When a Secret Kills (22 page)

“Oh good grief, Colton, that was ten years ago. How am I supposed to remember what happened that night?”

“It was the night of the fundraising party for Frank. You and my parents came to my graduation that afternoon and then you had the party that night. Do you remember the men arguing?”

She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t recall any arguing. No. What time did all this happen?”

“It would have been later, after everyone had left, but before Uncle Frank had his heart attack scare.”

“I . . . I’m sorry. I just don’t . . .” She sank into a nearby chair. “I remember being at the hospital with Frank, of course. He went to bed and woke up around 1:30 or so complaining he couldn’t breathe. I woke Ian and we called 911 and got Frank to the hospital. We were there the rest of the night and for two days after that.”

“It was also the night the police came to the house asking if you’d heard a gunshot?”

She blinked. “I do remember
that
. I was upstairs and thought I heard something. But it turned out to be a car backfiring, I think.” She rubbed her hands together. “I really think I need to get back to the hospital. I want to be there with Carmen.” Her lips tightened. “Especially if the media show up.”

Colton nodded. How could she not have heard the argument? If there’d been one. But Jillian had described it in detail. He pursed his lips. “I’ll be there as soon as we’re finished here.”

“Should I stay?”

“No, not unless you just want to.”

“I’ll stay a few more minutes, then I need to go. I feel like I should probably be with Frank. I only came home to show you those letters. I didn’t expect this to take so long.” She fretted with the crease in her pants, then smoothed her palms down the front of the material. She pointed a finger toward the hall. Toward Jillian. “If she’s the one that’s caused this mess, then I want her gone.”

Jillian’s stomach growled as she paced outside the office, waiting for Colton and Hunter. She wasn’t sure why Elizabeth Hoffman hadn’t wanted her in the room, but that was fine. She needed to think. They’d found the bullet. But the governor had been shot from the back, not the front. How was that possible?

She’d replayed that night over and over in her mind and nothing had changed. She’d seen the senator shoot the governor, the governor facing the senator. She’d
seen
it.

Or had she?

Colton came out of the office and motioned her in. She followed him inside and took her seat back on the couch. Elizabeth’s glare pinned her and made her want to squirm. She turned her attention to Colton.

He handed her a plastic-encased note. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Jillian read it. “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. TELL. OR I WILL.” She felt herself weaken. “No.”

He studied her a minute, then nodded. Relief filled her. He believed her.

She asked, “So who wrote it?”

“I don’t know. Aunt Elizabeth doesn’t know either.” He shifted
and looked at Hunter. “You’ll have to question my uncle about the letters.”

“I know. When the doctor says it’s all right.”

Jillian bit her lip and said, “I want to reenact that night.”

Colton lifted a brow. He and Hunter exchanged a glance. Hunter gave a slow nod. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Elizabeth jumped up. “What on earth are you talking about? Nothing happened that night except for the fact that my husband almost had a heart attack.” Her flushed cheeks told Colton he may have pushed the woman too far.

“Aunt Elizabeth, Jillian was here that night. She saw Uncle Frank shoot Harrison Martin.”

Elizabeth’s fingers curled into fists as though imagining Jillian’s throat trapped within them. “How dare you?”

Colton stood to run interference. “Aunt Elizabeth, please. Just hear her story.”

“I won’t. Get out of my house.”

Jillian stood. “I
didn’t
send those notes. I
did
see your husband pull a gun on the governor and pull the trigger.” She frowned and bit her lip. “But the governor was shot in the back and I . . .” She looked at Colton and Hunter. “I
didn’t
see that.”

“Get out now.” The woman’s cold voice sent shivers up Jillian’s spine. She nodded and headed for the door.

“No, wait.”

Jillian stopped and turned at Colton’s command. He said to his aunt, “I need you to let her do this. For me.”

“No.”

“Aunt Elizabeth,” his voice hardened, “Uncle Frank is being accused of murder and the evidence looks pretty grim. With your help, we might be able to prove he didn’t do it. But I need your cooperation. They’ve already taken his boat as evidence. Now are you going to help me or not?”

Jillian could see the no forming on the woman’s lips. Then she
clamped them together. After a tense five seconds, she gave a short nod. “Fine.”

