Simon Says Die (12 page)

“Yes,” Pierce said.

“No,” Madison said at the same time. “I'll reimburse you for the losses your company has suffered while working on my project, including the repairs to that man's truck, but I don't want you to stop or delay the schedule.”

“Why not?” Pierce demanded.

“Because I'm not going to let some . . . teenage pranks change my plans.”

He looked incredulous. “Teenage pranks?”

“Am I missing something?” Braedon asked.

“No,” Pierce and Madison said at the same time.

Braedon exchanged a surprised look with Matt.

Matt pushed his chair back and stood. He stepped in front of Pierce. “I'm not sure what's going on between you two. But I do know that Mrs. McKinley paid us to do a job.” He directed his next remark to Madison. “We'll have a team at your house next week, as planned, to dig the footers.” With that, he walked across the patio and around the side of the house toward the street.

The corner of Pierce's lip twitched.

Braedon grinned and reached across the table to shove him.

He shoved him back, and they both laughed. The tension that had existed between them seemed to evaporate.

Madison frowned, not at all sure why they seemed so amused. “What's so funny?”

“My little brother has grown a backbone,” Pierce said. “Braedon, I'd like you and Matt to take over the work at Madison's house. Do you have the time?”

“We'll juggle things around. We'll make it work.”

“Tell your men to stay on their toes, and let me know right away if anything goes wrong, no matter how ordinary.”

“You got it.”

Pierce tugged Madison's hand until she rose to stand beside him. As they turned to go, Braedon put a hand on Pierce's shoulder.

“You're obviously worried there's more to this than some neighborhood kids having fun. If you don't want to tell me what's going on, I'm fine with that. But just because I'm not some hotshot FBI agent doesn't mean I can't help. You get in a tight spot, call me. I'll be there.”

M
ADISON REREAD THE
card Mrs. Whitmire had given Pierce. She shook her head and looked back at the padlocked door to the storage unit. “This can't be right. Did Hamilton confirm this was Mr. Newsome's business address?”

Pierce leaned back against the hood of his car. “He hasn't sent anyone to see Newsome yet, so he wouldn't know. Mrs. Whitmire did say Newsome was just starting out. It's not uncommon for people to use a storage unit or even a post office box as their company's address. He probably keeps his mowers and tools here.”

Madison shoved the useless card back into her purse. “Do you think the people in the storage company office can give us his
home
address?”

“Not if they understand privacy laws, they won't.”

“Can we at least try?”

He shook his head. “Going to a place of business is one thing. Taking you with me to Newsome's house isn't going to happen, not unless Hamilton's men did their wellness check and can assure me there's no danger.”

Patience was never one of her virtues, and waiting like this was torture. She ran her fingers across the shiny hood of his car. “Maybe his men already checked on him and forgot to tell you.”

He let out a long, slow sigh and pulled out his phone. A few minutes later, he shoved it back into his pocket. “All right, you win. Hamilton said his men spoke to Newsome about an hour ago. He gave me Newsome's address. It's not far from here. Let's go.”

N
EWSOME'S HOUSE WAS
a modest one-story a few miles from the historic district, a block off Skidaway Road, partially hidden beneath towering oak trees with Spanish moss dripping down.

“For a yardman, his yard sure is overgrown,” Madison said, picking her way through the knee-high weeds crowding onto the walkway.

Pierce's gaze scanned the yard, the front porch, as if he were taking everything in.

A rolled newspaper was lying on the porch steps. Madison picked it up to take a look. “Today's paper. That's a good sign, right?”

“Possibly. You should have stayed in the car like I told you.” He pulled her to a stop when she reached the top porch stair.

“There's nothing to worry about,” she said. “Hamilton said his men spoke to Newsome.”

“Humor me. Don't move from this spot until I tell you it's all clear.” He gave her what she thought of as his
FBI-agent stare
and continued across the porch to the front door. When no one answered his repeated knocking, he crossed to the end of the porch to peer around the corner of the house to the side yard.

She hurried forward and peeked in through the front window, cupping her hands against the glass to see past the glare. “It's fairly clean inside. Doesn't look abandoned.”

“For the love of . . . get away from the window.” He strode forward and grabbed her arm.

“Wait, I think I see Mr. Newsome.”

A shadow, darker than the rest, appeared in the hallway.

