Chapter 28

"That something so small could be so beautiful. Worth so much. Only the strongest people can turn away from feelings like that."

–Anthony Doerr,

All the Light We Cannot See

Rayne

My father was in surgery for six hours. Almost every minute of that time I sat holding my mother's hand in mine while Jameson held my other hand. Tears blocked my vision as people came and went in the waiting room at the hospital.

When someone, a nurse or EMT, tried to look at my own cuts, I pushed them away.

Only after the first hour did I finally let Jameson clean the dried blood from me. A jacket was placed over my shoulders. Someone handed hot coffee to me and to my mother.

Shortly after the sunlight started streaming into the windows behind us, the doctor came out to talk to us.

"The bullet grazed his femoral artery. He had a lot of tissue damage that took a while to patch up. He may walk with a limp from here out and will need a lot of physical therapy. Possibly another surgery in his future to help that process."

"Can we see him?" I asked.

"One at a time. He's still groggy but has been asking about you," the doctor said to Rayne.

"Go." My mother hugged me. "Go see him first. I'll come in after and stay with him."

I wanted to argue but knew better after seeing the determined look in her eyes. I wobbled slightly when I stood since I'd been sitting for so long. Jameson was there to steady me.

"We'll be right here," he said softly.

I touched his hand and then followed the nurse back to the recovery room where my dad was hooked up to many loud machines. His leg was bandaged and rested on a stack of pillows. There were tubes sticking out of his arms and his skin was so pale. His eyes were closed but when I moved closer, they slid open.

"You're okay?" he asked softly. I nodded and sat down next to him.

"You?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly.

"I've been better," he said with a weak smile. "First time getting shot. I think I'll make it my last."

His attempt at humor had tears flooding my eyes. I rested my forehead against his chest and felt his hand lift to brush my hair.

"I love you, Daddy," I said into his chest.

"I love you too, sweetie." He sighed and closed his eyes.

I watched him sleep for a while before going back out and letting Mom have her turn. An hour later, he was wheeled into a private room. After breakfast, the room started flooding with well-wishers and flower deliveries. My diamonds in the mud, as Jameson had described them.

Jameson tried to convince me to head home to shower, change, and get some sleep shortly before lunch.

"Go," my mother urged. "We'll be here."

"What about you?" I asked her.

"I'll get some rest while your father does." She smiled at me. I hugged her and then let Jameson lead me away. I was too tired to argue at that point.

As Jameson and I returned home, exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders. The events of the night had left us both drained. As I stepped through the familiar threshold, the weight of worry for my father still hung over me like a dark cloud.

"Shower first and then food?" Jameson suggested.

I followed him through the house to the bathroom and let him strip my ruined clothes from me. How long ago had it been when I'd dressed so carefully, getting ready for the special night that was supposed to be the most magical one in my life?

We showered and Jameson carefully washed away the dried blood still caked on my skin. When he shut off the shower, I stood still as he dried me off and helped me into a pair of soft sweatpants and a tank top. After he pulled on a pair of boxers, he combed through my hair, gently untangling it as he went. Then we made our way to the kitchen, and I sat at the bar while he heated up some leftover spaghetti. We were both too tired to prepare a proper meal.

The silence between us was heavy with unspoken thoughts, questions, and worries, but the simple act of being together gave me a sense of solace.

As we ate, the weariness of the night finally caught up with me, and I struggled to keep my eyes open.

Jameson seemed to notice, and he lifted me in his arms and retreated to the bedroom. The softness of the bed was so welcoming as he lay me down and, after he pulled me into his arms, I fell into a deep sleep.

I woke sometime later with a jolt in the quiet darkness. The memories of the night mixed with other nightmares played just out of my conscious reach, hidden somewhere deep in my mind.

The rhythmic sound of Jameson's breathing filled the room, a soothing lullaby after the chaos of the night.

As I lay awake in the darkness, the memories of my ordeal with Jackson threatened to engulf me once again. The fear and helplessness I had felt during those long moments of captivity still lingered, haunting the edges of my consciousness like a persistent shadow.

Beside me, Jameson slept peacefully, his steady heartbeat against my ear a comforting presence in the stillness of the night. I reached out to him, seeking solace in his warmth and strength. His hand found mine, offering silent reassurance in the darkness.

"Jameson," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.

He stirred beside me, sensing the unease in my tone. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

"I... I can't stop thinking about what happened. I have so many questions." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I keep replaying it in my mind, wondering if I could have done anything differently. Asking myself why. Why did he come after me? Why Jackson?"

Jameson shifted, then the light flickered on beside the bed and he pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me in a protective embrace. "It's a lot to explain," he murmured, his voice soft. "Those numbers on your phone, the note, the receipt." He ran his hands through my hair. "They all lead to proof that Jackson Pennington used to be called Jack Wheeler, a kid who at the age of thirteen was already skinning live animals." I tensed as Jameson stopped.

"Skinning?" I asked.

He nodded. "The receipt was for an old police report."

"Sharon Taylor. The Dupont brothers," I said softly.