Colton pulled his phone from his pocket. “Serena called.” He looked at Hunter. “Can you give her a call and find out what she wants?” He paused and tucked his phone back in his pocket. “And Rick too. If Jillian’s going to re-create this, we might as well have forensics out here. They can help us get a better picture.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I have to keep reminding myself I’m not on this anymore.”

Hunter started making the calls while Colton led Jillian out of the office. Aunt Elizabeth stayed right on their heels.

At the door to the sunroom, Jillian stopped. Colton saw her swallow hard but square her shoulders.

“You want to wait on Rick?” he asked.

“Yes.” Each time she pulled in a breath, she nearly choked on the thick tension.

As they waited for Rick and his team, Jillian watched Elizabeth Hoffman get antsier by the minute. She finally said, “I’m going to the hospital to be with Frank and Carmen. Do whatever you have to do here.”

Colton nodded. “I’m sorry, but we really need to do this.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Frank didn’t shoot anyone. So prove it before his career is done.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She drilled a hard stare at Jillian. “Who
are
you? Why do you hate my husband?”

Defensiveness welled up in Jillian. She simply said, “I just want the truth.”

For a moment, the woman didn’t say anything else. She gave an abrupt spin on her heel and left.

Jillian looked at Colton, who sighed and shook his head. “If this turns out the way I think it’s going to, I’ll make sure she has support and someone with her.”

“Yeah, that would probably be a good idea.” She bit her lip, then said, “If the governor was shot in the back, that means there was another person here.”

“I know. You’re sure you don’t remember seeing anyone else?”

“No one. But I wasn’t looking for anyone else. The only people I was aware of were Frank Hoffman and Harrison Martin.”

Colton nodded. Hunter joined them and said, “Katie’s on her way back here with Rick. They’ll work with us on reconstructing the scene.”

Five minutes later, Rick entered the sunroom. Katie followed him, along with a young woman in her late twenties whom Jillian recognized to be Hunter’s younger sister, Christina Graham.

Hunter looked a little surprised to see her. “You’re working in the field now?”

She smiled. “Yep.”

“Cool.”

Jillian got the impression they’d be discussing how that came about at a later time.

Rick looked at Jillian. “I hear we’re reconstructing the scene.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need every detail you can remember.”

She nodded. “That won’t be hard. I remember everything about that night.”

Colton pulled back to the side to watch and Jillian missed his presence next to her. It was obvious now that he’d officially recused himself and handed over responsibility for the investigation to Hunter. The realization of what it meant brought mixed emotions . . . waves of hope that this would soon be over—and sadness for Colton.

Jillian told what she’d seen. “Then the governor laid the gun on the desk and told Frank to take some time to cool off. He walked out of the office and toward the sunroom. Frank came storming out with the gun. They went through the sunroom and out onto the patio. The governor turned and Frank had the gun on him. They
argued some more. Frank lifted the gun, stumbled, and pulled the trigger. And they both fell.”

“Okay,” Rick said. “I think I have a pretty good picture of how that played out. So let’s do some role playing here. I’m going to need some help.” He started pulling tools out of his bag. “How tall was the governor?”

“He was six feet one inch and weighed a hundred ninety-five pounds,” Colton said. Rick lifted a brow at him and Colton shrugged. “I read the original autopsy report.”

Rick eyed Hunter. “You’ll do. Stand where Jillian says the governor was standing when he was shot.”

Jillian positioned him so his back was to the copse of trees, his left side almost touching the side of the sunroom. “No, wait a minute. He’d backed off the porch onto the gravel walkway.” She urged him back farther.

Rick nodded to Colton. “I know you’re not working this investigation anymore, but you can be used for a moment, can’t you? Jillian, place him where Senator Hoffman was.”

Colton moved and Jillian took his hand to show him where to stand. His fingers clasped hers and she felt a shiver dance up her arm. When this was over . . . “He was right here, past the table and chairs, near the edge. The gun was in his left hand.”

He held his thumb and forefinger like a gun and pointed it toward Hunter.

