Dark Passing (The Ella Reynolds Series) (3 page)

I stared into his well-meaning eyes and fought the urge to tell him I’d be fine, that I could take care of myself. “You don’t think I can handle it.”

“It’s a lot for anyone to deal with.”

His words were diplomatic, but his face said it all. He still thought of me as fragile, which really pissed me off. But I took a deep breath and didn’t lash out. My therapist, who I no longer had to see, would be proud. “So long as you don’t try to stop me from doing whatever I think is best.”

He considered my proposal for a moment. “And what if I think what you’re doing is wrong?”

“You can tell me, but not prevent me.”

With a half grin, he held out his hand. “Deal.”

We shook on it and I laughed. “You’re a masochist.”

“Some days I think that might be true. You ready to go?” He raised his eyebrows.

I took my last bite and washed the leftover milk in my bowl down the drain. “Almost.” I jogged up the stairs to my bathroom, brushed my teeth, then ran a brush through my hair and pulled it into a low ponytail. I glanced in the mirror once more before rushing out. Such a difference a few months made.

Sure,
a nagging voice in my head countered,
but how easily could those positive changes slip away?

Gabriel stood at the bottom of the stairs, my coat slung over his arm. On our way out, I noticed he’d already salted the steps before he came inside. That same awful inner voice reminded me it was only a matter of time before he let me down, too. I bit my lip against the negative thoughts. Gabriel was different. I was safe with him.

“You okay?” He looked back at me, his eyes filled with concern.

I laughed. “I’m fine.”

His frown deepened. “You haven’t given me the ‘I’m fine’ in a while.”

“I am.”

He shook his head, but continued walking. “I hate it when you say that. It’s almost never true.” His tone was light, but he didn’t quite manage a smile through the worried lines on his face.

He didn’t need to be privy to every one of my thoughts, though. I
was
fine and I could do this. I’d prove it to him and to myself. I wasn’t made of glass, and I wouldn’t break at the first sign of trouble. Besides, I was only checking things out, no commitment.

The drive to Jackson was uneventful. I got out of the car and stretched, eyeing the sheriff’s office—a small, square, redbrick building with a flag flying outside. Lord knows I hadn’t missed dealing with cops. I licked my lips and straightened my shoulders. I had nothing to be nervous about. Gabriel’s hand brushed my lower back.

“You ready?”

I looked back at him, determined not to let my fear show. “Of course.”
Of course, why wouldn’t I be? It wasn’t like police had the habit of turning my life into a media circus or anything.

He smiled. “Let’s go, Sherlock.”

I rolled my eyes, and he propelled me through the double doors. The room smelled musty and was nondescript, except for a large moose head mounted on the wall above the waiting room chairs. A pleasant looking woman with red hair pulled smoothly back from her face sat behind the wood paneled counter. She smiled as we approached.

“Good morning.”

“Hi. Could I speak with the officer in charge of the Mary Nelson case?”

Her grin never faltered, though a hint of sadness passed through her eyes. She picked up a piece of paper and her pen hovered over the top of it. “Your name, ma’am?”

I cleared my throat. “Ella. Ella Reynolds.”

The pen clattered against the desk and the smile melted away.

Oh God
. All the horrible possible reactions she could have flashed through my head. Was she going to ask me about my husband? Accuse me of murder? Of being a liar?

“Ella Reynolds,” she squealed and clasped her hands together. “
The
Ella Reynolds?”

I glanced at Gabriel, who was stifling his laughter and offered absolutely no help whatsoever. “I guess so?”

She stood up so fast, her chair crashed into the wall behind her. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it! I knew you lived in the area, but you’re actually
here,
standing in front of me. Will you sign my book? Can I have my picture with you?”

I stepped back involuntarily as she reached under the desk and produced a copy of
Dark Corners
. She jutted it toward me with a crazed smile.

“Um, okay. Sure.” I took a deep breath and a step forward. I wasn’t used to fan reactions. I sold well, but not enough that people stopped me walking down the street or anything. “What’s your name?”

“Deanna. D-E-A-N-N-A.” She watched me write, and I tried not to make any mistakes. “Is your house really haunted? Did you have any idea it was—”

“Uh, Deanna? I think Ella would still like to speak with someone about Mary Nelson. Can you see if the officer in charge has a moment while she finishes signing?”

I was both grateful and irritated that Gabriel stepped in to fend off intrusive questions, and I didn’t know which emotion to hang on to. I didn’t want to talk about what happened, but I also couldn’t live the rest of my life in a bubble.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Ella’s bodyguard. Now, if you will…” His nod to the door on her right and his authoritative tone snapped Deanna out of fan-girl mode. She hustled away, though she glanced over her shoulder a couple more times as if she couldn’t believe I was there.

“Bodyguard?” I snapped the book closed when I finished writing.

He smiled lazily. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve said I was your boyf—”

I held up my hand, cutting him off. Before I could make a rebuttal, however, Deanna returned with a man in uniform who was maybe forty with very short blond hair, blue eyes, and a wide, all-American smile. “Sheriff Carter Fagan.” He offered his hand to me.

“Ella Reynolds.” I gave it a firm shake.

“Would you like to come back to my office, Mrs. Reynolds?”

I nodded and looked at Gabriel. “I’ll wait for you out here,” he said and settled into a chair.

Damn it.
I’d expected Gabriel to help me out. He was one of them for crying out loud. He was fluent in cop. I followed Sheriff Fagan to his tiny office and sat where he pointed, my knee bouncing.

“Deanna tells me you’re here about the Mary Nelson case. Do you have any new information?”

“No. Her mother came to see me and asked if I’d consider writing her story. I’d like access to the case file, if that’s possible.”

He nodded sagely. “Jennifer’s had a hard time with Mary’s death. Do you know the family well?”

