What We May Be: An MMF Romantic Mystery Page 5

  Laughing, he stepped past her into the station. Coffee, Irish Spring, and a singular Sean Hale scent tickled her senses, and she wondered how many promises would be broken by the time this was all over.

  Chapter Four

  Trevor leaned partway out the door to check on Annie and Jaylen. They’d scooted closer together on the bench swing at the far end of the screened-in porch, and Jaylen’s arm was stretched out behind her. Trevor bit the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling too wide. “You two good?” he asked when he was sure he could talk without cartwheels in his voice.

  Annie made no such attempt, her voice as bright and lively as it had been throughout dinner. “Just let us know when the pie is ready.”

  “Ten minutes or so,” he said, judging by the aromas of baking crust and simmering peaches wafting from the kitchen. “We’ll shout.”

  He ducked back inside and up the two steps to the raised galley kitchen where Charlie was washing dishes, her hips swaying to the blues album he’d put on the turntable after dinner. He wrenched his gaze away from temptation, even as his mind rewound to the night four weeks ago he still couldn’t believe was real. When Charlie’s entire body had writhed against his, when his fingers had slipped between her folds to tease her, when his dick had slid through her tight fist, against her hip, then into—

  Finally the mental brakes kicked in, stopping the burgeoning memory of the last person he should still be thinking about, no matter how many times he’d gotten off to the replay of that night over the past month. He focused instead on the here and now, the lines of Charlie’s back and shoulders, thankfully a bit more relaxed than when she’d first arrived at the house. The burgers from Pier Point, Annie’s good mood, and the pie he’d made from scratch that afternoon had worked their magic. Sort of. Whatever had gone down at the station after he and Annie had been shooed out—because he damn well knew that’s what had happened—had riled Charlie up. And not in the heckle-the-umpire good way.

  “You might have Annie fooled—”

  Charlie raised a brow. “Fooled or distracted?”

  He leaned a hip against the counter next to her. “Either way, she’s not caught on to the Charlie-sized ball of nerves who couldn’t sit still on the barstool beside her all through dinner.”

  “But you noticed.”

  “Impossible not to.” Trevor snagged the dishtowel off her shoulder. “Tell me what happened at the station after we left. Is it the case?”

  “No, the case is fine,” she answered sharply, then cringed. Trevor snickered at her self-awareness, and she let out a breath on a chuckle of her own, more of her tension leaving with it. “We’ve got it handled.”

  “Something else, then?” he asked as he put the dishes away.

  Charlie removed the stopper from the sink but didn’t respond.

  He ventured another guess. “City hall giving you a hard time?”

  She scooted the coffeemaker out from under the cabinet and filled the pot with water. “Our illustrious mayor left a voicemail. Usual political bullshit.” She poured water into the machine, then replaced the pot under the drip. “With the election coming up, Craig needs to appear in control. Otherwise, the fixed results will be obvious. He demanded a meeting on Monday.”

  Hanover’s mayor, Craig Rowan, was Trevor’s least favorite human in all of Hanover. Had been since high school. They’d had a brief reprieve from him in college, Craig partying hard at Wake Forest like the frat boy he was destined to be, but then he’d returned home and followed his family’s footsteps into local politics. He was like the shit that stuck to the bottom of your shoe that you could never get off; always causing a fucking mess.

  Trevor retrieved four mugs from the cabinet, set two aside for Annie and Jaylen, and doctored the other two, one sugar in Charlie’s, two plus cream in his. “But you’ve got your FBI interview Monday.”

  Charlie bobbled the scoop of coffee grounds.

  He shot out a hand, steadying hers, and they poured the grounds into the filter together. “So that’s what this is about?”

  “Trevor.”

  He tugged the scoop from her hand, set it aside, and pressed Brew on the machine. He clasped Charlie’s shoulders and angled her toward him. “You’ll get the job.”

  She stole the towel back and folded it, avoiding his stare. “Are you sure you want me there? In DC with you? I don’t want to hold you back.”