Jillian stepped back and swallowed hard. The memories rushed over her and she couldn’t help the tremor that washed through her. “They argued some more. The senator lifted his gun and pointed it. Then stumbled and pulled the trigger.”

Colton acted it out. Hunter fell to the ground and Jillian pushed Colton down to the concrete. She stood back, held her hands to her face, and tried to stop the shaking.

She gathered control as best she could and said, “That’s what I saw.” She frowned. “But that’s not what Serena said happened.”

“Okay,” Rick said. “I’ve got it. I’ve also got the dummies and the lasers. Let’s set them up and we’ll run through it with the real stuff.”

By the time they got everything set up, Jillian felt like she’d been hit by a truck. So much drama and trauma in one day.

Rick looked at her. “Are you sure you didn’t hear more than one shot?”

Jillian frowned. “No. It was just one.”

Rick motioned to Katie. “And you’re sure the senator’s gun fired?”

“Yes.”

Rick nodded. “Okay, I think I might know what happened. Get one of the lasers and go stand in that area of the trees along the walking path.” Katie cocked her head like she wanted to ask questions, but didn’t. She walked over to where Rick indicated. Rick then handed Colton one of the lasers. “Point it at Hunter and see where it lands.”

Colton did. It hit the dummy in the left shoulder.

Rick said, “He was shot in the upper right side of his back.”

“How?” Jillian whispered. “I know what I saw.”

“I suspect you saw exactly what you say you saw. I think the senator did fire the gun at the governor. Only he missed.” He walked over and studied the brick wall behind the dummy’s left shoulder. “It’s chipped. My guess is the bullet from the senator’s gun hit the wall.”

“What?” Jillian stared, incredulous.

“And the person standing where Katie is now,” Rick went on, “is the one who actually shot the governor. In the back.”

“But there was only one gunshot.”

Rick shook his head. “There were two. Fired simultaneously to sound like one shot.”

Jillian headed for the coffeepot in the small but efficient kitchen next to her room. After yesterday’s stunning revelation, she hadn’t known what to think.

So Senator Hoffman hadn’t shot the governor.

Then why did he want her dead?

Or—what if it wasn’t him? What if it was the real shooter? A sinking sensation swirled in the pit of her stomach.

She poured the coffee and took a sip.

Blake sat on the couch, staring at his phone. He hadn’t said a word to her as she’d walked into the room. “Hey, you okay?”

He looked up and she went cold as she saw his panicked expression. Rangers didn’t panic. Ever.

She’d only seen that look on him one time before—when the doctors had given his wife three months to live. “What?” she demanded. He covered his panic with that blank look she hated and couldn’t read. “Don’t look at me like that. What?”

He sighed and ran a hand across his lips. “Mom texted me. She was on her way back to her friend’s house when Tony called her and told her there’d been a break-in at the ranch. He said the place was trashed.”

She knew immediately what that meant. “They tracked you to
the ranch. For real this time.” Her stomach twisted as nausea rose in her throat.

“I’m sorry, Jillian.” His tortured eyes told her how sorry he was. It wasn’t his fault. She hadn’t told him everything. He said, “My buddy realized what that meant and headed straight to the airport.”

“The airport?” The words squeaked from her suddenly tight throat.

“Meg’s on her way here. She lands at Columbia airport in a little under thirty minutes.”

“What!” This time the word was a cry of distress and sheer terror. “He sent her here? She can’t come here!”

“What is it?”

Jillian whirled to face the man she’d once loved with all her heart. He held a green and white bag that indicated he’d made a donut run.

He’d slipped into the suite without her hearing. But there was no way Blake hadn’t known he was there. Blake had let Colton overhear the exchange. She shot him a betrayed look and saw the guilty flush that darkened his cheeks. He didn’t apologize.

Fury—and a certain weird gratefulness—warred within her.

It was time.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered. “And this is
not
how I wanted to do it.”

His brows drew together. She sensed, more than saw, Blake slip from the room. Wariness invaded Colton’s eyes and she drew in a fortifying breath.
Oh sweet Lord, please give me the words
. . . “I have a daughter. A nine-year-old daughter. Her name is Meg and she’s in danger.” She watched the words register. He swallowed hard, then blinked.