“No. Never heard of her or Mary until she knocked on my door yesterday.”

Fagan leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising look. “And you drove all the way here?” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Why?”

I met his eyes, but they gave nothing away. What was hiding behind that polished exterior? “She sparked my curiosity.”

“I wish you’d called, Ella—may I call you Ella.”

I shrugged.

“I could’ve saved you the trip. We don’t share case files on active investigations. But by all means stay, have lunch, enjoy the town.”

“I was under the impression the case was cold.”

“But unsolved.” He gave me a wonderful “vote for me” smile. “If you pursue your ‘investigation’ and discover anything of pertinence to
my
case, please let me know.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, trying to think of any ploy I could use to get what I wanted, but nothing came to mind. Telling Jennifer I couldn’t help because I knew the police had done everything in their power was one thing; being kept in the dark was another. Finally, I stood in defeat, and he followed suit. “You won’t mind if I ask a few questions around town?”

“Not at all, but you won’t find anything. I know every person in this town, and not one of them can tell you anything about Mary Nelson that wasn’t in the newspapers. However, we don’t get many celebrities around here. People might get a kick out of meeting you.” His amused blue eyes twinkled at me, not endearing him in any way.

“I’ve found that some people don’t love talking to the police. Maybe they’d rather talk to me.”

“I have no doubt.” He flashed his too-white teeth again.

Yep, it was official. I didn’t like him.

I walked back to the lobby with Fagan on my heels and his hand resting on my back just below my neck.
Just be nice, just be nice,
I repeated in my head. Ramming my elbow into his ribs wasn’t going to entice him to help me. Gabriel leaned on the counter talking intimately to Deanna while she twirled a strand of hair in her fingers. I ignored the annoyance that trickled through me.

He looked up. “How’d it go?” His eyes traveled from me to the Sheriff’s hand on my back.

I shook my head and moved away.

“We could file a request under FOIA.” Gabriel moved next to me and put his hand on my waist.

I looked back and forth between them. “What is FOIA?”

“Freedom of Information Act,” Fagan replied. “But it won’t work. You can’t compromise an ongoing investigation. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He stared at Gabriel, his façade cracking ever so slightly.

 “Gabriel Troy.”

“So there’s still a chance I can get the file?” I asked him.

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Gabriel offered. “What’s a little paperwork between friends?”

Fagan glowered at Gabriel, then sighed. “I can maybe get you a partial file, but it’s up to my discretion what I include. That’s the best I’ll offer.”

I glanced at Gabriel out of the corner of my eye, and he gave a slight nod. “Fine,” I said.

“Come back tomorrow, and I’ll have it ready for you. I look forward to seeing more of you, Ella.” Fagan’s winning smile was plastered back on his face.

Gabriel and I walked out of the office. “FOIA?” I asked as we got in the car.

He laughed. “No one likes to be buried in paperwork.”

“He said I could ask around town about Mary Nelson.”

“That was big of him,” Gabriel said under his breath. “Keep in mind Fagan’s an elected official. He’ll be your best friend so long as it’s convenient, but if he starts getting backlash, he’ll shut you down. I know his type.”

“He’s a jerk, but he’s a jerk I have to work with. And what were you talking about with Deanna that was so enthralling?”

“Are you jealous?” He sounded dumbfounded by the thought.

“Don’t change the subject.” I couldn’t be jealous. I just couldn’t. It would mean he meant more to me than I was ready to feel about anyone. I wouldn’t even entertain the thought. I just wanted to know what they were talking about. Nothing more.

“You have nothing to worry about. She isn’t my type at all. I like mean girls with chips the size of Colorado on their shoulders.” He nudged me.

I rolled my eyes, but a smile snuck out.
Damn it.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“She knew Mary. I saw it on her face when you mentioned the name.”

“What did she have to say?”

“They were friends. Her money was on the boyfriend. She said he was jealous, especially after Mary started college. She thought Mary probably tried to break up with him, and he killed her, then played innocent. I feel like she’s hiding something, though.”

“Huh.” I wrote “Deanna” in my notebook, then jotted Gabriel’s theory beside her name.

“The boyfriend would’ve been the first person Sheriff Fagan looked at. If there was any evidence to indicate him, this case wouldn’t be unsolved.”

“So that’s too easy of an explanation?”

“For now.” He started the car. “Where to next?”

Jennifer Nelson answered on the fifth ring and sounded half-dead. She gave me her address and Bryan’s address. I typed his into the GPS first, and Gabriel followed the British woman’s voice to the destination. The house was a simple, single-level home with a brick exterior and a white garage door. It looked like most of the houses in the neighborhood—aging, but cared for.

“So Mary was here with the boyfriend—”

“Bryan,” I supplied.

“Until what time?” he asked.

“According to Jennifer, 9:30 p.m.”

“Any witnesses?”

“I don’t know. Jennifer says they spoke while Mary was driving home. That’s the only witness I know of.”

“But how do we know Mary actually left? She could’ve been forced to tell her mother she’d left. Someone could’ve already taken her. Maybe she was never even here and Bryan was covering for her. We’ll need to talk to him.”

I added Bryan to my list. “Why would Bryan lie about it if he had nothing to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he lied to begin with because he didn’t think she was in real trouble. Then, when she showed up dead, he thought it would make him look guilty to suddenly tell the truth so he stuck with the lie. What’s Mrs. Nelson’s address?”

I rattled it off as he typed it into the GPS. We were led out of town to a winding, hilly road with no shoulder. The houses were sporadic and buried deep off the road in tufts of trees. About thirty minutes in, off a gravel side road, we found Mrs. Nelson’s dusty house number on a blue mailbox. The driveway was about a half a mile long and lead up to a plain, white, two-story farmhouse. A beat up red Oldsmobile sat in front of the detached garage.