She’d find it, and if Riggs was responsible, then he was going to pay, and pay hard.
Of course, Riggs could have hired someone to aim that shot at her, too, because he might believe that as Jill’s friend she’d helped catch him. She hadn’t. But there was a lot of twisted stuff in a killer’s mind. Especially this killer’s.
“Are there any loose ends with Jill’s murder?” Harlan asked.
Lenora knew where this was leading—the marshal was looking for quick answers. But she didn’t have them.
“Maybe I’m the loose end.” Lenora had to pause, take a breath and choose her words carefully. “Jill worked for Adam Riggs and discovered he was into big-time money laundering. She was about to testify against him when he shot and killed her.”
Lenora saw those images as clearly as she saw Clayton in front of her. God, when was this going to end?
“Clayton put you in protective custody along with Jill,” Harlan supplied. “Because he thought Riggs might use you to get Jill to back off her testimony.”
“He would have,” Lenora confirmed. “But killing Clayton and me now accomplishes nothing.” At least nothing that she was aware of.
Still, something wasn’t right about this.
But what?
What was she missing?
Maybe it didn’t even matter. What mattered was that Clayton had been safe until she’d arrived to tell him about the baby.
She saw Clayton’s hand move, and Lenora leaned in. Clayton’s eyes were open now. Still a little dazed looking. But he looked directly at his brother, who’d moved to her side.
“What happened?” Clayton asked Harlan.
It such a simple question, but it caused relief to flood through Lenora. Clayton wasn’t just conscious, he was talking.
“You were shot,” Harlan answered. The words didn’t come easily. His voice was clogged with emotion. “We’ll be at the hospital soon. You’ll be okay.”
Clayton stayed quiet a few seconds, shook his head and then tried to get off the gurney. The medics quickly stopped him from doing that.
“I have to go,” Clayton insisted. Definitely no slurred words now. He seemed like the determined, focused lawman that she knew. “I have a witness to protect.”
Well, focused except for that last part. Maybe he didn’t realize he’d been shot.
“Jill Lang,” Clayton added and tried to get up again. “I have to protect her.”
Lenora froze. Why would Clayton mention Jill’s name? Obviously he wasn’t as coherent as she’d thought, because Jill had been dead for two months.
“I have to protect her friend, too,” Clayton insisted while the medics held him down. “I have to protect Lenora Whitaker.”
Clayton certainly didn’t say her name as he had earlier. It sounded foreign on his lips.
As if he’d spoken the name of a stranger.
“Lenora’s here,” Harlan said, inching her closer so that Clayton could see her face. “She’s okay. She wasn’t hurt in the shooting.”
Clayton stared at her, and even though his eyes were indeed clear, something was missing. He shook his head, his stare aimed right at her.
“You,” Clayton said. He winced, took a deep breath.
“Yes,” Lenora answered. “It’s me.”
But he only shook his head again. “Who are you?” Clayton asked.
Lenora froze.
Oh, mercy. He hadn’t just said her name as if they’d never met—the look he was giving her certainly wasn’t a familiar one, either.
It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.
“Who are you?” Clayton repeated with his attention fastened to Lenora. “And why are you here?”
Chapter Three
Three Months Later
Clayton spotted the woman on the stepladder perched in front of the stained-glass window inside the country church. She was about five-six. Dark brown hair. Average build. Well, average build from what he could tell. She wore a drab green lab-style coat over her jeans.
He stayed back behind the last row of pews so that she wouldn’t see him, but he could see her.
The light in the church was dim, thank goodness, so Clayton was able to remove his sunglasses, but he was careful to dodge the lines of sunlight piercing through the beveled glass around the window panels. The last thing he needed was a migraine. Even the mild ones were a bear, and something he’d had to deal with since the shooting. Today he didn’t want to deal with the pain.
He wanted to deal with this woman who might have answers.
Clayton waited, watched until she finally put her soldering iron aside and pulled off the mask that’d covered her nose and mouth.
It was Lenora Whitaker, all right.
Keeping a firm grip on the sides of the ladder, she stepped down to the floor, propped her hands on her hips and looked up at the glass angel’s wing that she’d just repaired. She must have been pleased with the results, because she nodded, smiled. Turned.
The color drained from her face. The smile, too. Almost as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Clayton,” she said in a rough whisper.
Well, at least she remembered him. Clayton wished he could say the same about her. Yeah, he knew those features because of the surveillance footage he’d studied, but he didn’t recognize her.
Still, there was something familiar about her that went beyond recorded images. Maybe because she’d once been in his protective custody.
Something else he couldn’t remember.
She didn’t come closer, but pulled a rag from her coat pocket and wiped her hands. She also dodged his gaze. “How are you?”
“Better than the last time you saw me.”
That brought her gaze back to his. “You got your memory back?”
He lifted his shoulder. “Some of it.” Including all of his childhood, even the rotten parts. Most of adulthood, too. “Not about you, though.”
Clayton paused, studied her expression. Her forehead was bunched up, and while there was concern in her eyes, there was also discomfort.
Probably because he’d found her.
“According to Harlan’s account,” Clayton said, “you didn’t hang around long after I was shot.”
She nodded, swallowed hard. “But I called, to find out that you’d made it out of surgery.”
Yeah. Harlan had told him that, too. But what was missing were the details.
“How’d you find me?” She turned away from him and started to gather her supplies, which she stuffed into a metal toolbox.
“It wasn’t easy.” In fact, it’d been downright hard. Clayton tipped his head to the stained-glass panel. “Not many people do the kind of work you do, so I kept calling churches and other places that have this sort of thing.”
And he’d finally located her through a supplier who was billing a minister in the small town of Sadler’s Falls for repairs to an antique stained-glass window. Lenora’s area of expertise.
“I called the minister,” Clayton explained. “And I posed as someone interested in a getting a referral for some stained-glass