Reckless (Mason Family 3)

I turn my head and see him sitting with one arm draped over the steering wheel.

“Either I’ll be right here or I’ll go in with you,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

A lump settles in my throat at the genuineness of his words. Why is he so nice to me?

“That’s not necessary—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“I gave you two choices.” He grins softly. “Pick between them.”

I open my mouth to argue again, but the grin pulls into a smirk, and I know he’s not going to give in.

The door to the station opens and snatches my attention away from Boone. Instantly, my chest tightens with anxiety.

“I’m going with you,” he says with a finality in his tone. “Let’s go.”

I want to tell him no, but he’s already out of the car. And, if I’m being honest, the idea of walking in there alone puts me on the verge of blacking out.

Boone waits for me at the front of the car. I climb out and close the door. With one foot in front of the other, I make my way to him. He stands tall and sturdy as if he’s not the least bit concerned that he’ll be nabbed as a co-conspirator in some made-for-television drama that he knows nothing about.

Hell, I’m worried about it, and I know I’m innocent.

We make our way across the parking lot. Gravel crunches under our shoes. The sun is bright, a weird juxtaposition to the situation.

“I was thinking,” he says as we get to the door. “I’ll cook for you tonight.”

“What? Why are you thinking about that?”

“Isn’t it obvious that I might just like spending time with you,” he says, echoing the statement I gave him a few minutes ago.

We pause at the door. I face him, taking in the pools of green that feel like the safest place in the world at the moment.

“In case I forget to tell you,” I say, the words wobbling. “Thank you for bringing me here and coming in with me.”

His shoulders drop the slightest bit. “You’re welcome.”

I nod, gathering my courage. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“After you.”

He swings the doors open, and a blast of chilled air billows out of the building.

I shiver from the temperature and the surge of uneasiness as I approach the deep blue counter. A woman on the other side looks up.

The room smells of disinfectant and stale air. The lights give everything a strange white glow. It’s a place I hope to never have to come to again.

“Hi,” I say, feeling Boone’s presence behind me. “I’m Jacqueline Thorpe, and I’m here to see Sergeant Boudreaux.”

“Just a moment.” She picks up a phone and turns away from me.

Boone rests his hands just below my shoulders. The contact surprises me in its abruptness but also in its warmth. He runs his palms up and down my arms, easily encapsulating my biceps in his hands. It takes everything I have not to lean back against him in response.

“Miss Thorpe?”

A loud, thickly Southern voice comes from a doorway to my right. I jump and turn.

“Yes,” I say, stepping toward him. “I’m Jaxi Thorpe.”

“Please come into my office.” He looks over my shoulder. “And you are?”

“Boone Mason.” Boone extends a hand as we approach. The sergeant shakes it. “I’m a friend of Miss Thorpe’s.”

Sergeant Boudreaux smiles at Boone. “I know your father. He’s a good man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My father, he was in his eighties, used to play poker with your dad and his buddies,” the sergeant says as we enter his office. He shuts the door behind us. “He really looked forward to that every month.”

Boone and I take a seat across the desk from him. I shift my weight back and forth as I will the two of them to shut up so we can get on with it.

“Your dad was Duke then,” Boone says. “He was quite the character.”

Sergeant Boudreaux laughs. “That he was.” He shuffles some papers around on his desk, the levity falling from his face. “I was surprised that you were in town, Miss Thorpe. My notes said you were in Columbus.”

“I’m house-sitting,” I say. “I grew up here and have a cousin here. It’s just by chance.”

He frowns. “Well, it’s well-timed. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

I run my hands down my thighs. “Okay. What is it?”

“Jeanette Hannigan is your sister. Correct?”

My stomach revolts against the stress. It churns and twists so hard that I lean forward slightly to try to ease the pain.

Boone angles his body toward me.

“Yes. She is my half sister,” I tell him. “We had the same mother but different fathers. Why?”

He folds his hands on his desk. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your sister has passed away.”

What?

No. It can’t … She can’t be … dead.

I sink back in the faux-leather chair, my clothes squeaking against the fabric as I move. My gaze falls to an uneven grout line on the floor as his words echo in my brain.