Page 25 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Virginia countryside unfurled before us like a watercolor painting left in the rain, all bleeding greens and soft edges that should have been soothing but somehow felt ominous instead.
Jack’s hands were steady on the wheel, but I could read the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened whenever he glanced at the folder on the back seat that held three centuries of buried secrets.
“You know what’s eating at me?” I said, watching a red-tailed hawk circle lazily over a tobacco field that probably hadn’t changed much since Bridget Ashworth’s time.
“The fact that someone’s been planning this for a long time,” Jack said without hesitation. “The voice distortion, the specific questions about property boundaries—that’s not casual curiosity. That’s reconnaissance.”
“Exactly.” I shifted in my seat. “Someone’s been watching, waiting, gathering information. The question is how long they’ve been at it.”
Our house rose from the pine-covered cliff like something out of an architectural magazine. It was supposed to be our sanctuary, a place where the ugliness of our work couldn’t follow us. But tonight, even home didn’t feel entirely safe.
The office that had once been Jack’s private retreat now looked like a war room, with Morton’s documents spread across every surface like battle plans. The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with secrets of their own.
“Time for a briefing with the team,” Jack said, already reaching for his phone. “How do you feel about pizza?”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “I can do pizza. Maybe. It’s all coming up in the morning anyway.”
“You’ve got to think positive,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe you won’t be sick.”
“I’ll remind you you said that when you’re holding my hair back in the morning. We’ll see how positive you feel.”
While Jack made calls, I found myself studying the photocopied pages of Ezekiel Morton’s journal, trying to imagine the man who’d written these words.
His handwriting was careful, precise—the work of someone who understood that his words might be read long after he was gone.
But between the lines, I could read the weight of a terrible decision, the slow erosion of a man’s soul under the pressure of keeping a deadly secret.
I must have been lost in his journal longer than I thought because the sound of gravel crunching under tires caught me by surprise.
Through the window, I watched Cole unfold himself from his pickup truck with the easy grace of a man who’d spent his life moving with purpose.
He was moving a little slower than he normally did, and I could see he was favoring his ribs some from the altercation at the station that morning.
“Heck of a thing,” he said by way of greeting. “Makes you wonder what other skeletons are rattling around in these old family closets.”
Martinez arrived moments later. Where Cole was all rough edges and cowboy pragmatism, Martinez was polish and precision. But beneath the expensive veneer was a sharp mind and a relentless pursuit of justice that made him one of the best detectives I’d ever worked with.
“This feels like something out of a Gothic novel,” Martinez said, picking up one of Morton’s journal pages with the careful reverence of someone who understood the weight of history. “Conspiracy, murder, stolen land—all we need is a mysterious woman in white wandering the moors.”
“Don’t give anyone ideas,” Jack muttered.
The third arrival was Deputy Potts, and watching her climb out of her county vehicle was like observing a study in controlled efficiency.
She moved with the precise economy of someone who’d learned that wasted motion could mean missed evidence, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that somehow managed to look both professional and severe.
“Sheriff,” she said, her voice carrying that neutral tone that good cops learned to use when they wanted to keep their thoughts private. “Nice house.”
“We like it,” he said. “Come on in. The office is through there. Pizza should be here soon.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” she said, nodding casually to Cole and Martinez. “I’ve got preliminary findings from the Mills scene.”
She carried her tablet and camera like extensions of herself, tools that had become as natural as breathing.
Potts was the kind of CSI who saw patterns where others saw chaos, who could read a crime scene like a novel written in blood and fiber evidence.
But there was something else there too—an intensity that went beyond professional dedication into something more personal.
“Hold your horses, Deputy Do-Right,” Cole said. “Pizza isn’t even here yet. We’re gonna need fuel for the brain.”
“My brain is always fueled,” she said, deadpan. “But I’m a little concerned now knowing yours isn’t.”
Cole grinned and crossed his arms lazily across his broad chest. “Oh, there’s always something rattling around up here. That’s why I make the big bucks.”
Potts widened her eyes comically. “I was wondering what that sound was. I thought someone had a pack of Tic Tacs in their pocket.”