Madison waved a hand to get the man's attention, then sucked in a sharp breath.

Pierce yanked her away from the glass and pulled out his gun, every muscle in his body tense. “What?” He edged to the corner of the window. “What did you see?”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Damon. I think I just saw Damon.”

“I
'M TELLING YOU,
Damon was in there.” Madison leaned back against Pierce's car in front of Newsome's house, facing off against Lieutenant Hamilton. She didn't understand why he was so inclined
not
to believe everything she told him.

For once, Pierce wasn't giving her one of his warning looks or telling her to be quiet. He was facing Hamilton next to her and looked just as puzzled as she was.

Behind the lieutenant, two police cars sat in Newsome's front yard, lights flashing.

“Did
you
see anyone?” Hamilton asked Pierce.

“No, but I saw Madison's reaction . . . her
genuine
reaction. She saw someone inside, and believes it was her husband. He wasn't wearing a hood this time. She saw his face. That's good enough for me.”

She sidled closer to him and put her hand on his waist, lightly squeezing to let him know she appreciated his support.

“It was dark inside. No lights on,” Hamilton said, still sounding skeptical.

“It was him,” Madison insisted.

“There's no one inside. I should know. My men just broke in Mr. Newsome's front door, a door you, Mrs. McKinley, are going to have to pay for when Mr. Newsome comes home.”

“No problem,” she said. “I'll take it out of my police benevolent donation this year.”

That earned her one of Pierce's warning looks, but it was worth it.

“When your men spoke to Newsome, how did he look?” Pierce asked. “Was he anxious, worried about anything?”

A light flush of red crept up the lieutenant's neck. “Actually, they didn't visit him in person. They spoke to him on the phone. I didn't think it was worth their time driving over here, and it turns out it wasn't. There's no one here.”

Now Madison understood why Hamilton was acting so defensive. He was embarrassed that his men had lied to him, but he wasn't willing to admit they'd lied, not in front of another law-enforcement officer.

Pierce swore beneath his breath. “I wouldn't have brought Madison here if I'd known your men hadn't seen Newsome for themselves, and verified his identity. For all you know, the man your officer spoke to on the phone could be Damon McKinley.”

“Highly unlikely. I was doing you a favor, a courtesy to a fellow officer, by even having my men make the phone call. There was no evidence of foul play, no evidence of a crime to even warrant the wellness check. And in case you've somehow forgotten, we're a bit busy with some real crimes right now, namely the ‘Simon says' killer.”

Madison pushed off Pierce's car and stepped closer to the lieutenant. “I'm not likely to forget since I saw that poor young man after he was killed this morning. As for a crime to warrant that wellness check, how about that fake note to the property manager? The note I gave you weeks ago? That's your evidence.”

“A printed-out note, not a hand-written one. And no signature. For all I know, you typed that note.”

She threw her hands in the air. “Why would I do that?”

He waved his hand back toward the house. “Why would you do any of this? Mrs. McKinley, in the past few weeks we've responded to your calls on half-a-dozen occasions.” He held up a hand and began counting off his fingers. “Once to report that allegedly fake note to the property manager—a note that was typed, with no fingerprints besides the property manager's . . . and yours.”

She shook her head in frustration. She was so tired of not being believed. “Mrs. Whitmire showed me the note, so of course my prints were on it.”

“Three times to say someone was watching you,” he continued. “But we never found anyone.”

“It would help if it didn't take you thirty minutes to get there when someone called.”

Pierce stepped behind her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, like he had at MacGuffin's. He was trying to remind her, without words, of the discussion they'd had in his car when they called the police earlier. He'd asked her to be careful, not to do anything to antagonize the police. And she'd promised she would try to keep a rein on her temper.

She drew in a deep breath and clamped her mouth shut.

“Another time,” Hamilton continued, “you called to report a threatening note, and a threatening phone call. Again, the note was typed, not handwritten, and only had your fingerprints on it. And the number the call came from couldn't be traced to anyone.”

“Again,” she said, using a calm, conversational tone, “my fingerprints were on the note because I'm the one who found it. And even I know, as a civilian, that bad guys can use those throw-away cell phones. No cell phone contract, no way to trace the number. Everyone knows that.”

“Hold on,” Pierce said. “What threatening note? What phone call?” He leaned down next to her. “You never told me about those.”