  He trailed a hand down her arm and snagged one of hers. “I wouldn’t have made the offer if I didn’t want you there with me. I could be in a new town all alone or there with my best friend.” He squeezed her hand. “I’d choose the latter every day.”

  He’d choose more if it had worked between them after the first time Sean had left, but it hadn’t. They loved each other, no doubt, but without Sean, it had felt like too much was missing. Like they couldn’t be all they were meant to be without him. But after their recent night together, after he’d fallen back into Charlie’s arms and into the something more they could be that was always right there beneath the surface, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it would work this time, just the two of them. Without Sean. The attraction was constant as was the yearning for something more, but he was loathe to risk the most important friendship in his life, especially when he knew the likely outcome was failure. It was more important to have Charlie in his life as a friend, as a roommate in DC, than to not have her in his life at all. Sean had moved on, and they would too. Always together, but in a way that worked for them.

  “What about Tracy?” Charlie said. “Is she gonna cause an issue?”

  He laughed out loud. “That assumes she comes up for air from the Julian-haze long enough to notice I’m gone.”

  The ink was barely dry on their divorce and his ex-wife had already married the man she’d had a two-year affair with. An affair that hadn’t needed to have been an affair at all, but there lay the crux of the irreconcilable differences that had doomed his marriage, at least as far as he was concerned. As far as Tracy was concerned, well, that was a different matter, most of which had to do with the woman Trevor stood beside now.

  “She’ll get her share of the house proceeds when I move out.” The profit from the sale of the home he’d bought for Tracy as a wedding gift were being held in escrow, pending the end of his short-term leaseback. “She’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

  And of Charlie.

  Who, he realized, was trying to distract him. “Stop dodging.”

  “Sean is back.”

  Her right hand was still in his, but Trevor could’ve sworn she’d punched him in the gut. “What did you say?”

  Her gaze darted past his shoulder, toward the patio, and Trevor realized he’d raised his voice. How else was he supposed to hear himself over the ringing in his ears? He lowered it when he spoke again, hissing through his teeth. “Sean has been gone for ten years.” Except for that one night after Mitch and Cal’s funeral. A night they’d didn’t talk about in earshot of anyone else. The night Trevor clearly couldn’t get out of his fucking head.

  “He’s here now,” she said. “About the case.”

  He snatched back his hand. “Bullshit.”

  “Hey,” a voice called behind him, and they both whipped around to find Annie standing in the doorway. “Is that the oven timer going off?”

  Not just ringing in his head, then.

  “Shit,” Charlie cursed.

  He reached the oven first, turning off the heat and blocking Charlie’s path. “Where’s he staying?”

  “Trevor.”

  “Where?” He needed to see this—Sean—for himself. Needed to find out what the fuck their ex was playing at because Trevor’s warning had been crystal fucking clear. Charlie did not deserve to get her heart broken again.

  And neither did he.

  “Where, Charlotte?”

  Dark conflicted eyes held his, same as they had that morning a month ago when he’d walked out of the beach house bedroom to find Charlie huddled in the corner of th
e couch, wrapped in a blanket, quietly crying.

  The answer then had been “The Hague.”

  The answer today was “The Sand Dollar Inn.”

  A whole hell of a lot closer.

  The Sand Dollar Inn had seen better days. A twenty-room motor lodge, it stood at the south end of Hanover’s beachfront peninsula, one half of the U-shaped complex fronting the Atlantic Ocean, the other the Intracoastal Waterway, and the lobby, pool, and patio in the middle riding the inlet. Between the two motel wings, the pot-hole-ridden parking lot was full of cars, weekend summer travelers who were willing to overlook chipped paint and rusty gutters for spacious rooms and water views.

  Trevor didn’t give a damn about the view. His sole focus was on room twelve at the end of the beachfront wing. Because of course Sean would pick the room with that number, Charlie’s favorite, and somehow manage to snag it on a busy weekend. He charged down the covered walkway from the lobby, still not believing Sean was back in Hanover. Just thinking the other man’s name made Trevor’s heart race and his blood boil, made him fist the jewelry in his hand so hard his nails dug into his palm. He needed to see for himself before he could believe the one man who should’ve never returned to Hanover had done so.

