Page 42 of Out of Time (Undaunted Courage #3)

“Sorry. Hold a sec.” Background noise that came across as static filled the line for several seconds until Bri spoke again.

“I have to go. I’m at a fire scene and I think a clue has emerged from the rubble.

We’ll pick this up later. I’ll call you sometime over the weekend.

Whoever this guy is, I hope he’s a good one. ”

“No worries on that score.”

“Happy to hear it. And I’m glad for you. We’ll talk soon.”

Once again, the line went dead.

Lips tipping up, Cara stowed her cell. Although her siblings’ overprotective leanings could be stifling, it was also comforting to know they had her back.

Like Brad did.

She wandered over to the table and picked up her things.

While their fledgling romance could peter out after a few dates and she’d be back on the social sidelines, somehow she didn’t think that was going to happen. Deep inside, this felt right ... and meant to be.

Of course, that could be nothing more than wishful thinking. With Bri and Jack both meeting The One, romance had been swirling through the air around the Tucker clan for a solid year. No surprise it would be on her mind.

And in her heart.

But that wasn’t all that was in her heart this time.

There was also hope.

So she’d savor the sense of possibility that had begun to brighten her days despite the disconcerting undercurrent of danger at Natalie’s place.

Yet in spite of all the unsettling events that had occurred during her stay, if none of those had happened, she would never have met Brad.

How heartrending, though, that one of them had resulted in tragedy.

But Brad was on Micah’s case, and if there was malice to be found, he’d uncover it.

Hopefully before Natalie’s tucked-away acres hosted any more dangerous and disturbing incidents.

SOMETHING WAS OFF.

As daylight waned on Friday, Brad hobbled to the kitchen to refill his makeshift Ziplock-bag ice pack, frustration mounting.

He was missing an important piece of intel. One that had been niggling at his subconscious all day. Close, yet just beyond his grasp.

What was it?

He dumped the melted ice in the sink and refilled the bag from the icemaker in the fridge. Secured the top. Weighed it in his hand.

Had he failed last night to notice a key descriptive feature of the trespasser?

Overlooked an item the man dropped as he and Alan were searching this morning, perhaps the corner of an object that may have registered only at a subliminal level in his peripheral vision?

Forgotten to ask Natalie a critical question as he’d sat in her kitchen gulping down caffeine after his long, exasperating night?

He set the bag on the counter and massaged his forehead.

Any of those were possible—yet none of them were setting off any alerts in his mind.

Leaning back against the counter, he shifted his weight to his uninjured foot.

That helped.

At least while he was on patrol tomorrow, he shouldn’t have to do much walking. Nothing like the effort he’d expended traipsing around in the woods this morning.

And if he kept his leg elevated while he slept tonight, that should help reduce the swelling.

He ought to nuke a frozen dinner and call it a night, considering how little sleep he’d gotten today after he’d come home from urgent care. Not that he hadn’t tried to rest, but shut-eye had been elusive as his mind kept chasing after whatever puzzle piece he was missing.

Problem was, he wasn’t hungry.

Maybe he’d do a load of laundry first, see if his appetite perked up. The basket by the washer was overflowing.

Holding on to chair backs and countertops for support, he limped to the adjacent laundry room. Transferred the clothes from the basket to the washer, then leaned over and grabbed the uniform shirt draped over the adjoining dryer.

Why hadn’t that been in the basket?

He started to throw it into the washer. Paused as a stain on the cuff registered.

Oh yeah.

He must have brushed the fabric across Steven’s cut as he tended to the gash on the man’s forehead. That’s why he’d kept his shirt separate from the rest of the laundry. To remind himself to treat it with stain remover.

He opened the cabinet door above him and reached for the spray bottle.

Froze.

Steven.

His encounter with Natalie’s cousin held the key to whatever had been bugging him all day. He knew that at a deep, intuitive level.

But what had raised a red flag in his sleep-deprived, pain-fogged state this morning?

Hard as he concentrated, nothing surfaced.

It wasn’t as if the man had talked much. Natalie had carried the bulk of the conversation after her cousin emerged from the basement. So it couldn’t have been anything the man said. There hadn’t been—

Wait.

Brad stiffened.

That was it.

It was what Steven hadn ’t said that was peculiar.

He should have been surprised to find the sheriff on the other side of the basement door. His first logical question should have been, “What are you doing here?”

Instead, he’d acted as if the appearance of a law enforcement officer in the house at that early hour wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. It was almost as if he’d expected him to be there.

But why would he have anticipated that unless he knew what had gone down last night?

Brad took a long, slow breath. Stared again at the blood on his shirt as a shocking theory began to take shape in his mind.

Steven’s cut had been real, no question about it—but what if he hadn’t gotten it in the basement? What if he’d been injured in the woods hours earlier and reopened the wound in the basement to create a plausible and innocent explanation for it?

What if Steven was the late-night trespasser?

Brad exhaled and leaned against the washer.

That theory seemed outrageous.

Yet it made sense.

Who would have better access to Natalie’s property at night than someone staying on the premises? Someone who could come and go in the wee hours without anyone noticing—except a night-owl professor?

But if Steven was the trespasser, what was he doing in the woods?

Why did it have to be done covertly, under the cover of darkness?

And what connection, if any, did he have to Micah’s death?

As questions tumbled through his mind, Brad fingered the cuff of the shirt.

Preposterous as it was to think that Natalie’s beloved cousin could have any connection to all the strange happenings on the grounds or to Micah’s death, the pieces fit.

And there was one simple way to find out if Steven knew more about Micah’s death than he’d admitted.

A DNA test.

All they had to do was analyze this blood sample and see if there was a match to the vomit Rod had found on Micah’s shirt.

Pulse picking up, Brad returned to the kitchen, shirt in hand, and pulled an evidence envelope from the stash he kept on hand. Slid the shirt in.

If he could get the test expedited, it wouldn’t take long to see if there was a match.

But if a match did come back, his work would only be beginning. One piece of circumstantial evidence linking the two men wouldn’t lead to a conviction. They’d have to have more.

Like a motive.

Whatever Steven was doing in the woods might provide that, however.

So if the lab confirmed they had a match, he’d have to figure out how best to play this to get the answers they needed.

In the meantime, it could be instructive to dig into his background. Delve into his history, run his credit, see how much information was available that didn’t require a court order to access.

And hope that if Steven was their man, whatever he was up to in the dark of night didn’t escalate before answers could be found that would provide an explanation for the tragic death of an innocent man.