She felt her face flush. With so much happening, so fast, she'd honestly forgotten about those two incidents. They'd paled next to him getting shot. “It wasn't on purpose. I forgot.”

His hands stiffened on her shoulders. Her heart sank as she realized he thought she was lying again.

Hamilton ticked off another finger. “You called another time because a man you chased apparently feared for his life and shot at you in self-defense. Your actions caused a federal agent to get shot.”

“Now hold on, Hamilton—” Pierce began.

“Let me finish,” he told Pierce, before looking back at Madison. “You reported that someone had stolen photographs from your attic. Once again, we found no evidence of a break-in or that anyone else had been there.”

“You're out of line, Lieutenant,” Pierce said.

Hamilton held out a hand as if to appease him. “I'm just pointing out the way this looks from my side. Based on Mrs. McKinley's statement a few minutes ago, that she believes her
dead
husband was in this very house, we entered the home to search for an intruder. Surprise, surprise, we didn't find anyone. And, lo and behold, no one has reported Mr. Newsome missing either.”

In spite of her good intentions, Madison couldn't stand by and listen to Hamilton's sarcasm anymore. She took a step forward, but Pierce tightened his grip on her shoulders, pulling her back.

“Calm down,” he whispered in her ear. His voice was harsh, radiating anger. Was he beginning to side with Hamilton against her?

“From where I stand,” Hamilton said, “the only person causing trouble here is you.”

Pierce gently shoved her behind his back. “That's enough.”

Hamilton held his hands out in a placating gesture. “I'm not trying to be difficult, Agent Buchanan. I'm just pointing out the facts as I see them. I can't waste any more resources on one woman with a fixation on her dead husband. She needs help, not the kind of help my department can provide. If she calls again, someone had better be dead or dying.”

 

Chapter Eleven

M
ADISON WAS STILL
ticked over Hamilton's not-so-subtle insult, basically calling her crazy, and threatening to put her in jail. “I
told
you the police would have arrested me if I'd called them the day of the shooting.”

She immediately regretted saying anything. Pierce's jaw tightened and his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as his car bumped along the dirt road leading to his house. He hadn't said anything at all to her since the lieutenant's tirade.

Was he having the same doubts Hamilton had about her? Was he regretting that he'd ever offered to help her?

“When we get inside, I want you to level with me,” he said, his voice tight, harsh. “I want to hear all about that note, and the phone call, and anything else you
forgot
to mention.”

She tensed in the seat beside him.

When the house came into view, he had to quickly turn the wheel to avoid another car parked in front of the cabin. He killed the engine, but instead of getting out of the car, he stared through the windshield at the man standing on the cabin's porch. “What's he doing here?”

The man's arms were crossed and Madison had to squint to make out his face in the shadows from the overhanging roof. “Isn't that Braedon?”

“Unfortunately.” He sat back in his seat, seemingly in no hurry to get out of the car. “Maybe if we sit here long enough, he'll leave.”

“Why don't you like your own brother?”

His face mirrored his surprise. “What makes you think I don't like him?”

“Oh, I don't know—maybe because you frown and complain every time you see him.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's not my brother I have a problem with. It's the notches in his bedpost.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

She huffed out a breath and opened her car door. “Well, I'm not going to sit here all night. I happen to like your brother. He seems very nice. And he's a lot more cheerful than you.”

Pierce jerked his car door open. “Might as well see what he wants.”

When Madison and Pierce were close enough to see Braedon's face, Madison saw that his brows were a dark slash across his forehead. He didn't even look at her. Instead, he directed his ferocious glare at his brother.

“Why didn't you tell us you got shot?”

Pierce groaned. “Who told you?”

“Hamilton called Alex, all up in arms, saying you and . . .” He glanced at Madison then, as if noticing her for the first time. His face flushed a light red. “Sorry, Mrs. McKinley. I shouldn't air family problems in front of you.”

She waved her hand in the air. “Don't apologize. If you're upset about something Hamilton said, then you can lay that at my feet. Your brother has been trying to help me with . . . a little problem I have. It's because of me that he got shot.” She crossed her arms and stepped in front of Pierce. “If you want to yell at someone, yell at me. Leave him alone.”

She squeaked in surprise when Pierce's hands wrapped around her waist, and he lifted her out of his way.

“You don't owe Braedon an explanation. None of this is any of his business. And it's not Alex's business either.”

