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“How do you—”
“Interesting, isn’t it? That she didn’t mention being his aunt? Or that he’d killed himself? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Ms. Rochelle is not the killer.”
“How can you be certain? She knew Tiffany. She knew you. I just need to find out now if she had any sort of connection to Harvey Wyle.”
Silence. Heavy.
Uh, oh. “Shelby? What are you holding out on me?”
“She…she came to see him at the hospital. Him and me. She hugged him. Kissed him. I…think they were dating, back then. Harvey’s wife had died a few years before. He was single. She was single…”
Well, well. “I think we may need to stop at the diner when we get back to town. Suddenly, I think I could go for one of their world-famous shakes.”
“That’s not funny, Hunter.” The disapproval was clear in her little sniff.
She was right. Nothing about this situation was funny. Someone was trying to kill Shelby, and he was running out of time. “Are we going to talk about…it?” Hunter asked.
“What?”
He could see the heavy walls of the penitentiary. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“Do you mean…?” But she stopped.
“I mean that fact that I said I was falling in love with you.” The guard station had come into view. “About the fact that I think I terrified you with that particular confession.”
“You didn’t terrify me.”
He had to unlock his back teeth. “Good to know.”
“You…you aren’t really falling for me, though.”
His head turned toward her. “I fell a bit in love with you years ago.”
“You didn’t even know me then. Not the real me.”
He looked back at the road. At the waiting guard station. “I know you now.” He did. Everything about her pulled him in, deeper and deeper. “Not asking you to love me back.” Though, hell, yes, that would be amazing. “Just wondering if, after we stop the killer and close the past, you will still want to grab those beignets with me in New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“I will one hundred percent want to grab those beignets with you.”
“Good to know.” Then there’s still hope. I haven’t fucked my chances with you yet.
John Henry waited until the right moment. Then he tapped his brakes. Nothing like a little brake-check. He tapped those brakes, he threw his hand out of the window, and then he sped up…going down, down the road…
Before whipping his Jeep right into the middle of the street, road-block style and parking.
The news van screeched to a stop.
John Henry exited the vehicle. Sauntered toward his goal.
The driver rolled down the window. “What in the hell are you doing?” the man screeched. Balding, red in the face.
“I’m having a conversation,” John Henry replied. He leaned into the vehicle. Locked eyes on his target. The target in the passenger seat. Younger guy, dark, curly hair. Scared eyes. Loose red tie. “You’re stalking my client.”
