“So it’s really a moot point.”
“If you’re trying to keep peace in the family.”
“You don’t think I should.”
“Not saying that at all. I can’t advise you on this one. I have never grown up having to please a big family.”
Or any family, she added silently.
“I don’t want you in the middle,” he said after a half-beat. “I do mean that. So forget I asked. We’re going to pretend there was no invitation. You know nothing about my trip to Flathead Lake.”
Jet clutched her mug, smashing the disappointment, smashing the wave of hot anger and resentment she felt each time she bumped up against Harley’s rules.
Harley hadn’t laid down any rules since Jet was a very young girl and Harley would be left in charge of the younger ones, and so Jet was finding it almost impossible to tolerate being issued with rules and edicts now, in part because she’d been on her own several years now, and in part because she just didn’t agree with Harley’s point of view in the first place.
“You’re still going to go, though?” Jet asked, hoping she didn’t sound as woebegone as she felt.
“I need to. There are things I want to ask, and these things are always better in person.”
“Do people open up more in person than on the phone?”
He hesitated. “With me, yes. Some journalists and researchers prefer emails and phone calls. It allows them to get back to their keyboard faster.”
“How do you use interview?”
“Old school. Notepad, pen, and tape recorder.”
And now he was sounding like Sean Finley and not Shane Swan and Jet found herself really, really wanting to go to Polson, Montana, which sounded like the most fascinating place on earth at that moment in time. “And it’s a pretty drive?”
“Incredible drive and incredible scenery when you get there.”
“You’re torturing me now.”
“No, if I wanted to do that, I’d drag you to a couch and kiss you until you—” He broke off, listening to something. His brow furrowed.
Then Jet heard it. A truck hurtling up the driveway.
“Sounds like we have company,” Shane said.
Jet went to the kitchen sink and looked out the window and spotted the big, red truck parking in front of the house right next to Jet’s car, which was actually Harley’s car.
“It’s Trey,” she said huskily.
Shane took a sip of his tea. “This could be interesting.”
But Jet was panicked. “That’s an understatement.”
Shane leaned against the kitchen counter and took another sip of tea. “Don’t worry. I’m—” He was cut off by the sound of a fist hammering on the front door, followed by another hard series of thuds, one, two, three.
Jet set down her tea with a thunk. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Shane shrugged. “Do you want to head out the back and escape while you can?”
“I’m not in danger, Shane. And hopefully, neither are you.” But her voice wobbled as she said it and she hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.
She must not have been very convincing because Shane just laughed.
Shane was aware of Jet on his heels as he headed for the front door. He would have preferred for Jet to stay in the kitchen, but she was here, and he was determined to keep things calm, and controlled, for her sake if nothing else.
But opening the front door, Trey’s anger was immediately palpable. “I want to see,” Trey said roughly. “Show me.”
“Show you what?” Shane asked coolly, not at all surprised to see Trey here, just surprised it had taken Trey this long to make an appearance. Cormac and Troy had been in Shane’s face for awhile. Had they only recently told Trey about Shane’s book?
Trey pushed past Shane, and his narrowed gaze fell on Jet. His jaw hardened. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said to Jet, his deep voice a rumble. “And maybe you think you’re somehow helping—”
“We’re friends,” she said. Her voice was soft, faint, and yet she stood tall, chin lifted as if letting him know she wouldn’t be cowed.
Trey seemed to struggle to hold back the first words he wanted to say. Instead, he quirked a brow. “Odd choice for a friend.” And then he focused on Shane. “You can either walk me to the dining room, or I’ll take myself there. But I want to see it. The bulletin boards. The newspaper clippings. The book. All of it.”
Shane turned around and led the way. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He stepped aside once in the dining room so Trey could see.
Trey entered behind him and then froze.
Shane watched Trey—a man that was apparently his full biological brother—as Trey’s gaze swept the room.
Trey looked at everything, taking in the transformation from dining room to office. The antique sideboard had become a printing station. A laptop with stacks of folders was adjacent at the end of the table. The rest of the table was covered with piles of books, notes, reams of printed pages, while the walls behind were lined with bulletin boards with shocking headlines.
Local Family Slain in Home Invasion. Slaughter of Innocents. Tragedy in Marietta. Montana Manhunt.
Trey said nothing for a long time. He just stood there, reading the headlines again and again, arms loose at his sides, and yet his hands were clenched. He was not as calm and collected as he appeared.
“So it’s true,” he said finally.
Shane didn’t answer, certain there was more to come.
Trey turned around and faced him. “You’re using my family home to profit from my wife’s tragedy?”
“The house was for lease. I needed a place to work. That’s why I’m here.”
“And you couldn’t have found another house in Paradise Valley?”
“Maybe, but this was the closest to the crime.”
“And why was that so important?”
“I don’t just sit and write. I explore myself. I’ve walked the Douglas property, and up and down the easement road a dozen times now.”
“I bet you would have broken into Douglas house if it was still standing.”
“Probably.”
Trey shook his head, disgusted. “How much are you getting paid to do this?”
“That’s not why I do it.”
“And you’re going to tell me you’re not making a lot of money from this book? Because I heard your last book was on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year. A year. Now I don’t know a lot about publishing, but I’d suspect that being on a list like that for a year means you sold a lot of copies, and you earn a hefty percentage from each copy sold.”
“I wouldn’t say a hefty percentage,” Shane answered.
“But you make good money.”
“I’ve been successful, yes.”
“And this book, the one you’re writing, when do you turn it in?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“April.”
“Don’t. Don’t finish it. Don’t do it. Don’t put McKenna’s family on the New York Times for a year. Because I’m sure you’ve discovered all the things that our local law enforcement managed to keep from the media and there is no need to sensationalize what happened that afternoon eighteen years later. I love this ranch, but I don’t live here because my wife still has nightmares about her dad being tortured, and her mom being assaulted, and it didn’t happen here, but close to here, and we all lost so much that day. Every one of us.” Trey’s hands flexed and balled. His chest rose and fell with deep breath. “I’m sure you uncovered all the juicy tidbits, and I’m sure you’d like to write a whole chapter on a good woman being raped in front of her children and dying husband—”
“There’s not a chapter on it. I’m not trying to sensationalize anything,” Shane interrupted harshly. “I’m telling what happened, and talking about the bungled investigation after, and focusing on who that person might have been, and why that person was never held accountable. Tha
t person should have been held accountable because a good woman was tortured—”
“But doing that, you open deep, deep wounds.” Trey’s voice was hoarse. “And there will be fresh media attention all over again. We don’t need cameras in our faces. We don’t need reporters accosting McKenna, waiting on the doorstep, calling her at work, asking horrific questions over and over just to get a juicy sound bite. Our boy TJ is a first-grader. He doesn’t know anything about this. And he shouldn’t, not until he’s older. Let him have his innocence. Let him be a child a little longer. Don’t finish your book. Don’t make my family your meal ticket—”