Westley chuckled. “Couldn’t be much worse than the cot at the center.”
“Or the barracks,” she countered. She flipped through the pages, smiling at the baby pictures of her uncle.
“True. I don’t miss those bunks.”
She ran a finger over the image of her mother as a baby. “Do you ever think about giving up your studio apartment for a house?”
“Someday.”
When he had a wife and family? The thought snuck up on her. She wondered what it would take to make this man settle down. Did she have what it took to be the one he settled down with? Did she want that? A quiver of nerves ran through her as she realized there was a part of her that very much wanted a future with Westley. But how could she and still hope to work with the dogs?
“I should let you get some rest,” he said. “I’m staying at the center a little longer. With Dakota behaving the way he is, I think I’d better keep an eye on him until he’s less agitated. If you need anything, call me and I’ll be right there.”
“I will. I promise.” She hung up and scooted to the head of the bed to lean against the wall. She continued to look through the photo album. There were many pictures of her uncle and mother as they grew up together. It was fun to see her mother going from a gap-toothed child, to a girl, to a teen, and finally to a young woman. The last few pages of the album held photos similar to the ones on the tablet.
One image held her attention. It was the same picture of her father and Uncle Patrick that was on the tablet, but in this one, they were sitting on motorcycles. Two black bikes. And both men were dressed in black leather and holding black helmets.
Her hand went to the chain around her neck. Did the key belong to a motorcycle her father had once owned?
She scrambled off the bed, taking the photo album with her. In the kitchen she found Uncle Patrick drinking a beer and eating smoked salmon.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as she entered.
Taking a seat at the counter, she answered, “A little, actually.” She laid the photo album open on the granite top. “I didn’t know you and Dad rode motorcycles.”
Patrick flicked a glance at the album. “Yep. Those were the good old days.”
“Whatever happened to my dad’s bike?” She’d never seen him on one.
“Colleen didn’t like it, so he sold it.”
She studied the motorbike in the photo. Remembering Linc’s certainty of the type of bike the key on her gold chain fit, she asked, “Was Dad’s motorcycle a BMW 2 series?”
Patrick’s shoulders visibly stiffened. He slowly turned toward her. “Why would you ask about that specific bike?”
The coldness in his tone sent a chill sliding down her spine. Her mind scrambled to see why her question would upset him. Should she tell him about the key? She couldn’t see what harm it would be to show him what she’d found. She tugged the chain out from beneath her uniform top and held up the key. “I found this in Dad’s desk.”
Patrick took a long swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before setting the bottle on the counter and closing the distance between them to stare at the key. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “No. Your father rode a Ducati.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to make of Uncle Patrick’s strange reaction to the key. Her gaze strayed back to the picture. The two bikes did look a bit different. She lifted her gaze. “Was your motorcycle the BMW?”
“It was.”
Her heart beat a bit faster in her chest. “Where’s the bike now?”
“Scrap yard.”
“A long time ago, right?” She hoped, because the thought forming in her mind was causing distress to strangle her from the inside out. Uncle Patrick couldn’t be the rider of the motorcycle that had struck the pedestrian and left him paralyzed, could he?
“Where’s your father’s tablet, Felicity?”
Her breath hitched. She strove to keep her cool as panic flared in her gut and lit a hot path to her brain. Oh, no. No, no, no. Uncle Patrick couldn’t be her father’s murderer. He couldn’t be the one who’d tried to poison her. The one who had shot at Westley.
Oh! Lungs tight from lack of air, the world tilted as the realization slid home. Dakota had snapped at the man who’d shot him.
“Where is it?” Patrick demanded again.
Sliding from the stool, Felicity faced her uncle. “You killed my father.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “He fell off the ladder.”
Anger infused her. “Did he? Or did you stage it to look that way?”
Lips thinning, Patrick stepped closer. “Don’t mess with me.”
Refusing to be intimidated, she stood her ground. “You were the one riding the motorcycle that hit the young man and then rode away.”
“He stepped out from between two cars,” Patrick said, his words an admission and an excuse.
“Then why didn’t you stop and help him?”
“That’s exactly what your father asked.”
“It’s a valid question.” Her gaze went to the beer bottle then back to him. “You were drinking.”
“I’d had a few. I didn’t see the guy. It wasn’t my fault. But your father demanded I turn myself in.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Like that was going to happen.”
“So you killed him?” Her heart bled with grief over the senselessness of it all. If Patrick had just owned up to his crime, her dad would still be alive.
“Graham wouldn’t listen.” Patrick moved toward her. “I want that tablet, Felicity. And any copies you made.”
She narrowed her gaze. Copies? “You’re the one who planted the bomb in Westley’s vehicle and called me. I knew I recognized the voice.” And Dakota had recognized his scent on the explosives.
His face twisted. “I should have just blown you all up.”
“Why did you leave the note and rose?” She let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I know, to pin your crime on the Red Rose Killer.”
“I’m still going to pin my crimes on that maniac.”
Her stomach knotted at the implication in her uncle’s words. “I’m leaving.”
He grabbed her arm. “No. You’re going to give me that tablet.”
“I don’t have it.” She jerked her arm from him and backed away. Her gaze landed on the dining room table a few feet from her, where her uncle’s service weapon still sat. If she could get to it... She edged toward the table.
Patrick lunged forward, knocking her to the side and pouncing on his gun. She regained her balance, but he swung the barrel toward her.
She stilled, her hands up. Her heart plummeted. Fear turned her blood to ice, making her ache with dread. “Don’t do anything rash.”
“Where’s the tablet?” He advanced on her.
“At the training center where all those beasts are.” She had the satisfaction of seeing her uncle blanch.
She sent up a silent plea to God that somehow, someway, Westley would be able to disarm her uncle before he killed her or anyone else.
* * *
“There’s nothing medically wrong with this dog,” Dr. Roark told Westley. “His wound is healing nicely. His