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“Mrs. Penroy…”

“Nope.” Her husky voice added a punch to her abrupt response.

Jackson swallowed, chastising himself for feeling even a bit intimidated by the woman. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. We thought this was the residence of Garth Penroy and his wife.”

“And you are?”

“Jackson Moore. This is my brother, Easton Hargrove. We wanted to talk to Mr. Penroy about someone who’s been using his post office box. The man’s name is English Barlowe.”

“Well, damn.” Astute blue eyes shifted from Jackson to Easton and back. “You’re English’s boys, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Easton responded. “Two of them, anyway. How do you know him?”

She sighed. “I’m the one you’re looking for.”

Turning, she moved back into her house while leaving the front door wide open.

“Reckon we’re supposed to follow?” Easton asked.

Jackson shrugged. “Looks like it, but we should be prepared for anything.”

“Copy that.”

The two men stepped inside, and Jackson was struck by the stark surroundings. The rooms he passed had minimal furnishings with nothing personal to add warmth or personality — no pictures on the walls, no curtains to decorate windows covered with venetian blinds, no knickknacks on mantles or side tables. The walls were beige. The carpet was beige. No cobwebs or a speck of dust to be seen. It felt very clinical, no-nonsense and no fuss — a glimpse into the personality of the woman they’d just met.

She led them through the house to a room in the back corner. She pushed open the door and breezed through like a commander about to address the troops. If she didn’t have a history of military service, Jackson would be shocked. Her carriage and demeanor spoke of years of military training which was ingrained in seasoned soldiers.

Jackson stepped inside the room and did a double take. Very spacious, the room was one he could picture himself relaxing in. Two plush recliners faced a wide-screen smart television mounted on a soothing, pale blue wall. A hospital bed was in one corner with a twin bed running parallel to it along the same wall. The floor was shiny hardwood. Family photos and framed military medals adorned the walls. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases were crammed full of books and magazines.

Jackson’s gaze finally settled on the man in the motorized wheelchair, staring blankly out the open window, the white lacy curtains blowing in the breeze. His ashy hair was thin, and his pale skin hung loosely on his skeleton. His nose arched like an eagle’s beak, and his thick brows shadowed his eyes. He didn’t move or acknowledge Jackson or Easton’s presence, but the man did shift his gaze to watch the woman as she sat in one of the recliners. She motioned for Jackson and Easton to occupy two straight-back chairs which were probably as uncomfortable as they looked.

“Garth,” she said with her keen gaze on Jackson and Easton. “You have two visitors. At least they came to see you, but it’s really me they need to see.”

The man used stiff hands to turn his wheelchair around, and Jackson noted the slight drop to the right side of his face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Penroy. My name is Jackson Moore. This is my brother Easton Hargrove. We’re here to talk about English Barlowe.”

The man gave no sign he understood what was being said, but Jackson could see in his eyes that he was aware of everything. Something about the man seemed familiar to Jackson, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away while he tried to place the man.

“You never told us your name.” Jackson heard Easton address the woman.

“I’m Garth’s wife.”

Her response had Jackson’s eyes whipping back to stare at her. She held up a hand to stop them from asking the obvious question.

“I never took Garth’s name. I kept my own, and he was fine with it. You can call me Deb. Before I tell you more, why don’t you tell me why English sent you here?”

“He didn’t. He’s in a coma after being beaten within an inch of his life. We’re trying to figure out who could have done it, and our investigation brought us here. How do you know English?” Jackson tried to gauge her reaction when he told her about English, but her face was unreadable.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Deb said, pursing her lips. “Is he going to make it?”

“He’s stable now, but it’s touch and go,” Jackson answered. “We don’t have a lot of leads, so we’re hoping you can point us in the right direction.”

“How could your investigation bring you here? We haven’t heard from English in a while.”

“We believe someone from English’s past tracked him down to exact revenge, and now they’re threatening his family. His entire family. For them to know about his entire family, the attackers had to know English from his younger days. We have been trying to find people who knew him then, someone who could give us a lead on who could have orchestrated the attack.”

Deb fell silent, and Jackson stood, his patience zapped.