  Again.

  He reached the last room and rapped his knuckles against the wooden door. “Sean, if you’re in there, open up!”

  When no one answered, Trevor sidestepped the door and peered inside the room through the gauzy curtains. One look at the form standing in the middle of the room and Trevor had to grasp the window frame to steady himself, anger warring with relief warring with the spark of desire that flared anytime he laid eyes on Sean Hale. And there was no denying that’s who was inside the room. Trevor would know that body anywhere. Head bowed, hand on his nape, Sean appeared to be stuck, unsure whether to answer the door or not.

  Trevor didn’t give him an option. Seizing on his anger, Trevor raised his fist and pounded the door again. “Sean!” he bellowed. “Open this goddamn door right now, or I swear to God, I’ll break it down.”

  “Cool it, Trev!” Sean hollered.

  Trevor’s jaw clenched. He’d banished that nickname, but he’d be lying if he said a shiver didn’t race up his spine at hearing Sean shout it again. Ignoring the trill of excitement, he held firm to his anger, banging the door until Sean came unstuck. The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Trevor charged inside, shoving the jewelry against Sean’s chest. “Fuck that. And fuck you too.”

  Sean gasped, and since Trevor, back to him, didn’t hear metal hit the floor, he guessed his ex was getting a good look at the items he’d forced him to catch. Two necklaces on leather bands—Sean’s with two hammered metal charms, a heart and a baseball bat; Trevor’s, a matching heart and a catcher’s mitt. Charlie’s gifts to them after they’d won the CWS. Trevor had contemplated banishing the keepsakes after Cal, that night after their police academy graduation when Sean had left the first time, had given him Sean’s necklace, along with Sean’s ring he’d proposed to him and Charlie with that morning. But Trevor hadn’t been able to part with the necklaces and Charlie, through tears that night as she’d handed him her ring, had asked him not to part with those either. He’d tucked the jewelry in a satchel in the back of a drawer until he’d recently debated whether to pack them for the move to DC. But he hadn’t wanted to upset Charlie, and he still couldn’t part with the mementos from the best period of his life. He’d left the rings at home, but the necklaces… In Sean’s hands, Trevor hoped the damn things felt more like a couple tons than a couple ounces, that Sean would understand the heavy heart Trevor had never been able to banish either.

  The door clicked shut and Trevor spun. Sean pocketed the necklaces, then lifted his hands, palms out. Like he’d done that day a month ago when he’d made a promise he clearly hadn’t kept. Incensed, Trevor closed the distance between them and did the one thing Charlie had kept him from doing after the funeral. He let his right hook fly, right into Sean’s jaw.

  Bending at the waist, Sean braced a hand on his knee and cradled his face with the other. “Fuck, you hit hard.”

  “You bet your sorry ass I do,” Trevor seethed over his hunched form. “And there’s more where that came from if you don’t get the hell out of town.”

  “Trev, calm down.”

  “Fuck calm, and stop calling me that. You made a promise, and I told you what would happen if you broke it. I’m not gonna let you hurt her again. You need to leave. Now.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Wrong answer.” Trevor lifted his knee and rammed it into Sean’s chin.

  Head flying back, Sean slumped against the closed door. “Fuck, man, if you’d stop hitting me for five seconds, I’d explain why I’m here.”

  “I don’t care.” Trevor crowded him against the door. “You left. Twice. And both times, I made a promise to myself and Charlie to always take care of us. I keep my promises.”

  “Trev, I didn’t mean—”

  “A decade we’ve been here, never quite moving on, never quite making it work, neither one of us, and when we’re finally ready for a fresh start, here you are. The past thrown in our faces. Again.”

  “Like I told Charlie, I’m here as a simple favor for a friend. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’ll just be in and out.”

