have you eaten?” his aunt asked Brent. “I could fix you something.”
A meal would serve him good right now, but the night had dragged on and, as hopeful as he was about the new energy Jenna brought, talking about his mother, reliving that night, had drained him. Time to get back to Chicago, where the sounds of the city would drown the noise in his head. Silence, he’d learned long ago, was his enemy. During high school and college, football helped smother it. With football, the energy it took to step to the line and get his head beat in was all the distraction he needed. When he became a marshal—nothing boring there—silence was no longer an issue. Pretty much, the US Marshal Service was involved in everything from judicial and witness security to asset forfeiture. If it involved federal laws, US marshals were there. One day he could chase down a fugitive, the next make sure a witness didn’t get blown away by someone they’d just testified against.
Out here, in his childhood hometown where the streets were desolate after six o’clock and the only outside noise came from birds or cicadas or blowing leaves, the quiet created emotional chaos.
Gotta go.
He leaned down, kissed his aunt’s cheek. “We need to get back to the city. Maybe on the weekend.”
“Saturday,” she said. “After church.”
He laughed. By now he should know better than to throw out a maybe. His aunt took a maybe and turned it into a definitely.
“You could come early and go to church with us.”
Now she wanted church too. Years since he’d done that. Which was a shame. He used to enjoy church, but now it gave him too much time to reflect on things he shouldn’t reflect on. “Don’t push it. Saturday for dinner. I’ll be here. I’ll see what Camille is doing. Don’t worry. I’ll channel the guilt from you.”
She waved her hands. “Oh, with the sass.”
He kissed her again. “I love you. Good night.”
“I love you, too. Drive carefully. No speeding.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turned to Jenna. “All set?”
Please let her be all set.
She nodded. “You bet.”
He shook hands with the sheriff. “Thank you. I’ll call you with any updates.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
On the way to his SUV, he grabbed the file box off the back of the sheriff’s cruiser, the weight of it, as always, easy to handle. Most of what was in that file he’d probably seen already. Except for the photos. Being a marshal, he’d learned to take emotion out of a case. Even when it came to his mother. He could read the forensics reports, investigator notes and the autopsy report. All of it, he could handle. Even some of the crime scene photos showing the exterior of the house or certain pieces of evidence were tolerable. But not the ones of his mom’s body. Those were a different damned beast, and he couldn’t find a compartment big enough to control the massive anger those pictures would unleash.
Balancing the box against the SUV, he opened the back door, shoved the box on the seat and walked around to get Jenna’s door. By the time he’d gotten there, she already had her hand on the handle.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“Again with this?”
When he’d picked her up at her apartment, she’d teased him about the gesture. What she didn’t know was his aunt would skin him if he abandoned his manners. Plus, he liked doing it. “Yeah. Again with this. Get used to it and don’t argue.”
He held open the door and waved her into the car. To that, she tilted her chin up and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
And the look on her face, so serious with her cheeks sucked in and her gaze straight ahead, made him laugh. Really laugh.
In front of his mother’s house no less. Helluva thing.
She slid into the car and the interior light illuminated her face and the grin that—wait for it—would cause the punch to his chest. Jenna Hayward was beautiful, but she wasn’t one of those everyday beautiful women you could find anywhere you looked. On sight, she took a man’s legs out from under him. Bam!
He leaned in to get a whiff of her perfume, something floral but light. Not allergy inducing. Thank you. Once again, his eyes went to that extra undone button on her blouse and the lush skin under it. He caught a glimpse of lace and swore under his breath. “Okay, Miss Illinois, cut the wisecracks.”
She straightened up. “Miss Illinois?”
“You think I’m going to let you anywhere near my mother’s case without checking you out?”
* * *
HE KNEW. Not that it was some big secret, but she didn’t necessarily flaunt her beauty queen background. In her line of work, it didn’t gain her anything. All she knew was that at the age of twenty-one, after years of working the pageant circuit, years of hearing her mother coo over how beautiful her daughter was, and the resulting pressure of it all, she’d had enough. Enough of the dieting, enough of having to look a certain way at all times, enough of the show. She simply wanted to be Jenna. A pretty girl who liked to eat cake and pester her detective father with questions about cases.
Playing along, she scissored Brent’s silky tie between two fingers. Nice tie. Nice man. Nice everything. And she so adored the way he interacted with his family. Teasing, but firm and loving when they tried to give him any nonsense.
“My pageant days aren’t classified information. All you have to do is check Google. And, by the way, you failed. I didn’t win. I was the runner-up.”
His lips lifted slightly as he watched her play with his tie. “I didn’t fail. I knew that, but decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. Those judges were either blind or stupid. I’m guessing beauty contest judges need eyesight, so that leaves stupid.”
Did that just send a hot flash raging? This was their problem. That connection, that heat she couldn’t ignore. “Marshal Thompson, are you flirting with me?”
“Nope. Calling it like I see it.”
She flicked away the tie. “I was fifteen pounds lighter then.”
Where did that come from? Sure, her brothers liked to taunt her about packing on a few pounds, but her pageant weight was impossible to maintain. And Jenna had a thing for food. In that she liked it.
“Yet another tragedy,” Brent said.
“What?”
“That you were fifteen pounds lighter.”
In the lit interior of the car, she studied his face. Looking for the tell that he was charming her into possibly removing her clothes. Which, if he kept talking like that, just might happen. Without a doubt, every one of her brain cells must have evaporated. Only explanation for this attack of flightiness.
“You don’t like skinny women?”
“Brent?”
