Page 53

chapter

thirty-seven

The sound of tires on gravel made Jax’s spine go rigid.

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’s words 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.”

Jax caught a glimpse of the screen—detailed photographs of the bakery, technical diagrams, data that looked way too sophisticated for a ranch hand to have access to. So that was where he’d disappeared to while the rest of them were rounding up imaginary animals.

Brandt stepped closer to look at the phone. “Impressive work. Former FBI?”

“Something like that,” Ghost said, which wasn’t really an answer at all.

“So what’s your professional opinion?” Brandt asked.

“Whoever set this fire was an amateur. There was very little, if any, planning involved. It was an impulse, but the individual in question did mean to cause a maximum amount of harm. Could Sarkisian have sent someone?”

If Brandt was surprised Ghost knew that name, he didn’t show it.

He shook his head. “We’ve been monitoring his communications, his finances, his known associates.

As far as I can tell, he’s still holed up in that penthouse in LA, nursing his wounded pride and planning his next move through legal channels. ”

“Then who did it?” Jax asked.

“That’s what we need to figure out.” Ghost pocketed his phone. “But I guarantee you it’s not anyone standing in this alley right now.”

Goodwin’s jaw worked like he was chewing nails. “This is bullshit. You can’t just waltz into my town and?—”

“Actually, I can,” Brandt said easily. “And I will. This investigation is now under the jurisdiction of the federal government. You can cooperate, or you can get out of my way.”

Goodwin looked around the alley—at the federal marshal, at Ghost with his laptop full of surveillance data, at the Valor Ridge men who’d closed ranks around Jax like a protective wall. His face underwent several interesting color changes before settling on a sickly red hue.

“This isn’t over,” he finally said, but it sounded more like wishful thinking than a threat.

“No,” Brandt agreed. “It’s not. But it’s not your case anymore either.”

Goodwin stomped toward his cruiser, muttering curses under his breath. The engine roared to life, and he peeled out of the alley with all the dignity of a teenager throwing a tantrum.

“Charming fellow,” Brandt observed dryly. “Real credit to law enforcement.” He turned to study the assembled group, his gaze lingering on Ghost. “We should talk. All of us. But not here.”

Dread clamped its cold hands around Jax’s heart as they followed Brandt into the back of the hardware store. Federal marshals didn’t suggest group meetings unless someone was about to get relocated or arrested. Given that Brandt just stuck up for him, the math wasn’t hard to do.

The store’s back room had been transformed into a mobile command center, with folding tables covered in files, photographs, and computer equipment.

More marshals cataloged evidence and cross-referenced data.

It looked like something out of a movie, except the coffee smelled like burnt ass and everyone had that particular brand of exhaustion that came from working a case that kept getting more complicated.

Jesus. First the fire, now this federal circus. How long before Brandt decided the safest thing was to relocate Nessie and Oliver to some other town, some other life where Jax couldn’t follow?

“Impressive setup,” Ghost said, his pale eyes scanning the equipment with professional interest.

“I’m not letting anything happen to Nessie or Oliver,” Brandt said flatly.

“That’s all I want to,” Jax said and wondered what exactly Brandt’s relationship was with Nessie. He knew it wasn’t romantic, or else Nessie wouldn’t have been sleeping in his arms for the past four nights, but Brandt seemed a lot more invested than the typical federal agent.

Brandt studied him for a long moment. “Yeah, I believe you, and that’s why you’re here. Someone’s targeting them, and it’s not Sarkisian. Which means we’ve got a local problem.”

“Foster,” Ghost said immediately. “Craig Foster.”

One of the other agents looked up sharply. “The real estate developer?”

“The same,” Ghost confirmed. “Mind if I share what I’ve found?”

Brandt nodded, and within seconds, Ghost had pulled up a series of files—financial records, property deeds, phone logs, even what looked like surveillance footage.

“Jesus,” one of the federal agents muttered. “How did you?—”

“Don’t ask,” Ghost said. “You don’t want to know the answer.”

Brandt exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just tell us what you found.”

Ghost’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Craig Foster’s been buying up property all over Solace for the past eighteen months. Paying well above market value, always in cash, always through shell companies.”

“Land speculation?” Brandt suggested.

“That’s what I thought at first. But look at this.” Ghost pulled up a map of the town with red dots marking Foster’s purchases. “See the pattern?”