  Trevor laughed, an unhinged cackle, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do when faced with such a blatant lie. “In and out, my ass, and you wouldn’t know simple if it punched you in the fucking face.”

  Sean pushed off the door and straightened to his full height. “Are you mad for her or for you?”

  Trevor didn’t back down either, leaving less than a foot of space between them, every inch of it vibrating. “Both of us. But yeah, me too, asshole. I loved you, and you also made it possible for me to love my best friend. We had it all, Sean, and then you fucking left. Both times without telling me goodbye. How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel?”

  Sean’s body swayed toward his, a hand coming up as if to cup his face. “I couldn’t—”

  Trevor stopped him short, hand around Sean’s wrist, holding on to his anger and resisting the promise of Sean’s touch. “Whatever you’re gonna say next, don’t, because you don’t know if you could or couldn’t. You didn’t give us a fucking chance.”

  Sean’s fingers curled, deflating with the rest of him. “Trevor, I’m sorry.”

  He wished that was enough. Wished it was enough to wipe away the pain of the past ten years and of that morning a month ago when he’d been left behind again without so much as a word or parting kiss. But it wasn’t. He couldn’t trust Sean not to leave again. In and out he’d said. No pretense of staying this time. Why the fuck had he even come? He released Sean’s wrist and stalked the opposite direction of the tempting past toward the open sliding glass doors. “I’ve been picking up the pieces after you for ten years, Sean, and I’m fucking tired. We all are.”

  Direct hit, judging by Sean’s sharp inhale behind him. Good, he deserved to—

  Trevor drew up short next to the table in the middle of the room. He’d seen his share of crime scene photos over the years—he’d practically been raised by the Henbys—but they were more disturbing when they were someone he personally knew. As with Mitch’s and Cal’s murders, the photos from the scene of Jefferson Marshall’s death were no easier to see. There were shots of how they’d found him—hanging from the barn rafters with a thick rope noose around his neck, face bloated and discolored. He was clothed in dress slacks, a button-down shirt, and a sports jacket, wrinkled and torn in multiple places. The pictures of him in a body bag were no better—vacant eyes open in his mangled face; deep, red ligature marks scoring his neck; hands and nails scraped and bloodied.

  There was one photo in the file not of Jeff, and Sean had placed that picture in the middle of the table. A thin strip of paper with a handwritten note on it. A quote Trevor recognized immediately. He’d highlighted and underlined it in the worn paperback
he kept in his desk. “Cordelia.”

  “What?”

  “The note. The photos…” Taken together, the picture—the scene—resolved. “It’s Cordelia’s death from King Lear.”

  Sean hustled to his side. “Explain.”

  Trevor picked up the photo of the note. “This quote is from the original text.” He handed Sean the picture. “King Lear says it after he finds his daughter, Cordelia, murdered—”

  “In a barn. I remember now. You were in that play our senior year.” A flicker of a smile, then his brow furrowed. “She was hung in a barn.”

  Trevor nodded. “Falsely accused of treason.”

  “Treason? An HU professor?” Sean’s gaze darted from the photo to the table and back. “Jefferson was slight of build. Easy snatch and grab from campus. Two points for convenience. He was also insanely well connected. Ten points for treason.” He tossed the photo on the table. “Any idea how Jeff might be connected, falsely or not, with treason of some sort?”

  “No, but I can ask around. He’s on my tenure committee, but otherwise, I tried to steer clear of him. He was a colossal asshole.”

  Sean chuckled. “Consistent with what I’ve heard. Any info would be helpful, but be discreet. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with yet.”

  Trevor leaned a hip against the table and crossed his arms. “I may be a professor, but I’ve spent most of my life around cops.”

  Sean inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll also talk to Marsh.”

  “Marsh?”

  “Jeff’s son, Emmitt Marshall. He’s a colleague and the friend I’m here for. Charlie didn’t mention him?”

  “She said, ‘Sean is back’ and everything kind of went red.” Grinning ruefully, he circled a hand in front of his face, then did the same in front of Sean’s. “Sorry about the hits.”