The Marshal. Adrienne Giordano
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wise?”
He laughed. “Probably not. But as I recall, you do your share of flirting.”
She shifted sideways in her seat and the belt scraped the side of her neck. Darn it, that’d leave a mark. Forget it. She needed a snappy comeback, but the big ox was right. Her flirting wasn’t personal, though. What? How insane would she sound if she said that? When she flirted, she did it to get somewhere, to make progress. Flirting for her had become a tactic. A strategic tool in her arsenal.
“We’re adults,” she said. “Let’s just throw it out there that there’s chemistry between us. Or am I totally wrong?”
Sounding a little desperate here, Jenna. What was it with her? Always needing the ego boost. Always needing approval. Blame it on her years of being judged in contests and her failure to get into the FBI, but she couldn’t get through the day without wondering what people thought of her.
“You’re not wrong.”
“About the chemistry, or flirting not being wise?”
“Both.”
She sighed, turned to the front again. “I need to do a good job on this, Brent. It’s important to me.”
“News flash, honey, it’s important to me, too. If you don’t want me flirting with you, I won’t flirt, but you set that tone the second I met you in the hallway outside Penny’s office last spring. Make up your mind what you want from me, Jenna. If you want this all business, it’ll be all business. It can’t be both ways. You decide.”
This man could have grown up in her household. So direct and strong and honest. “I want to do a good job for you. For your mom. She deserves that.”
“Yes, she does.”
“I like flirting with you. For once, it’s not a prop. It’s fun and you have a great smile that I don’t think you show enough. It makes me feel good that I can get you to smile.”
And again, it all rolled around to what made her feel good. Pathetic. She waved her hands and looked out the window. “No flirting.”
“Fine. No flirting. And yeah, you get me to smile, and that doesn’t happen a lot.”
So much for no flirting.
“There’s one thing I want to know.”
“What’s that?”
He glanced at her. “I’m not being a jerk here, I’m seriously curious.”
“I’ve been warned. Ask away.”
“How does someone go from being the runner-up in the Miss Illinois pageant to being a private investigator? And, again, I’m not being a jerk.”
“I don’t mind. People have asked me this question a million times. My father is a career detective. I’ve always been fascinated by what he does. I’d sit and ask him questions. Two of my four brothers are also cops and will probably make detective. I guess you could say we played a lot of real-life Clue when I was little.”
“So, how’d you get to being a PI? Why not join the PD?”
Leave it to him to pursue it. Most people were satisfied with the my-dad-is-a-detective line and dropped the subject. Not Brent. He had to know it all. She looked out the window where the tollway lights dimmed in the distance.
She turned back to him. “I was a psychology major in college.”
“I could see that. You study people.”
“I like to know what makes them tick. After I graduated, I couldn’t see myself in an office all day counseling people. I needed to be out and moving, so I applied for the FBI.”
He shot her a look, and then went back to the road. “You wanted to be an agent?”
“I did. And I wanted it bad.”
“Did you go to the academy?”
“Nope. Never made it that far. They rejected me.”
There, she’d said it. Not many people knew and she held her breath, waited for a crack about the beauty queen wanting to play G-man, or in her case, G-woman.
But Brent watched the road ahead as the tollway entrance drew closer. Shouldn’t have said anything. The man was a US marshal. He’d succeeded where she’d failed. What did she expect him to say? Dumb, Jenna. Heat rose in her cheeks—thank goodness the car was dark—and she rested her head back.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “You’d have made a good agent. You wouldn’t have needed your cleavage to do it, either. Don’t sell yourself short, Jenna. You’re beautiful, but you’re smart, too. Don’t ever forget that.”
The air in her chest stalled and she squeezed her eyes closed. No one, not even her mother who often rolled her eyes at Jenna’s clothing choices, had ever said that. He knew. But she couldn’t get crazy here. He wasn’t offering a glass slipper. All he offered was an opinion.
Still resting her head back, she eased out a breath. “You might be flirting with me, but I don’t care. Thank you for saying that.”
He shrugged. “That time I wasn’t flirting. It’s not complicated. I like you and you’ve got a brain. You don’t need to be half-naked to be good at what you do.”
Suddenly, Jenna wished he’d been flirting, because she might have just fallen a little in love with Brent Thompson.
Two days later, on a sunlit Saturday morning that reminded Jenna that October could be a beautiful month, she pulled into the driveway of Brent’s childhood home and absorbed her first daytime sight of it. What she’d missed the other night was the peeling paint on the porch poles, the rotting window frames and the roof that needed to be replaced. All of it added to the permeating sadness from a house that hadn’t been truly lived in—or loved—for years.
And here she was, digging up—metaphorically—the body buried there. After sorting through the copies of reports, photos and witness statements the sheriff had provided, Jenna needed more time at the scene. Something bugged her. And the lack of a murder weapon was top on her list.
Blunt force trauma. That’s all the report had said. Crime scene photos showed a wound with a right angle. Square weapon? Possibly, but that could be anything. A trophy, a kitchen appliance, a statue. Plenty of household items had square bottoms.
Across the yard, Brent’s cousin exited her parents’ home. Like the other night, Jamie wore her shoulder-length dark blond hair pushed back in a headband that Jenna assumed was her go-to look. Also her go-to look would be loose jeans and a navy sweatshirt on her average-sized frame, and Jenna found herself a little envious of the comfort wear. The only place Jenna wore that look was inside her own home.
Jamie spotted the strange car in the driveway and paused. Finally, recognition dawned and Jamie waved.
Time to work.
Jenna gathered her purse and her briefcase and swung open the car door. A crisp breeze blew her hair sideways and she shoved it from her face. Next time, she’d do a ponytail. With all this open space, her hair couldn’t be counted on to cooperate. “Hi, Jamie. How are you?”
“Hi. It’s Jenna, right?”
“Sure is.”
“No Brent?”
“He had errands this morning. He said he’d catch up with me in a bit.”
Jamie turned toward the house, her gaze focused as her shoulders drooped. “He thinks he can handle all this, but I worry about him. This house is an albatross.”
Negative energy oozed around Jenna, sending prickles up her arms. How did Brent’s family stand the constant reminder of tragedy? Jamie shifted back