Page 30 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Jaye.”

The sound of my name, spoken in that familiar baritone, dissolved the terror that had wrapped around me like ice.

Jack materialized from the shadows beyond the doorway, and the sight of him—rumpled shirt, hair mussed from the rain, those steady blue eyes focused entirely on me—made something tight in my chest finally release.

“Thank God.” My voice came out breathless, shaky. “You scared the daylights out of me.”

“Sorry.” He hurried down the stairs and crossed to me in three quick strides, kissing me on the top of the head.

“The storm knocked out the main power grid for about thirty seconds. When it came back online, the security system had to run through its full reboot cycle before I could access the lower level.”

The relief was so profound it left me dizzy. Of course. The electronic whining, those flashing lights—it had all been circuits and programming, not some otherworldly presence. My rational mind reasserted itself, embarrassed by how completely I’d let fear take control.

“I blame the pregnancy hormones,” I said. “How’s Judith?”

Jack’s expression darkened. “She’s heavily sedated now, but when she was lucid enough to talk, I managed to piece together fragments of what happened.

” He rubbed his face with both hands, the gesture of a man who’d heard too much human horror for one night.

“Most of it was rambling, but certain words kept coming up—Bridget Ashworth, ancestors, land, trust.”

“Someone came to her house?”

“That’s what I gathered. She kept saying they knew things—her family history.” Jack’s voice dropped. “Then she said something about blood ties and revenge.

“From what I can piece together she managed to run into the woods behind the house, and lose the attacker there. When night came she moved to the barn and that’s when we found her.”

“My God.” The pieces were starting to form a picture I didn’t like. “So our killer isn’t just targeting these family members randomly.”

“She kept getting more hysterical the more she talked. Most of what she said doesn’t make much sense—trauma and sedatives will do that. But she kept telling me they watch everything and they’re always there but never seen.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question,” he said. “Could mean everything or nothing at all.”

“Paranoia is common with that level of trauma,” I said, though something cold traced down my spine.

“Maybe. But here’s the thing that really bothers me—buried in all the rambling about bloodlines and justice, she mentioned details about our investigation that haven’t been released to the public.”

“What kind of details?”

“The symbols on the graves. The stones and positioning.” Jack’s expression was troubled. “Either she’s involved somehow, or someone with access to our case files has been feeding her information.”

The lab suddenly felt smaller, more confining. “We already know we have a leak. Judge Morton proved that.”

Jack grunted in agreement. “I’ve got a deputy posted outside her room, but honestly? I’m not sure if he’s there to protect her or to watch her. We can’t rule out that she’s involved somehow. Maybe she’s just a really good actress.”

“If she is she deserves an award,” I said, remember the pale, bloody face that had looked at me out of vacant eyes. I shuddered and shook it off, remembering the newest occupant of my refrigeration unit.

“I’m finished up here,” I said. “I’ve got the ID confirmation on our victim from the fingerprint scanner. Victoria Mills.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Before now those graves that had been marked were theory. Now it’s as good as a murder list.”

The drive home was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts as the Tahoe’s headlights carved through the pre-dawn darkness. By the time we reached our house, exhaustion had settled into my bones like lead. Jack’s arm around my waist as we climbed the stairs was the only thing keeping me upright.

“Few hours of sleep,” he murmured against my hair as we collapsed into bed still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Then we tackle this fresh.”

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

* * *

The smell of coffee drifted up from the kitchen, followed by something richer and more complex that made my stomach do a little flip. Not the good kind. I’d been dreaming of carved symbols and terrified eyes, but it was the scent of bacon hitting the air that dragged me fully awake.

“Oh no,” I whispered, pressing a hand to my mouth as saliva flooded in that telltale way that meant trouble.

I barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach rebelled against whatever optimism I’d been feeling about this pregnancy getting easier. Jack’s footsteps on the stairs told me he’d heard, and by the time the worst had passed, he was sitting on the bathroom floor beside me with a damp washcloth.

