Page 33 of No Control
“Because it’s engraved.” I point to the anniversary date on the side of the navy-blue exterior of the knife. “I bought it for him.”
“And you don’t think he could’ve dropped it at some point here before?”
My mouth hangs open stupidly. “I don’t think so.”
“But it’s possible?” Deputy Briggins takes the knife from me.
My shoulders fall. “I guess.”
“It’s circumstantial at best, Ms. Waters.”
I blink a couple of times, thanking the rain for hiding the tears streaking down my face right now. “I know I saw someone out here.”
He meets my gaze, and I see it—the disbelief. “I don’t know what to tell you. We don’t have the resources to spend the whole damn day in the rain searching the woods for someone you thought you saw.”
“But the knife? The rose?” I exasperate.
“Yeah…Maybe you should just call Mason and work it out. He’s a good man. I’ve known him since he was a kid. He wouldn’t do something like this. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The deputy slides the knife into his jacket pocket, and I realize this guy is leaving with the only proof I have it was Mason out here.
“So there’s nothing you can do?” I ask him as I follow him back toward the front of the house.
“I’m working on the report for the stolen guns,” he sighs, walking a little faster as the rain picks up. “I’ll write this down, too, if that’ll make you happy.”
“Okay,” I mumble, at a loss of what to even say.
“Again, I think you should get some rest and call someone,” he glances over his shoulder at me. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks for the information,” I mutter under my breath as he heads to his car, and I head for the front door. What a joke. I watch as the car pulls out for the second time today.
He’ll probably start spreading the rumors that I’ve lost my mind—and I don’t know that he’s wrong at this point, even with the rose, knife, and missing guns as evidence. It all points to a spurned lover losing his shit, but I’m losing mine, too, in the process.
And as I lock the door behind me, I realize Emma is right. I have to get out of here.
Do I really want to do this? The question floats around my mind as I pull out my phone, scrolling to Henry’s contact. I check my watch, he’s two hours behind me, but it’s still within normal business hours. My heart beats unsteadily as I hit the call button.
I consider hanging up as it rings. And rings.
And rings.
I’m just about to really give in to failure when the call connects.
“Hello.” His deep voice rattles my core, and I clench my thighs, embarrassed by the reaction. Since when does he get to me like this?
“Hi, um, this is Lydia.”
He greets me with a chuckle. “I do have caller I.D., you know.”
“Right...” my voice trails off. “I hope you had a nice flight.”
“It was as good as it can be,” he answers, the chuckle fading but the amusement remaining. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering...” I feel so stupid for the words coming out of my mouth. “You said the offer would remain on the table—did you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’ll accept it.”
“Really?” His voice brightens to a point I start to wonder why I ever thought he was really that intimidating. He sounds…friendly. “That’s great news. I can book your flight for tomorrow morning?”