“It's none of my business that my little brother almost got himself killed and didn't bother to tell his family?”

“Who is Alex?” Madison asked.

“Bruised ribs and a few stitches aren't something to call home about. I don't need any of my brothers looking out for me.”

“Who's Alex?” Madison repeated. “Wait.
Any
of your brothers? Exactly how many brothers do you have?” She glanced back and forth, but neither of the men seemed to even remember she was there.

“You supposedly moved back to Savannah to be close to family again,” Braedon said. “Being part of a family means letting each other know when something bad happens. You've worked those serial-killer cases way too long. You've forgotten what ‘normal' is.”

Pierce aimed a pointed look at Madison. “Let me get her inside. We can discuss this in private.”

“We can discuss it at the house. It's Friday night, or had you forgotten?”

Madison frowned. “The house? Whose house? What's so special about Friday night?”

“I can't make it this week.” Pierce shoved past Braedon to unlock the front door.

“Austin's home.”

Pierce slowly turned around.

Madison watched the staring match between the two brothers for a full minute. “Um, guys, what's going on? Who's Austin?”

Braedon sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. “Alex is . . . was . . . married to Pierce's mom. Austin is our youngest brother. We don't get to see him too often these days. He's been . . . ill. Which is why I'm not going to let Pierce blow off Friday night.” He crossed to the top step. “Dinner is in two hours. If I have to come back to get you, I'm bringing the whole family with me.”

“T
HE HOUSE”
B
RAEDON
had mentioned turned out to be a rambling ranch-style home half an hour south of Savannah. Situated on several acres of land, it was surrounded by a white-washed wooden fence on all sides of the property. A fishing pond stretched out to the right side, from behind the house, all the way to the tree line. And just like with Madison's house, there wasn't a garage. Instead, there was a massive, gravel, circular drive out front.

Pierce pulled his car to a stop next to the white pickup, with its bold B&B lettering, Braedon had driven earlier. Two more pickups, all domestic brands, were lined up beside Braedon's truck. A massive SUV—a black Cadillac Escalade—was parked at the end. But front and center, right by the ramp that led to the front door, was one vehicle that didn't seem to match the rest.

It was a custom, blue van with a wheelchair lift on the back.

She glanced over at him, but he'd made no attempt to move once they'd both gotten out of the car. Instead, he stood sullenly beside her, staring at the van.

“This is your father's house?” she asked.

“Technically he's my stepfather, but he's only ten years older than me, eight years older than Braedon. We just call him Alex.”

“So—do you like him or not?”

He tore his gaze away from the van. “Why would you ask that?”

She threw her hands up in the air. “No reason. You and your family get along so well. And you seem so excited to visit. Why on earth would I think you had any negative feelings about any of them?”

His mouth quirked, but the threatening grin didn't materialize. Instead, he grabbed her hand, and headed toward the trees on the left side of the property, away from the pond.

She had to jog to keep up with his long-legged strides. “Where are we going?”

“Into the woods.”

“Yeah, I can see that.
Why
are we going into the woods?”

“I need to explain a few things before you meet my family.”

“Okay. Maybe you could have explained those things during the drive over here?”

He didn't answer. He kept moving with those ground-eating strides while she was forced to run behind him. When they reached the trees, out of sight of the house, he finally let her go.

She immediately plopped down on a fallen tree and took several deep breaths to slow her racing heart.

He frowned. “Why are you breathing hard?”

“Maybe . . . because I just ran . . . a quarter mile?” She drew a couple more quick breaths. “My legs . . . aren't nearly as long as yours . . . in case you hadn't noticed.”

His face flushed. “Sorry. I wasn't thinking.” He joined her on the fallen tree. “When I saw that van, it brought back some . . . painful memories.”

When he didn't say anything else, she crossed her arms, hugging her jacket against her body. The sun was going down, and here in the shade of the pine and oak trees, the sun's warmth couldn't penetrate.

He scooted closer to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side.

She snuggled gratefully against him, already feeling warmer. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” His voice sounded oddly thick.

“So, you wanted to talk.” She was desperate to keep from thinking about how good it felt, how right it felt, to be held by him.

He let out a harsh breath. “The house is kind of like my family's home base, where we all gather once a week and on holidays.”

“Whose house is it?”