“So much for progress,” I said weakly, accepting the cloth gratefully. “Every morning I think to myself that it’ll be the last time. But then the next morning comes.”

I leaned into him, letting his warmth anchor me while my stomach decided whether it was finished being dramatic. “I think it was the bacon.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You want oatmeal instead?”

“God, no,” I said with a shudder. “Throwing up is bad enough. Why would you do that to me?

“You’re right. Silly question. What about toast?”

The thought of any food sounded like a terrible idea, but I nodded because I knew he was just trying to help.

“Give me a minute to brush my teeth and I’ll be down.”

“Take your time. I’ll turn off the bacon.”

Twenty minutes later, I made it to the kitchen in fresh clothes and with a stomach that had settled into uneasy peace. Jack had indeed turned off the bacon, opened windows to air out the smell, and was sitting at our kitchen island with coffee and what looked like plain toast waiting for me.

“Better?” he asked, standing to pour hot water over a tea bag. Chamomile, I realized, not my usual morning blend. I hated chamomile, but to say so would be childish.

“Getting there.” I accepted the mug, wrapping my hands around its warmth.

The kitchen felt like a sanctuary—our sanctuary—with morning light streaming through the windows and the familiar sounds of our life together.

The coffee maker’s gentle burble, the house settling around us, the way Jack moved through the space with the unconscious grace of someone completely at home.

“If I drink all of these flowers can I have coffee?” I asked.

Jack’s mouth twitched in a half smile. “I wondered how long you’d last before you mentioned the chamomile.”

“I thought it was a long time considering,” I said, taking a large gulp and burning my tongue. “I keep thinking about what Judith said. About bloodlines and justice. What if there’s more to this than we’re seeing?”

Jack’s hand found mine across the counter, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles in that absent way that meant he was thinking. “What if there isn’t? What if someone’s just using all this historical drama as cover for something more straightforward?”

“Like what?”

“Money. Revenge. Jealousy.” He lifted his coffee mug, pausing before taking a sip.

“Patricia Whitman’s got motive, means, and opportunity.

Her husband was cheating. And she’s in good shape from being on digs.

She’s got the physical strength to move those stones, and she certainly knows enough about archaeology to stage that cemetery scene. ”

I nibbled at the toast, testing my stomach’s tolerance. So far, so good. “But does she seem like someone who could plan something that elaborate? She was so controlled, so professional when we talked to her. Almost too composed for someone who’d just lost her husband.”

“People can surprise you. Especially when they’re pushed past their breaking point.”

The quiet stretched between us, comfortable in the way that only came from years of sharing mornings like this.

Even with everything happening around us—the murders, the investigation, the weight of secrets that reached back three centuries—this felt normal.

Real. Like the rest of the world could wait a few more minutes.

“Jack,” I said finally, “what if this baby changes everything? What if I can’t do this job anymore once?—”

“Stop.” His hand tightened on mine. “Don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow. We’ll figure it out as we go. And yes, the baby will change everything. That’s a good thing.”

“But what if?—”

“What if we have a healthy baby and you discover you’re even better at your job because you’re fighting for something bigger than just justice?” His eyes found mine, steady and sure. “What if everything works out exactly like it’s supposed to?”

I wanted to argue, to list all the ways this could go wrong, but the look on his face stopped me. This man had loved me through transformations I’d never thought possible. He’d seen me broken and helped me rebuild. If he thought we could handle whatever came next, maybe I needed to trust that.

“What’s the plan for today?” I asked instead, letting him redirect us back to solid ground.

“Patricia Whitman. Let’s pay her a visit.” Jack’s voice carried the focused intensity that meant he was already three steps ahead. “I want to see her reaction when we bring up Thomas’s affair with Margaret.”

“You think confronting her about it will break her composure?”

“Margaret said Patricia knew, but knowing and having it thrown in your face during a murder investigation are two different things.” Jack set down his coffee mug with deliberate precision.

“I want to see how she reacts when we make it clear that her husband’s affair is part of our investigation.

People reveal themselves when they feel cornered. ”