“I’m in a rush.” Mentally, he braced. This wasn’t going to be easy for him but she wasn’t going to be having any fun either.
He expected the next assault to come from the angry man in line but it came from her.
“Get out of line, pal! I’m not putting up with your bullshit.” She shoved his arm. “Move!”
Inwardly, he cringed. Her words chipped at his fragile confidence. “I’m not moving. I need to mail this package.”
She looked past him as if he didn’t matter to the postal clerk. “Are you going to allow this!” Others in line grumbled as the clerk waved to someone out of sight.
Shit. He’d meant to upset her. He’d thought she’d crumble at the dominance and let him have his way. But she’d come out swinging. He did not want this kind of trouble.
Clutching his letter close, he leaned toward her. “You’re a bitch.”
Those wide, green eyes narrowed. “Asshole.”
He balled fingers into a fist and if he thought he could risk it, he’d have punched her. Knocked her flat. But he didn’t have the time for trouble. He had to get back to work and bus tables.
Ford allowed a hint of pleasure as he thought about the cameras in her house and how he really was the one with control and soon would prove it to her.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, August 21, 8 A.M.
Jenna was poised to paint the last brushstroke on the bride’s portrait when the phone rang. She closed her eyes, her fingers tightening on the brush. Since the Susan Martinez report had aired on the Lost Girl Friday at noon, six, and eleven, her phone had not stopped ringing. She’d turned off the phone and spent the weekend hiding out.
The first phone calls had appeared to be legitimate portrait clients. But the conversation had quickly degraded. She’d gotten questions about her past. Did she remember Ronnie? How had it felt to be held hostage? Had she been sexually assaulted?
She’d hung up and put the phone on silence. She’d finished the bride’s portrait, not wholly satisfied by the eyes, which conveyed a bit too much confidence to reflect the woman.
Whatever life she’d cobbled together in the last twenty-five years was unraveling because she’d pulled the first thread when she’d moved back to Nashville.
This morning, she’d turned her phone back on expecting a call from her bride. It had started ringing an hour ago. By her count, she’d had seven calls.
Jenna glanced at the phone and when she saw Unknown Caller she rose and moved outside to her deck. She breathed in a lungful of fresh air. Though business could end up booming as a result of the television news piece, she would never allow a profit to be made off a child’s death.
The phone stopped ringing and she released a deep breath. “Leave me alone. I don’t need this.”
Her front bell rang and she cursed, deciding she would not answer. When the bell rang again she got annoyed. “Jenna, it’s Detective Morgan.”
She hesitated. She couldn’t blame him for this mess. She’d made the choice to go public. She moved to the door and opened it. He stood there dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. No sign of his dog. “Detective. You’re rather dapper. Headed to court this morning?”
He straightened. “How’d you know?”
“Every cop has their going-to-court suit. Since that’s the nicest I’ve seen you dressed, I’m guessing court.”
“You would be right.” He frowned. “Are you saying my other suits aren’t as nice?”
She cocked her head, pleased that her teasing had gotten under his skin. “I wouldn’t wear my best to a murder scene. Most scenes aren’t clean and pretty.”
“No, they aren’t. But maybe I could step up my game a little.”
“Why?”
“I have an image.”
That made her laugh. “Really?”
“It’s the Morgan family legend.”
“Ah, that’s right. The homicide legacy or something like that.”
“Exactly.”
The phone vibrated, humming against a tabletop, and she cringed. “Another admirer.”
The good humor softening his gaze vanished. Cold steel replaced it. “Anyone giving you a hard time?”
Ignoring the phone, she nodded for him to come inside. “Nothing I can’t handle. A news report like that always brings the nuts out of the trees.” The phone went silent. “So what brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“Just checking on you. I didn’t like the way that newscast went down. And I’m surprised you didn’t say something to me before the interview.”
“Like what? Not the kind of thing that comes up easily in a conversation, is it? Besides, my aunt taught me early on to keep that note from my past secret. She said no good would come of talking about it.”
“Didn’t you need professional help when you were a kid?”
“It probably wouldn’t have hurt but my aunt wasn’t the most trusting soul when it came to shrinks. She decided the best therapy was a pad and pencil and told me to draw my troubles. When I did, we’d burn them in the backyard and she’d tell me they were gone. We did that a lot in the beginning but, after a while, the nightmares faded.”
“You kept drawing.”
“Maybe finding other people’s demons was my way of working through it.”
“Your missing persons file came across my desk when we were trying to identify the Lost Girl. Bishop didn’t realize it was you until after the interview.”
“So you see, my case is closed.” Her flippant tone didn’t quite measure up to her feelings. “I have no boogeyman to worry about.”
He studied her a long beat. “But there’s something that bothers you about this.”
She folded her arms over her chest, forgetting for a moment that he was a homicide cop and good at digging to the truth below. “What makes you say that?”
He shook his head. “There is something . . . those eyes you draw.”
She wagged her finger at him. “I’m not one of your suspects and there is no deeper truth to be found. My story was terrible but, in the end, justice was served.”