Page 127 of Finding His Redemption

He looked up from where he was crouched next to Princess Jellybean’s carrier and watched Sheriff Goodwin’s cruiser roll to a stop at the mouth of the alley. The bastard climbed out with that self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face, hitching up his duty belt like he was about to make the arrest of his career.

“Well, well,” Goodwin drawled, his voice carrying that particular brand of small-town authority that made Jax’s teeth ache. “Look what we got here. Bunch of ex-cons lurking around a crime scene.”

“Just helping Oliver get his pets,” Jax said, keeping his voice level despite the rage building in his chest. The sheriff’s timing was no coincidence. Bastard had probably been watching, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

“Pets?” Goodwin’s laugh was ugly. “You mean these mangy strays? Or are you talking about all that make-believe bullshit you got these men playing along with?”

Heat flashed through Jax’s system. The urge to grab Goodwin by his cheap polyester shirt and slam him against the dumpster was so intense that his hands shook. But Oliver’swords echoed in his head—will you teach me how to be the bigger person?—and he forced himself to breathe.

“The boy’s been through enough,” Jax said through gritted teeth. “He lost his home. His pets, real and imaginary, are all he’s got left.”

Goodwin’s gaze swept over the carriers, the debris, the scorch marks climbing the brick walls. “Amazing how much trouble seems to follow you around, Thorne. First, a dead girl, then a runaway boy, now a mysterious fire. Starting to look like a pattern.”

“That’s enough.”

Jax turned to see Marshal Brandt striding toward them, dressed in boots, tactical pants, his gun and badge at his belt, and a windbreaker emblazoned with US MARSHAL. He appeared just as comfortable in the tactical gear as he’d been in the suit he was wearing last time Jax saw him. He moved with the confidence of a man who’d never had his credentials questioned, and Jax couldn’t help but admire the way Goodwin’s smug expression faltered.

“U.S. Marshal Corbin Brandt,” he said, flashing his badge. “And you’re interfering with a federal investigation, Sheriff.”

Well, shit. The last person he’d expected to come to his defense was the stone-faced marshal who’d been watching him like a hawk since Oliver went missing.

“Federal investigation?” Goodwin scoffed, but his hand dropped to his belt, a nervous tell. “This is my jurisdiction.”

“Not anymore.” Brandt stepped between Jax and the sheriff, his broad shoulders effectively creating a barrier. “My team has collected evidence that indicates the fire at Nessie’s Place was deliberately set, with accelerant patterns consistent with professional arson. Given Ms. Harmon’s protected status, that makes this a federal case.”

The sheriff reared back in surprise. “Protected status?”

“She’s in witness protection.”

Jax’s stomach dropped. If Brandt felt comfortable telling Goodwin that, then it meant he wasn’t planning to keep Nessie here in Solace much longer.

“And you honestly think Thorne here had nothing to do with it?” Goodwin sneered.

“I know he didn’t.” Brandt’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Mr. Thorne was at the ranch all night after they located Oliver. I have satellite surveillance footage confirming his location from midnight until dawn.”

Why was he lying? Brandt had to know he’d been here with Nessie.

Goodwin’s face flushed red. “You’ve been watching them?”

“I’ve been protecting a federal witness and her son,” Brandt said coolly. “Which includes monitoring potential threats.”

The implication hung in the air, heavy as the lingering scent of smoke. Jax could practically see the wheels turning in Goodwin’s head as he realized he’d been under federal scrutiny this whole time. The sheriff’s hand twitched toward his weapon, and Jax tensed, ready to move if things went sideways.

“Easy,” Brandt murmured, and Jax wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or Goodwin. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“Like hell we are,” Goodwin spat. “You feds come into my town, treat me like some backwoods hick?—”

“Then maybe stop acting like one,” Ghost said quietly from behind them.

Jax hadn’t heard him approach, but there he was, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, pale eyes fixed on Goodwin with the kind of cold assessment that made hardened criminals confess their sins.

“Excuse me?” Goodwin whirled to face him.

“You heard me.” Ghost’s tone was conversational, almost bored. “Professional arsonist torches a federal witness’s home,and your first instinct is to blame the ex-con. Real detective work there, Sheriff.”

Goodwin’s face went from red to purple. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Someone who actually knows how to investigate a crime scene.” Ghost pulled out his phone, scrolled through something, then held it up. “Want to see what real police work looks like? Accelerant pattern analysis, burn trajectory mapping, chemical residue identification.”