Page 11 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER SIX

The rain hammered against the Tahoe’s windshield as we pulled out of Patricia Whitman’s driveway.

I couldn’t shake the image of her standing at that window—no tears, no collapse, just cold fury waiting for its moment.

The oyster shells crunched beneath our tires, and through the passenger mirror I watched the Colonial house disappear into darkness.

“That woman knows more than she’s telling us,” I said, settling back against the heated seat.

Jack’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he navigated the winding country road. “She’s also just found out her husband was killed for trying to expose three-hundred-year-old murders. That’s enough to process without us pushing harder. We’ll circle back.”

Something in his voice made me look at him more closely. “Jack? What’s bothering you?”

He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the rhythmic sweep of windshield wipers fighting the rain.

“My family’s been in King George County since the early 1700s,” he said finally.

“Lawsons were among the original landowners, built their wealth on tobacco farming and land speculation. I’ve always been proud of that legacy—the idea that we were founding families, that we helped build this community. ”

“And now you’re wondering if that wealth was built on something uglier,” I said softly.

“William Lawson’s grave was marked just like the others. What if…” He trailed off, but I could hear the weight of the unfinished thought.

“What if your ancestor was involved in murdering Bridget Ashworth? What if he was part of the conspiracy to steal her land?”

Jack’s knuckles went white against the steering wheel.

“My mother used to tell me stories about William Lawson when I was a kid. How he was a respected member of the community, how he helped establish the county boundaries, how he testified in important legal cases. I named my horse after him when I was twelve.”

The pain in his voice made my chest ache. Jack’s family history wasn’t just academic to him—it was part of his identity, part of what had shaped him into the man who believed so deeply in justice and protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves.

“Jack,” I said carefully, “we don’t know anything for certain yet. William Lawson’s grave being marked could mean a dozen different things.”

“Could it?” His laugh was bitter. “Five graves marked around a murder scene, all from the same time period as Bridget Ashworth’s execution. That’s not a coincidence, Jaye. Someone’s sending a message about those families.”

I reached over and placed my hand on his arm, feeling the muscle tension beneath his jacket. “Then we’ll find out the truth. Whatever it is.”

“What if the truth is that my family built their fortune on blood money? What if every acre of land we own, every dollar in our accounts, came from murdering an innocent woman three hundred years ago?”

The anguish in his voice broke my heart. This was more than professional concern—this was personal in the deepest possible way.

“Whatever the truth is,” I said quietly, “we’ll face it together. And if your family was involved, that doesn’t define who you are now. You’ve spent your entire career fighting for justice.”

Jack nodded, but I could see the worry still etched in the lines around his eyes. He was quiet for another moment before seeming to shake himself back to the present.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My parents’ place. If my family’s name is on that grave, they could be in danger. And maybe they know something about William Lawson that could help us understand why his grave was marked.”

The Lawson estate sprawled across prime Virginia countryside like something from a coffee table book about Southern living.

Even through the driving rain, you could sense the permanence of it—hundreds of acres that had been in Jack’s family since the mid 1600s, though the house he’d grown up in had been built at the turn of the twentieth century.

The circular drive wound through towering oaks older than the country itself, their branches whipping in the storm, creating shadows that danced in our headlights.

The house was understated elegance—red brick with white columns, not ostentatious but solid, permanent, like the family itself.

The windows glowed warmly against the storm, and I’d spent countless hours here growing up, more than at my own home.

Seeing it always made something in my chest ease, even on a night like this.

Before Jack could even kill the engine, the front door flew open and his mother appeared on the covered porch, backlit by the warm light from inside.

Jeri Lawson stood maybe an inch over five feet, but she commanded attention like someone three times her size.

Her dark hair, the same shade as Jack’s, was pulled back in a casual ponytail, and she wore jeans and a University of Virginia sweatshirt that had seen better days.

But her pale blue eyes were sharp as ever, and I guarantee she had already cataloged everything from Jack’s tense shoulders to my exhaustion.

