“Then this note is meant to sound as if it’s written by the plaintiff.”
Lynley turned back to him. “What do you mean ‘meant to’?”
“Money makes people crazy, especially when it runs into the millions of dollars. Leave it to the media to blast that kind of half-baked information to the public for anyone to know.”
The media had also basically used a manure spreader to broadcast all the tidbits they could dig up about her father. She’d never told John about him, either. It wasn’t something a woman was quick to tell a man on a first date...or a second or third, so it had become too easy to avoid the subject. Why share the humiliation of being the child of a sociopath?
“It’s nice to know you didn’t go digging into my past online to find out what you could about me,” she murmured.
He gave her a brief, warm smile before returning his attention to the note. “Why spoil the fun of making friends the old-fashioned way?”
Friends. Yes. They were buddies who had made it clear without really saying so that a nice, solid friendship was exactly what they wanted. Right now, however, she could use the comfort of a strong shoulder to support her. She looked up into John’s gentle gaze and felt herself leaning forward. He reached for her almost hesitantly, and she closed her eyes and stepped forward, allowing her forehead to press against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.
This didn’t happen often. She seldom admitted to weakness, seldom allowed herself to get this close to John, even after five months of friendship and trips to the lake, the movies, town activities.
There was something about a man who didn’t push himself on her. John had his own walls, and that was just fine with her. Still, his arms felt good, and he was a much-needed port in this new, frightening storm.
* * *
John studied the interior of the house as he held Lynley’s trembling body in his arms. Something about her vulnerability brought out a double dose of his protective instincts.
He glanced back outside, and realized this wasn’t a wise position to be in. He stiffened and drew her into the shadows of the house, then gave her a tight hug before stepping away from her. He couldn’t be distracted by a very attractive woman in need of comfort when he should keep his mind on possible dangers nearby.
“Is the house locked?” he asked, fingering the .40 mm Glock in his holster.
“Mom keeps most doors and windows double-locked, especially after our recent rash of scares.”
“Good. We need to figure out who left this note and why, obviously,” he said.
“You don’t think it’s from someone in Wendy Freeson’s family out for revenge, because the court decision didn’t go their way?”
“The trial isn’t directly mentioned at all.”
“Of course not. It isn’t as if they’d paint a target for you to find.”
“We’ll check out the plaintiffs, of course, but since the trial is now a matter of public record, anyone could find this and decide to hold it over your head—if they believe there’s money to be extorted, thanks to the great work of the mighty media.” He was acquainted with a few photojournalists who managed to maintain their integrity and their jobs, but very few.
Lynley closed her eyes. He’d never seen her so terrified. In the months he’d known her, he’d seldom seen this side of her. He felt a surge of tenderness. It was an emotion he’d battled more and more the longer he knew her.
“What monster would do this to Mom? And to me?” She rubbed her forehead, as if an answer might come out if she pressed hard enough. “Too much has happened in Jolly Mill. It’s like someone, some...thing...has us in its sights and plans to destroy us one way or—”
“Lynley, it’s going to be okay.” Perhaps this powerful urge he felt to grab her and never let her go came from a need to comfort himself, as well. Lynley was in someone’s crosshairs, and he had to stop it. “You know, don’t you, that any crank with half a brain will warn his victim not to contact the police? Besides, this note is to your mother, not you, so if you look at it that way, the rules don’t apply. She didn’t show the note to anyone. I found it.”
She scowled at the note. “I don’t think this person’s playing by any list of rules.” With a shake of her head, she paced away from him, into the darkness of the unlit living room and as far as possible from the deck. “Maybe I’ll have a chance to show them my own set of rules. Don’t mess with the Marshalls.”
He grinned at the fierceness she showed despite her fear. He’d married the last woman he’d known with that much courage. But what had Sandra’s courage earned her? A long, hard-fought battle against cancer that ravaged her body and finally won.
“Few people have the ability to follow through on their threats,” he assured Lynley. “In the first place, they seldom have a way to even know you’ve called anyone, much less the police. I guess we can be glad Jolly Mill couldn’t afford to buy a car for their only police officer, if someone really is watching the house somehow.” He held his arms out to display a long-sleeve dark gray flannel shirt that went with his regular jeans. “No one can tell I’m driving a police car and I’m not wearing a uniform. No one knows I’m a cop unless they know me, even if they’re looking at us from the forest right now.”
“You don’t think the note’s from someone in the Freeson family, then?” Her voice suddenly sounded so tired, so vulnerable.
John wanted to pull her close again and tell her everything would be okay. But he knew too much about the world. “I only got in on the end of the trial since moving here. I don’t think the Freeson relatives ever shared an authentic tear over Wendy’s death. From all accounts I found, they didn’t know her. But any family member can bring a lawsuit for a wrongful death, no matter how ridiculous.”
“That I believe,” she said. “I wasn’t surprised to learn they’d had to hunt down an attorney all the way down in Florida—some guy with a license to practice in Missouri—because they couldn’t find anyone nearby to take their case.”
“The guys in the precinct back in Sikeston used to joke that half of the attorneys in practice graduated in the lower fifty percent of their classes.”
Finally, she gave a grim smile. “The attorney who took the Freeson case must have had a particularly low graduating score.”
He nodded, glad to hear another surge of fight in her voice.
“Wendy’s medical record showed she was what the emergency department personnel called a frequent flier,” she said. “She cried wolf too often. How could I have known that one time, out of the dozens of times she showed up demanding narcotics for make-believe pain, that she’d overdose?”
John heard the grim tone of Lynley’s compassion, despite the fact that Wendy had caused her own death by the illegal use of someone else’s buffet of prescription medications.
The only person he’d known to shed a tear about Wendy’s death was Lynley Marshall, the triage nurse who’d been unfairly blamed for it.
Lynley walked into the kitchen for a drink of water, glancing with obvious trepidation toward the woods past the deck.
Now was not the time, of course, but John couldn’t keep from admiring the grace of her movements, the beauty of her slender, athletic form. Her lush, thick, dark brown hair fell across her face as she leaned forward, covering the firm chin and graceful lines of her face.
She walked back into the shadows of the living room, shoulders hunched, looking miserable. She was obviously held in the grip of a shock so profound that she looked to him for direction. This was not like her at all.
Time to start the investigation process. He walked past