phone and dialed his number. He answered on the first ring. “Hey, Ivy.”
Damn, but even his voice could send shivers down her back. “I thought we were going to J.T.’s Barbecue for lunch.”
“Yeah, about that—I’ve had something come up. Rain check?”
“Will I see you back at the house tonight, or are you going to find somewhere else to stay?” She hoped the question didn’t sound needy.
“I’m not sure. I’ll call to let you know. I’ll have to get my things from your place if I stay somewhere else anyway.”
Nice and noncommittal. Hell, she should be glad if he had decided to put a little distance between them. The sooner Sutton Calhoun moseyed off to wherever he’d come from, the sooner she could go back to being a sensible cop instead of a flutter-headed idiot.
Unfortunately, the Maryville police captain to whom she outlined her case disagreed there was enough probable cause to approach a judge for a warrant. “You have a hunch, not evidence. Get me evidence and we’ll talk again.”
So she ended up driving back to Bitterwood in time to run into Captain Rayburn heading out to lunch, accompanied by a silver-haired man dressed in a dark blue suit. She recognized the man as the Sevier County Sheriff’s Department’s deputy chief of operations. They were both smiling as they came out of the building, but Rayburn took one look at her and his expression went from cheerful to thunderous. “Hawkins, I want to see you in my office when I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave a crisp nod and moved out of his way before he and his companion bowled her over heading down the concrete steps to the personnel parking lot. She watched the two men walking away, noting that the silver-haired man was still grinning but her captain’s back was as rigid as a steel girder. She released a sigh. Her day was turning out to be one giant barrel of horse manure.
Antoine Parsons caught her up on what she’d missed while she was in Maryville. “Apparently Rayburn and the chief deputy are old fishing buddies from way back. Tommy Logan dropped by to take Rayburn to lunch but mostly, I think, to give him a few friendly whacks about one of his investigators getting herself caught in a shoot-out up on Clingmans Dome in the middle of the night.” Parsons sent a pointed look her way. “Which, by the way, you didn’t think that was something worth telling your old buddy Antoine?”
He was smiling, but she heard a tone of offense beneath Parsons’s light tone. She dropped heavily into her desk seat.
Yup, a big ol’ barrel of manure.
* * *
T HE ONE - STORY clapboard house on Kettle Creek Road hadn’t changed much in fourteen years, Sutton saw. Still shabby, the sun-faded white paint job nearly flaked away by time, leaving weathered gray pine showing in scabrous patches. Just looking at the place made his gut tighten with dread.
But he wasn’t eighteen anymore. He hadn’t come back to get in touch with his past or anything sentimental like that.
He’d come here for answers.
At the top of the cinder-block steps to the rickety front porch, he paused, wondering if the sagging wood slats of the porch floor would hold his weight. They creaked but didn’t snap as he crossed to the ripped screen door that hung by one precarious screw from its hinges. It made a loud groan as he opened it, killing any hope he might have had for a stealthy entrance.
It didn’t matter. He knew who was inside, and he didn’t need sneaky ninja skills to get to the bottom of what was going on.
The front door was unlocked. Not that it would have mattered either way—Sutton knew where to find the spare key.
Some things never changed.
The living room just inside the front door was tidier than Sutton had expected. The old man had never cared much about what the place looked like; he’d saved his concern for first impressions for himself, making sure to wear nice clothes, shave and keep his hair neatly cut. He was selling an image, after
Damn, but even his voice could send shivers down her back. “I thought we were going to J.T.’s Barbecue for lunch.”
“Yeah, about that—I’ve had something come up. Rain check?”
“Will I see you back at the house tonight, or are you going to find somewhere else to stay?” She hoped the question didn’t sound needy.
“I’m not sure. I’ll call to let you know. I’ll have to get my things from your place if I stay somewhere else anyway.”
Nice and noncommittal. Hell, she should be glad if he had decided to put a little distance between them. The sooner Sutton Calhoun moseyed off to wherever he’d come from, the sooner she could go back to being a sensible cop instead of a flutter-headed idiot.
Unfortunately, the Maryville police captain to whom she outlined her case disagreed there was enough probable cause to approach a judge for a warrant. “You have a hunch, not evidence. Get me evidence and we’ll talk again.”
So she ended up driving back to Bitterwood in time to run into Captain Rayburn heading out to lunch, accompanied by a silver-haired man dressed in a dark blue suit. She recognized the man as the Sevier County Sheriff’s Department’s deputy chief of operations. They were both smiling as they came out of the building, but Rayburn took one look at her and his expression went from cheerful to thunderous. “Hawkins, I want to see you in my office when I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave a crisp nod and moved out of his way before he and his companion bowled her over heading down the concrete steps to the personnel parking lot. She watched the two men walking away, noting that the silver-haired man was still grinning but her captain’s back was as rigid as a steel girder. She released a sigh. Her day was turning out to be one giant barrel of horse manure.
Antoine Parsons caught her up on what she’d missed while she was in Maryville. “Apparently Rayburn and the chief deputy are old fishing buddies from way back. Tommy Logan dropped by to take Rayburn to lunch but mostly, I think, to give him a few friendly whacks about one of his investigators getting herself caught in a shoot-out up on Clingmans Dome in the middle of the night.” Parsons sent a pointed look her way. “Which, by the way, you didn’t think that was something worth telling your old buddy Antoine?”
He was smiling, but she heard a tone of offense beneath Parsons’s light tone. She dropped heavily into her desk seat.
Yup, a big ol’ barrel of manure.
* * *
T HE ONE - STORY clapboard house on Kettle Creek Road hadn’t changed much in fourteen years, Sutton saw. Still shabby, the sun-faded white paint job nearly flaked away by time, leaving weathered gray pine showing in scabrous patches. Just looking at the place made his gut tighten with dread.
But he wasn’t eighteen anymore. He hadn’t come back to get in touch with his past or anything sentimental like that.
He’d come here for answers.
At the top of the cinder-block steps to the rickety front porch, he paused, wondering if the sagging wood slats of the porch floor would hold his weight. They creaked but didn’t snap as he crossed to the ripped screen door that hung by one precarious screw from its hinges. It made a loud groan as he opened it, killing any hope he might have had for a stealthy entrance.
It didn’t matter. He knew who was inside, and he didn’t need sneaky ninja skills to get to the bottom of what was going on.
The front door was unlocked. Not that it would have mattered either way—Sutton knew where to find the spare key.
Some things never changed.
The living room just inside the front door was tidier than Sutton had expected. The old man had never cared much about what the place looked like; he’d saved his concern for first impressions for himself, making sure to wear nice clothes, shave and keep his hair neatly cut. He was selling an image, after
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