The only reason I haven’t lost it today is because of Luke. Somehow, he knew exactly how to comfort me.
I don’t know what it says about me that “comforting me” equates to “handcuffing me,” but I do know that I felt better this morning after the orgasms and the tender way he held me until I fell asleep. It’s the only way I got through the day.
And now here I am, waiting to confront my dad.
I’m still at the table, drinking from a glass of water I wish was whiskey, when I hear his cruiser pull into the driveway. I don't move when I hear his boots on the porch. I just sit there with my hands folded on the table in front of me, the evidence room photographs tucked into a manila folder in front of me.
He walks in and stops.
"Harper." His voice is careful. Wary. "What are you doing up?"
"Waiting for you." My finger touches the folder.
He sets his keys on the counter, his movements careful. He's still in uniform—badge, gun belt, the whole nine yards. Sheriff Tom Garrett. Pillar of the community. My father.
"You should be asleep," he says, moving toward the fridge. "It's late."
“What’s going on, Dad?” I ask openly. There’s no point in beating around the bush.
He opens the refrigerator and looks inside. “Some idiot ran his car off the bridge out the old county road. The railing’s busted up.”
I still, waiting for him to mention the explosion or anything else suspicious he found there, but he just sets a Tupperware container on the counter and keeps rummaging in the fridge. Evidence of the explosion has to be there, right? I frown. I’d think that it’d be visible even at night.
I don’t like it. All my Spidey senses tingle with warning. The only thing I know to do is to confront him head-on. "I went to the evidence room this morning."
His hand freezes on the refrigerator door handle. For a second, he doesn't move. Then he continues looking for something to eat. “Did Strickland clean it up? I told him I wanted it organized.”
“I don’t know, but it was plenty organized for me to find what I was looking for.”
Straightening, he closes the refrigerator and finally faces me.
I open the folder and take out the map I marked up. “I went through the unsolved cases from the past five years. It’s funny what you find when you start looking for patterns.”
He folds his arms across his chest, giving me his official sheriff’s scowl. "Harper?—"
"Twelve properties over five years.” I keep my voice steady. Cop voice. The one I use when I'm taking statements. “Property owner gets harassed, arrested, or has an accident. They lose their land to foreclosure or estate sale, and every time, Clearwater Holdings buys it."
He doesn't say anything. Just stands there in the dim kitchen light, his face shadowed and unreadable.
Swallowing thickly, I set the photos I took of the files on the table. "And every single case, every harassment complaint, every accident report, every suspicious death, was signed off by you." My voice cracks on the last word.
He closes his eyes. "You shouldn't have gone through those files."
"Why?" I stand, my chair scraping against the linoleum. I’m not sure if I’m asking him why I shouldn’t have looked or why he did it.
Sighing, he holds his hand up, like he's trying to calm someone hysterical. "Harper, it's not what you think."
"Then tell me what it is." I'm shaking, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Tell me how you signed off on twelve cases that are exactly the same without questioning what’s going on. Tell me that how you couldn’t have suspicions about Clearwater Holdings and their motives for buying up all that land, when you’re sworn to serve and protect Iron Ridge. Tell me how you could ignore the evidence Bob Hayes brought you and then treat his death like it was an accident. Mr. Hayes was yourfriend,” I say, my voice rising.
Dad’s face reddens, and he points a finger at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Harper. You’re going to stir up everything I’ve been trying to prevent. You’re jumping to conclusions and sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”
“The hell they don’t concern me,” I yell. “I’m your fucking deputy.”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” He lurches forward, his hand lifting.
I flinch, waiting for his hand to connect with my face, but it doesn’t. When his hand lowers, fisting at his side, I gape at him. He’s never hit me before—not even a swat on my butt as a kid. I don’t even know what to think or do right now.
“Jake Callahan is behind this, isn’t he?” Dad spits out.