Page 130

Opal waves a hand. “I’m your best investigator, Sheriff, and you know it.” She grins at me. “Go on in, Taya. And FYI, Kaz Chase is in there. Been there for an hour.”

“Noted.”

She nods with attitude. “You check in with me before you leave. I’ll give you all the tea on Noelle Dunn.”

“I’ll do that, Opal.” I follow the hallway into the Sheriff’s office.

He closes the door and takes the chair at the head of the table. Kaz nods at me from the window, arms crossed, a cup of coffee in his hand.

He doesn’t look like FBI, I maintain. He’s too pretty—the blue eyes, the dark wavy hair, that cheeky smile, and, well, there is the body. Bree is a lucky girl.

And just like that, I think about another man with blue eyes and a considerably good body, and my heart hurts.

Taya, you have to stop thinking about him. Completely. He’s gone. He used you. Move on.

Sure. And while I’m at it, why don’t I ask the flying pigs to give me a ride?

“Kaz. How’s the FBI business?”

He rolls his eyes.

The Sheriff lets out a laugh. “You know how many people know? Your cover is way blown. And Bree comes back from Denver tomorrow. She’s gonna know.”

Bree’s been in Denver for a wedding all week. If someone hasn’t already called her, the minute she hits Wildflower Canyon, she’ll know that the man who was her uncle’s friend—her something—has been lying about what he does for a living since she’s known him. My heart goes out to her. I know exactly how it feels to be betrayed by the man you love.

“Can we get to the business at hand?” Kaz clips. “I’m starting to feel like y’all have turned into a sewing circle.”

“Puhlease! A sewing circle would’ve resolved this by now,” I mock.

The Sheriff chuckles. He’s enjoying himself, much as I am.

“All of this is need-to-know.” The Sheriff gestures at his computer screen.

“And I now need to know?”

“Yeah. You need to know.” This comes from Kaz.

I lean back. “Read me in, fellas.”

“Sid Trafton. Forty-three. Former DEA, left the agency under circumstances that are”—the Sheriff glances at Kaz—“complicated.”

“Contested,” Kaz interjects.

“What Kaz means,” Dillon says, with the dry patience of a man who has learned to translate, “is that the official record and the actual story are not the same document.”

“Color me surprised.” I met another man whose official record and actual story didn’t match up. He got into my bed and used me. He and Trafton would probably make excellent friends.

Tamp down the bitterness, girl.

“He operates in the Mountain West,” Kaz continues. “Development interests, primarily. He does the things that lawyers and lobbyists can’t do and that executives want deniability for.” He drinks some coffee. “He’s been in this valley on and off since March. He was engaged by High Mesa through Senator Jessup to run parallel pressure on the Whitman case—legal intimidation, property surveillance, the visit to Clara.” He pauses. “The office.”

I hold up a hand. “Otis Jessup?” I shake my head.

“His son-in-law, along with some of his closest friends from Yale—or wherever the corrupt rich go to college—have a company with a shell company that is heavily invested, to the tune of a hundred million dollars, in the resort project that needs the Whitman ranch water.”

I process that and scowl. “I looked it up and didn’t find any connection to Jessup, but—” I hold up both hands before Kaz can speak— “if you say so, I’ll go with it.”

“After the preliminary hearing, which they felt went their way, Trafton was asked to leave town. But—” Kaz quirks an eyebrow— “our boy got beat up by your man for messing up your office.”