Page 106 of Ruthless Enforcer

Harper raises a brow.

“Yeah.” He grimaces. “Heard it after I said it.”

“Where?” Jake asks, rubbing Emma’s arm.

“What was left of the center of the house. Part of the second floor collapsed into the first. They found him under the debris.”

Something cold settles beneath my ribs. “Him?” I ask.

Harper turns to me. “Adult male. Badly burned. Identification is going to take time, but he was wearing a suit.”

Nobody moves.

“Charcoal wool,” she continues. “What's left of it. About the right height and build for Turner.”

Luke slowly sets his beer on the counter. “Nobody left that property. Mason had the north ridge covered the entire time. Harper had the south approach. I had the tree line. If Turner was inside when that house went up, he didn't walk away.”

Jake looks at me. “We heard him inside.”

“Yeah.” I nod. All of it makes sense. Turner's voice, the body, the suit, the cameras, the house.

He knew we'd find him.

He knew we'd come.

He knew I'd be the one walking through that door.

Clara's fingers tighten around mine. “So it's over.”

I should feel relief. Instead, something scratches at the back of my mind.

I look at Harper. “You said identification will take time.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Yes.”

“I’ll have that expedited.” I pull out my phone. I’m not going to be satisfied until I know for certain Turner’s toast.

“You can do that?” Luke asks.

I roll my eyes. “Have we met?”

76

CLARA

The heavy tires of the SUV crunch over the fresh gravel of the private drive, winding up the wooded hillside toward the stone facade of my uncle James’s estate.

Snow dusts the pine boughs, catching the headlights in pale, diamond flashes. After the smoke and chaos of the past twenty-four hours, the silence inside the heated car feels almost luxurious.

I glance sideways at my husband.

Gabriel has washed off the explosion and is in a suit, but he hasn’t completely scrubbed the predator away. There’s a clean crimson scrape along his temple, a cut on his hand, and his blue eyes are as sharp and assessing as a hawk’s circling timber.

It was Turner in the fire, or at least the rushed autopsy gave them enough evidence to say it was. Gabriel hasn’t accepted that, though.

“You know,” I say, leaning back against the leather seat, hoping to distract him, “most men meeting their new in-laws bring a nice bottle of wine. Maybe some flowers.”

Gabriel doesn't take his eyes off the winding road, but the corner of his mouth ticks upward. “I brought a comprehensive forensic dossier implicating a corrupt gubernatorial candidate in federal conspiracy. In my family, that’s considered very romantic.”