Martinez snorted out a laugh and gave Potts a knuckle bump. “Welcome to the team.”
The doorbell rang again and Cole said, “That’s probably Lily. I just told her to meet us here. We’re like ships passing in the night with our schedules.”
“See,” I told him. “It’s like you’re married already.”
Cole grimaced and said, “That’s what I keep telling her. I think I’m wearing her down.”
“Golly, Cole,” I said. “You’re such a romantic. Just what every girl wants. To be worn down.”
“If y’all are going to gang up on me all night I’m going to go off duty and switch to beer.”
Lily came into the room with an oversize backpack and eyes only for Cole.
Lily was the kind of beautiful that smacked you right in the face, even though she was wearing one of Cole’s police academy hoodies and a pair of loose black shorts.
Her long dark hair rained straight down her back and her face was free of makeup.
She looked younger than her twenty-three years, and I could tell by the look on Cole’s face he still wasn’t completely comfortable with the seventeen-year difference in their ages.
She gave him a quick kiss and settled cross-legged on the floor near Cole’s chair with the unconscious flexibility of youth. “Three more days and finals are done. I am not sorry to see the end of organic chemistry.”
The doorbell rang again. “That must be the pizza,” I said, but when I opened the door Sheldon was standing on my doorstep.
“Sheldon?”
“Did you check your Ring Camera?” he asked. “Burglaries are reduced by as much as fifty-five percent for those who use them.”
“Are you going to rob me?” I asked, confused.
He stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “Of course not. Your gate was open. Can I stay with you? I brought my overnight bag. I think someone is watching me at my house. Maybe Leena. Or Evangeline. Or maybe they drugged me and I’m having hallucinations.
Things have been a blur since last night and I can’t put all the pieces together. ”
He looked pretty forlorn standing on my front porch with his Dungeons and Dragons backpack.
“I’ll run it by Jack, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I ushered him inside and then saw the pizza delivery guy pull up.
Our house felt like Grand Central Station.
This is what happened when your circle of friends kept growing.
I’d never had that as a kid. My parents had been solitary people—understandably so—and I’d kept my circle of friends small and never expanded it.
Marriage had changed things for me in more ways than one, and I moved slow when it came to relationships.
I didn’t trust easily and I was always a bit skeptical of people, but I’d slowly adjusted to these new friendships over the past couple of years.
I took the pizzas and then turned to find everyone had come out of the office and was heading toward the kitchen.
“Nice backpack,” Jack told Sheldon.
“Thanks. I only brought clothes for a couple of days. That’s all that would fit.”
Jack looked at me and raised his eyebrows and I shrugged. “He said he only has a couple of days of clothes. That’s promising.”
With the exception of Potts, everyone had been in our home enough that they knew where plates and drinks and anything else they wanted was located. Cops tended to make themselves at home as long as they were in the safety of other cops. I guess it’s encouraging that they feel that way at our place.
“Sheldon thinks someone has been watching him,” I said to the group at large, and then I snagged a couple of pieces of pizza before they all disappeared.
“I know someone has been watching,” he corrected, wiping the sweat off his upper lip before he took a bite.
“The name Durkus was feared for generations in Poland. It’s said our lineage descends directly from the Baba Yaga.
I think that’s why Leena was interested in me in the first place. She could feel my magical properties.”
Everyone froze where they were and stared at Sheldon. The silence wasn’t a comfortable one, so I felt obligated to fill the space.
“Have you heard from Leena?” I asked.
“She called a few hours ago,” he said. “I hate when pizza burns the roof of my mouth. Did you know that seventy percent of the population has experienced palate burns?”
“Focus, Sheldon,” I said. “What did Leena want?”
“I’m not really sure,” he said shrugging.
“She hasn’t really been acting like herself.
She’s pretty obsessed with Bridget Ashworth, especially since Thomas Whitman’s body showed up.
She asked if I could take her down to the lab and show her.
She wanted to see if he had any leftover energy or something. ”
“You can’t do that,” I told him, just to make sure he wasn’t planning a nighttime heist into the lab.