help?—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t even try. We have no idea what these guys are after, or why. You’ve been attacked twice now, and I won’t give them a third chance.”
“In both cases, Grace was the target.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean it’ll remain that way.”
EIGHT
The trailer sat at the end of the country dirt road, rutted with potholes and debris. Peyton’s stomach tightened in a familiar knot as Dawson eased the SUV past a sagging mailbox, the name Morrison still visible in faded paint. The half-acre lot had once belonged to Nana Grace, inherited from her husband, and then gifted to Sandra back when she still believed her youngest daughter would get clean, settle down, and build a life worth having.
Honestly, Peyton was surprised Sandra hadn't sold the property years ago. It was worth more than everything else her aunt owned combined. Maybe, in some small, buried corner of her heart, Sandra held on to it because it was the last thing her mother had given her. Or maybe she'd just been too drunk to think of it.
Dawson parked near a rusted pickup truck with two flat tires and weeds growing through the wheel wells. A collection of garbage bags sat piled near the front steps, some torn open by animals. The trailer's siding was streaked with mildew, and a window on the far end was patched with cardboard and duct tape.
She remembered this place differently. Not fondly—it had never been well-kept—but there'd been a time when Nana Grace mowed the grass, planted flowers along the walkway, and scrubbed the porch. She'd done it without complaint or expectation of thanks, because that was Nana Grace. She tended things. Even things that didn't want to be tended.
The flowers were long dead. The walkway had disappeared under a tangle of crabgrass. And the porch sagged under the weight of neglect and time.
“You ready to do this?” Dawson’s hand came to rest on her arm. His touch was gentle, and when Peyton turned to face him, she saw empathy reflected in the depths of his dark eyes. He knew everything. The whole difficult history. She didn't have to explain why her muscles were tense or why she hadn't moved to open the door. He just knew.
It was more comforting than she wanted to admit.
“No.” Peyton had to battle the urge to tell Dawson to hit reverse and take them out of here. She’d tried for years to rescue Lilia from the clutches of her mother’s destructive ways, and felt crushing hopelessness every time her cousin inevitably ended up right back at the trailer. It’d caused more than one argument, and then eventually a rift. One Nana Grace had never agreed with. She’d urged the girls to have patience and love for one another.