In a voice so soft she had to strain to hear, he asked, “A daughter?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s—nine?”

“Almost ten,” she whispered. “Christmas Day. In four months.”

He nodded and his jaw worked for a good three seconds before he managed, “Almost ten. So . . .”

He looked away, then back. She was sure he was doing the mental math. She could see the question stamped in his eyes before he forced it out.

“She’s mine?”

A sob slipped from her lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“So she’s mine.” A statement this time. A strangled three-word sentence that nearly shot her to her knees.

“Yes, she’s yours.” Jillian bit her lip, refusing to try to find words to justify her actions. It would be a futile search.

He spun away from her. She knew better than to push him for a response. Instead, she waited. And silently prayed. He turned back to her, his eyes shuttered, chilled. “You’re sure?”

The cold question knocked the breath from her as the pain lanced through her heart. Okay, she could give him that one. He deserved it. “Yes. I’m sure. You’re the only one—”

“Where is she?”

“On her way here.” She repeated what Blake had just told her. “She lands in about twenty minutes.” Anxiety tugged at her. “We need to go,
now
.”

His nostrils flared, his eyes fluttered. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Then we’re going to need some reinforcements.”

Colton couldn’t seem to catch his breath as they raced to the car. Blake offered to follow behind to make sure no one tailed them. Colton absently agreed.

Even while his mind reeled with this latest shock, it was also in cop mode. He wanted to rush from the room and find a quiet place to process the fact that he had a daughter, yet he wasn’t to have that luxury. They climbed into the car and sped toward the airport.

As he drove, he tried to force his mind to work. And all he could
hear was Jillian’s shaky voice telling him she’d borne his child. A child who’d existed for almost ten years. A child who had his blood running through her veins.

Aware of the woman sitting next to him, he ignored her, dividing his focus between driving and praying. Silently, he begged,
Oh God, I need some help with this one. What do I do? What do I say? What do I even pray?

He’d called in reinforcements to make sure Meg was secure the moment the plane touched down. He’d done his duty as a cop.

How was he supposed to act as a father? Resentment threatened to smother him. Anger with Jillian threatened to evolve into full-blown hatred. How could she have kept this from him? They had loved each other. She was supposed to trust him.

A small voice whispered the thought:
She’d just seen a murder.
Was she supposed to trust an eighteen-year-old kid on the outs with his parents?

Part of the fury faded. A small part.

“Colton?”

Her whisper tore at him. He looked at her, her face ravaged by her guilt and terror for her daughter. Their daughter. Colton felt the anger buzz anew and snapped his gaze back on the road. “You came looking for me at the party to tell me you were pregnant, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So you
were
going to tell me.”

“I was.”

“And then Uncle Frank shot the governor. Or at least you thought he did . . .”

“And he saw me.”

Colton paused. “I became a cop to find you, you know. As a cop, I had more resources available to me.” His lips twisted as he shot her a sad look. “But you were too good for me. I still couldn’t find you.”

“Only because I had Blake to help me disappear.”

Yeah. Blake . . .

His phone buzzed and he forced himself to check the number. Dominic. “Hello.”

“I’ve got security on high alert at the airport. We’ve been in contact with the pilot of the plane and Blake’s buddy who’s been taking care of Meg. Everything should be fine. Once she’s on the ground, Jillian will meet her at the gate.”

Some of the tension in Colton’s shoulders eased. But not much. “Thanks, Dominic.”

“Anytime.”

“How’s your father?”

A low sigh came through the line. “Fading fast.”

Colton winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well . . . I’m just worried about his eternal destination.”

“What does your mom say?”

“She just shakes her head and says what a good man he used to be. Her pastor came by and talked to him when he was having a lucid moment. He looked at mom and mouthed the word, ‘Sorry.’”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Alexia left the room at that point, but she was praying, I could tell.”

“I’ll be praying too.”

“Thanks. You okay?”

“Sure. Why would you ask?” He couldn’t help the sarcasm.

“You’re under enough pressure to crack the strongest man right now.”

He kept his gaze from slipping to Jillian. He couldn’t look at her. “I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel . . . then released.

He needed time.

Space.

He needed to think and pray.

And he needed to see—meet—his daughter.