“That’s right.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific. I do a lot of things.”
Gathering every ounce of courage within me, I said, “I saw what you did, last week, with the Iron Wraiths evidence. You took it. And now they can’t find it, and now they’re dropping the case against Razor.”
Finally, finally Cletus looked at me. To my astonishment, the eyes I’d assumed were green were instead a fiery blue and he snapped, “You saw no such thing.”
“I did.” I nodded at my assertion. “In fact, I have a video of you doing it.”
He blinked. His expression and his voice, usually so controlled, both cracked with surprise. “You did what?”
“I recorded it on my phone.” I swallowed three times for no reason.
His gaze sharpened in such a way that startled me, as though clouds or an illusionary mist parted and revealed a slight glimpse of the real Cletus Winston beneath. These new eyes flickered over my person.
“Prove it.” His demand was sharp and quick, like a whip, and made my heart jump then gallop in my chest.
I pulled my phone from my pocket with trembling fingers. I knew why I was shaking. I wasn’t used to confrontation. I always figured I was a natural pacifist, preferring peace to sass. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
He snatched my cell once I’d unlocked it and tapped through the series of screens until he reached my videos. He found the one dated last week, the one I’d taken of Sheriff James talking about my cupcakes and hit play. As Cletus watched, a touch of color drained from his cheeks. He was seeing what I’d spotted last week when I reviewed the recording. One half of the screen was the sheriff. The other half of the screen was Cletus in the background, pocketing the evidence, looking around, then walking away.
Cletus made a strangled noise that sounded both frustrated and enraged. I eyed the door next to me, considering and immediately dismissing an escape. Meanwhile, he watched the recording again. When it ended for a second time, silence took its place, hard and heavy between us. I inspected him, endeavoring to parse his thoughts.
Cletus’s expression was blank, which—I abruptly realized—was highly unusual. He always wore an expression. Thoughtful, concerned, patient, bored, interested, somber, perturbed. How odd, for a person to always have an expression.
Unless that person wore emotions like a mask, meant to misdirect the true nature of his thoughts.
“You made a copy?” His tone, laden with ice and granite, made me shiver.
He didn’t sound at all like the bumbling but affable Cletus Winston who’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. He sounded dangerous.
I cleared my throat before I could speak. “I did. I made a few. Saved in a few places.”
The side of his mouth ticked up, but his eyes lacked humor as he turned them back to me. “That was smart. Otherwise I would have smashed your phone into a quantity of tiny pieces. Then it would have been your word against mine.”
“That’s right,” I said the words on a breath, the good sense of fear wrestling with determination.
But, damn it, I needed his help. And it had to be him. It just had to. He could make anything happen. Everyone in town and the surrounding areas owed him a favor. I'd heard the rumors. I'd paid attention. I'd put the puzzle pieces together.
And now I had the most powerful man in East Tennessee right where I needed him.
CHAPTER 4
“The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”
― Roald Dahl
Cletus
I needed a minute.
During the minute, I made various and sundry lists. Lists upon lists.
Jennifer Sylvester seemed to understand I was not yet inclined to talk, so she gave me the minute I needed. I appreciated her silence. Eventually, my pulse slowed to a nice, normal range, and the red spots of rage clouding my vision receded. I wasn’t going to lose my temper.
“Well . . .” I cleared my throat, adopting as calm an air as possible given the fact that this feeble puppet was threatening to single-handedly derail months of fastidious—not to mention risky—efforts.
“Well,” she squeaked, also clearing her throat, but then said nothing else. Her eyes were on her long, pink nails, which were digging into the knees of her jeans.
I scrutinized her. She was clearly nervous, afraid even. Her earlier backbone appeared to be disintegrating. The show of confidence had been completely out of character for meek and docile Jennifer Sylvester.