“Get in here before you drown!” she called out over the rain. “And don’t tell me this is a social call. You’ve got that official look about you. And I’m not going to take offense that it’s been a week since I last saw you and you’re not just here because you missed my cooking.”

I chuckled and we dashed through the rain to the porch, and Jeri immediately pulled Jack into a fierce hug despite being soaked.

“You look terrible,” she said bluntly, then turned to me with arms already opening. “Come here, my girl. You look hungry. Why aren’t you feeding her, Jack? She’s always been skin and bones.”

“I’ve been trying,” Jack said, water dripping from his jacket onto the porch floor. “She’s stubborn.”

“She’s always been hardheaded too,” Jeri said, pulling me into a hug that smelled like vanilla and the coffee she’d probably been drinking.

She pulled back, studying my face with those keen eyes.

“You need some real food. Rich! The kids are here! Come on, y’all come inside and get dry.

This weather is driving me batty. I just washed my car yesterday.

” She took a quick breath and then said, “I made a pot roast for dinner. There’s plenty left over. ”

I was used to Jeri’s rapid-fire speak. She had the gift of being able to talk about everything and nothing all at the same time.

Jack’s father emerged from somewhere deeper in the house, reading glasses perched on his nose and what looked like financial papers in his hand.

Richard Lawson had passed his blue eyes and strong jaw down to his son, though his hair had gone silver years ago.

He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d never met a situation he couldn’t handle.

“Jack, you look like someone just told you the Redskins moved to Dallas,” Rich said, setting down his papers to pull his son into a back-slapping hug. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s what we need to talk about,” Jack said.

“Well come on into the kitchen,” he said. “I’m sure your mother is dying to feed you. Jaye, you look beautiful. Give me a hug.”

And I melted into his embrace and held on a little longer.

Jack was the best man I’d ever known. And he’d learned everything about what it meant to be a man from his father.

It’s why I wasn’t worried about the parenting part of having a baby.

Even if I didn’t know what I was doing, Jack had the experience of being raised by two people who’d done things right.

The kitchen was exactly as I remembered—warm yellow walls that seemed to glow in the lamplight, copper pots hanging from a wrought-iron rack, and a massive farmhouse table that could seat twelve but usually just held Jeri’s latest projects.

Tonight it was covered with what looked like tax documents and estate planning papers—the kind of paperwork that came with managing centuries of accumulated wealth—and at the far end was her sewing machine and a stack of fabric squares.

“Ignore the mess,” Jeri said. “Your dad is running numbers to do upgrades to some rental properties, and I’m making a quilt.”

“That looks like a baby quilt,” I said, looking at the cute fabrics she’d chosen.

“It’s always nice to have one as backup when a baby shower pops up,” she said. “Or when someone has unexpected news.” She fluttered her lashes at me and it was everything I could do to keep my face blank of expression.

“Pot roast smells good,” Jack said, diverting her attention.

“I haven’t even put anything away yet,” she said, hurrying over to the stove to scoop up mashed potatoes and cover it with her pot roast and gravy. “It’s still nice and warm. Y’all sit at the table. Rich, clear some space.”

“Already done,” he said. “And maybe while you’re getting things ready Jack can explain what’s going on. Do we have any pie?”

“Of course we have pie,” Jeri said. “I made a cherry pie this morning. You already knew that.”

Rich winked at me and said, “Yes, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget you made a cherry pie. Go ahead, son. You look like you’re about to burst at the seams.”

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the news about the most recent murder,” Jack said without preamble. “Thomas Whitman was found on Bridget Ashworth’s grave.”

Rich nodded, pushing his reading glasses up to rest on his head.

“It’s all that’s been on the television.

Is it the same Thomas Whitman who wanted permission to dig up some of our property?

Archaeologist, right? He could never prove there was anything to dig up, so he wasn’t able to get the permits he wanted since it’s our private land. ”

“He’s the one,” Jack said, nodding. “But the case has taken an interesting turn—there were other graves marked—old graves—and it’s related to the murder. William Lawson’s grave was one of those marked.”