“It was my mom's, passed down through generations. Now it belongs to Alex.”

“Then your mom, she's . . . gone?” She hated to think of him losing his mom, the way she'd lost her dad. She put her hand on his.

He twisted his hand beneath hers, interlacing their fingers. “In a manner of speaking, yes. She left when I was in high school. She said she was bored. She ran off with a younger man. Sent the divorce papers back to Alex through a lawyer. She didn't want anything but her freedom. Didn't even want custody of any of us kids. She was more than happy to foist us off on Alex, even Austin and Matt, who were just babies at the time. They're Alex's only biological children, but he took care of all of us like we were his own.”

Madison froze. Oh God. His mother had abandoned her children, had abandoned Pierce, giving a similar excuse that Madison had given when she'd left—that she was bored and wanted to move on. She suddenly felt lower than the lowest pond scum. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “It's okay. We all pulled together. When my mother left, Alex became the glue that kept the rest of us together, has been ever since.”

She opened her mouth to correct him, to let him know she was apologizing for her own behavior, not his mother's. But she decided now was not the time. This wasn't about her. It was about him, and whatever he'd brought her out here for. “Go on,” she encouraged. “What else did you want to tell me?”

He rubbed his hand up and down her coat sleeve. She couldn't help but wish his hand was tracing across her bare skin instead.

“We don't all share the same mom or the same dad. It's a bit . . . complicated. But we're brothers, regardless of whose blood flows through our veins.” He watched her carefully, as if waiting for her approval.

She nodded, wondering why he felt he owed her this explanation about his family. Was that why he'd brought her out here? To tell her about his family tree?

“Alex lives here alone most of the time. When Austin isn't in treatment somewhere, he lives here too.”

“Treatment?”

“Austin has a neurological disorder, similar to muscular dystrophy, but not quite the same. It's more . . . unpredictable, one of those ‘orphan' diseases that's so rare there hasn't been a lot of research on it.” His jaw tightened. “Every time Alex hears about some new kind of experimental drug, or a study, he signs Austin up for it. One of these days, probably sooner than later, Austin is going to refuse to enroll in more studies. Alex is way too protective.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I didn't mean to get into all that. But I didn't want you surprised when you walked in. I wanted to prepare you.”

“I'm so sorry. I can tell you love him, and all of your family, very much. I shouldn't have teased you earlier.”

He gave her a pained look as he pulled his arm back from around her shoulders.

She scrambled up from the log. “Is it your ribs? Did I hurt you?” She reached out to open his jacket to see if he was bleeding again.

He grabbed her hands and stood. “My ribs are fine.”

“Then, what—”

“In spite of how I've been behaving, my family and I are actually quite close.”

She sensed she wasn't going to like what he was about to tell her. “So is mine. Or, at least, my brother and I are close. Mom's another story,” she teased, trying to coax a smile out of him. But he wouldn't even look at her.

Not a good sign.

She hugged her arms around her middle, feeling the chill much more now that she wasn't snuggled against his warm body. “Go on,” she urged, “before I become a Popsicle out here.”

“Stop joking,” he said. “I need to tell you something.”

She wasn't joking. She really was freezing. But judging from the harsh frown on his face, she didn't think he'd be interested in hearing that declaration. She stared up at him, waiting.

“Braedon was angry about the shooting earlier, because we have no secrets from each other,” he said, tensing up, as if expecting her to be upset.

Was she missing something here? “No secrets. Okay, got it. Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

He sighed heavily. “If you'll remember, we were going to meet my family once, back when you and I were dating. We were going to go to Savannah, but something came up at work and we had to cancel.”

The weekend before she'd left him. She remembered it vividly, because that's when she'd realized how serious he was getting. She knew he wasn't the type to casually invite someone to see his family, and neither was she.

“I remember,” she said quietly.

“That was the weekend before—”

“I know.” She glanced back toward the break in the trees, growing more miserable the longer this conversation dragged on. Not just because of the cold.

“A few weeks later, I made that trip to Savannah, by myself.”

Her stomach jumped with dread as everything clicked. “They know about us? About . . . how it ended?”

He nodded. “No secrets.” His expression turned wary, as if he expected her to explode.

She wished, for once, that her infamous temper would come to her rescue. But instead of exploding, she felt like imploding, crumpling in on herself and curling into a tight ball. “They must all hate me,” she whispered.