pulled a butterscotch candy from his coat pocket and popped it into his mouth, twisting the golden paper between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t know. I’m heading over there now. Aurora doesn’t want to be here. She says she’s cutting into honeymoon time.”
Holt chuckled. “Blair has morning sickness at night. The honeymoon is over, bro. They say she should feel better come next month. So, be glad Aurora was threatened now and not in April.” He gave Beckett’s shoulder a solid pat. “She’ll be safe here. And she’s welcome to stay till next week. But then I’m in Memphis for a few days teaching a narcotics class. I’d rather—”
“Her not be in the house with only Blair and your kiddo cookin’ inside her. I wouldn’t do that. She’s staying with Judge Marks come tomorrow.”
“I mean what’s Blair gonna do anyway? Puke on the attacker?”
Beckett laughed. “I’ll be by in the morning. Or if anything new arises.” He shook Holt’s hand and left for Trevor Russell’s house. Holt was right. With the ruling today, all that agony and hurt would be fresh. Trevor and his family had been banking all these months that Austin Bledsoe would be punished to the fullest extent of the law. As an adult. God, why did You let him get away with this? Why didn’t You move the judge to rule that he be tried as an adult? You can do anything You want. Turn the heart of a pharaoh. Soften a king. Why did You fail them?
His phone rang as he pulled into the Russells’ driveway. He glanced at the screen. Wilder Flynn. His oldest buddy from the SEALs. And Meghan’s brother. No time to talk. Besides, Beckett didn’t have an answer for Wilder. Moving to Atlanta to work with his elite team and seeing him every day would only remind him of Meghan. Of failing her. Beckett wasn’t sure he could handle that. Too much guilt. Plus, he’d finally come home to a safer career, and his mother was on top of the Rockies. Going back into a high-risk occupation would knock her off the edge. Mama had no one but him to see to her.
He let it go to voice mail and climbed the steps to Trevor’s porch. A light burned in the living room. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
Trevor’s son, Quent, opened up. Definitely not sleepy eyed. “Hey, bud. Your dad in?”
“Why?” Quent’s jaw hardened and he bristled. Why the need to go defensive?
“I need to talk to him.”
“Quent, who’s here?” Trevor came to the door, hair tousled, white T-shirt wrinkled. “Beck? What’s going on?”
Beckett scuffed his toe along the wooden planks. “How you doing?”
“You’re here at eleven o’clock at night to ask me how I’m doing?” He frowned. “How do you think I’m doing?”
Beckett massaged his achy neck muscle again. “I know it’s not the verdict you wanted to hear—”
“Not even close,” he hissed. “Why are you here?”
Beckett told him about the whiskey bottle and the phone call. “I was wondering if you might know anything about that? Tell anyone the brand, perhaps?”
Trevor gave a humorless laugh. “Really? Give me a break. My wife is dead. That punk is getting away with it and you want to question me about a bottle? I’m only sorry it didn’t whop her upside the head and knock some decency into her. Quent, go to bed.”
After tonight, Beckett wasn’t so sure that Aurora wasn’t decent. She was complicated. “Wait. I need to ask Quent if he might know anything.” He inspected the boy. “Do you?”
“No,” he barked. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I hope she gets what’s coming to her.” He stomped off, and Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose.
The kid had a lot of anger. Could it have been him? Maybe, but not the threats. Aurora had said the voice was gravelly. Trevor’s voice was gravelly. But lots of male voices had a rasp. “I’m sorry. I had to ask. It’s my job.”
“Yeah.” Trevor closed the door in Beckett’s face. Well, that went well.
* * *
Aurora hadn’t slept much last night. Not that Blair’s guest bed was uncomfortable, but she’d had too much on her mind. Today, she had an appointment in Richfield, Mississippi, with the detective who’d been assigned her brother’s case and an interview with Gus’s widow, Darla McGregor. She’d always believed that Richie hadn’t murdered her husband, and Aurora had been grateful someone had been on her side. Maybe, after all this time, one of them might remember something they hadn’t before.
Now she sat across from Beckett at The Black-Eyed Pea, picking at her eggs and toast. He’d shown up to the McKnights’ home bright and early and told her he was on protection detail. He’d then dropped her at the office for an hour before picking her back up for breakfast. Apparently, this was where he ate his most important meal of the day. He didn’t appear to be into cooking. Aurora fixed poached eggs every single morning.
Beckett gave her the facts on Trevor Russell’s questioning last night while he peppered his grits. She hadn’t expected Mr. Russell or his son to roll over and confess. And she wasn’t sure either of them had been behind the incident, anyway. It could have been anyone. But she had mulled over a few things. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Beckett perked up. “About what?”
“Staying with Kelly. I can’t let a couple of threats keep me from my home, Beckett. It’s silly. It’s drastic.”
“It’s better safe than sorry.” He pointed to her plate. “Eat your eggs.”
Bossy much? She frowned. “Do you know why I choose eggs for breakfast, Sheriff?”
Confusion crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Protein?”
“No,” she said, her voice clipped, as he scooped a forkful of grits. “I eat eggs every day to remind me that I’m not a chicken.”
Beckett paused midbite, eyebrows rising toward his thick, dark hairline. Then he laughed. Loud. Rich. “And you eat them poached because there’s some kind of symbolism to being in hot water?”
She ignored him because maybe on some weird, subconscious level there was.
But the laughter wasn’t funny. No doubt Beckett Marsh feared no one and no thing. “When it got sticky—much stickier than this—in Chicago, you know what I did? I tucked my tail between my legs and ran here, taking Kelly’s offer. She risked her neck to give me this opportunity. I’d made a mess of my career. And I only tell you this because you undoubtedly know it anyway.”
“Fair assessment.” He chuckled again.
“Nothing about this is funny.” She was trying to explain why she couldn’t up and leave her house over some small-town threat. This wasn’t La Cosa Nostra, for crying out loud. It was an angry citizen. It would pass.
“You’re right. Well...the eggs thing is a little funny. Do you really eat eggs every day? And for that reason?”
She simply glowered, making her point.
“Sorry.” The amusement in his eyes said he wasn’t.
“I’m