"I'd wager a whole lot more, now that we know where to look." He shifted slightly. "Someone like that doesn't just stop once they've started."

"The bank account," I said. "It must belong to him."

"What bank account?" Jameson asked.

"The numbers. The first one is a bank account. The second?—"

"Jackson's cell number. I called it and heard fighting and a gunshot," Jameson said.

"I'd just woken up as he was dragging me into the cabin. The phone distracted him long enough for me to make my move. I pulled my gun out. He must not have known I carry one when I am off duty. After a brief struggle, I managed to shoot him in the leg." I turned to look up at him. "I don't even know if he is alive still."

Jameson shook his head. "Owen shot him through the heart when he aimed your weapon at him, after he shot your dad."

"Good," I said, meaning it.

"Owen texted me what they found. They spent the time while your dad was in surgery tossing his place. They believe the cabin held most of the clues, but they did manage to find evidence to pin all the embezzling on him instead of Sharon Taylor. They had proof he was blackmailing more than a dozen city workers, including several cops."

"Quincy?" I asked, feeling my heart drop.

Jameson nodded.

"They also tied his car to Evelyn's hit-and-run. Apparently, Declan and Evelyn had gone over to Jackson's place one night for a"—he cleared his throat—"threesome of sorts, and Evelyn had found proof of his involvement with the Reapers."

"He was the head of the snake," I said. Suddenly everything fell into place. The four-wheeler he'd used to take me to the cabin, that had been the motorcycle sound the Bobbys had heard. I'd been surprised at how close the cabin was to the Taylor's residence as we'd followed the ambulance carrying my dad out of there. Then I realized that the message Faye had given me from Evelyn made perfect sense now.

"You have rats in your house and the king rat is more powerful than you think. Aim high, Detective Rayne. Thanks for sticking up for me. -Evie P.S. I swear on my son's life that it wasn't Declan that attacked me."

"I failed her. I failed Quincy," I said, tears welling in my eyes as I leaned into his embrace, grateful for his comforting presence.

"You couldn't have known," he said, stroking my hair.

I knew that what he was saying was the truth. Still, guilt weighed heavy on my heart.

"I know," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion.

"There was enough evidence to prove that Jackson was blackmailing Henry Taylor. Which is why they used his place for the meetups after Sharon's death. Henry didn't like it much, but he had his own debts to pay off," Jameson explained. "I'm sure the list of Jackson's victims is very long. We'll get through this together." Jameson kissed the top of my head, his words a promise. "I won't let anything like that ever happen to you again."

"I know it's probably late, but I'd like to head back in to see my dad," I said, shifting away.

"Sure. We can bring your mom some dinner," he suggested as we dressed.

Half an hour later, we walked into my dad's hospital room, a bouquet of flowers from the gift shop downstairs in Jameson's hands and a bag with a box of chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob in mine.

"Dinner?" I asked after seeing my dad sitting up and smiling at my mom. "You're looking better," I said, glancing at Mom. She looked rested.

"I feel better," Dad said with a chuckle. "We got him."

"We did?" Jameson asked as he set the flowers down.

"Yup," Dad said with a grin.

"Owen and the guys just left," Mom added.

"Tell me," I said, putting the food down on the table in front of Dad. "Tell me everything."

While we ate, my dad filled us in on what Owen had found at Jackson Pennington's residence. Jameson was right, Sharon Taylor hadn't been his first human victim.

"There were more than a hundred images of five other young women, most likely runaways, who had fallen victim to him. The images were found on a private computer in a locked room inside his house. All of the images had been taken in the cabin."

I shivered at this. The same cabin he'd taken me to. I would have, no doubt, been his next victim if not for Jameson's timely phone call and the fact that I'd had a gun on me. Jackson had probably been in a lot pain and had wanted to go for help, so he'd decided to burn the entire place down instead of his usual MO.

"They will start excavating around the cabin after the cadaver dogs arrive in the morning," my dad added. "There were emails from Sharon Taylor to Jackson from a private email address where she accused him of the crimes the attorney general was accusing her of. She threatened that once she found the proof, she would turn it all in."

"So he killed her. Sufficiently shutting the case down," Jameson said.

"What about the brothers?" I asked.

My dad shrugged. "We haven't tied them to Jackson yet. We have, however, tied him to several large drug rings dating as far back as ten years. He bounced around in LA for a while, then Vegas."

"That's what brought me here," Jameson said. "I followed his trail here," he said to the room.

"We are now officially under the assumption that Jackson was the head of the Reapers, correct?" I asked.

My dad nodded slowly. "There is a ton of proof that he organized everything. From the get-go, Jackson was the founder of the Reapers, as far as the drug empire went. The property out on the bayou, the Nest as you called it, was paid for with cash. The same amount of cash was removed from that bank account number you found, Rayne, at the same time. Lisa, at the bank, was one of Jackson's victims. Shortly after you left the bank, she made a call to Jackson and told him about your little visit."

I shivered at this news. I doubt I'd ever be able to look the woman in the eyes again.

"The encrypted files on Quincy's computers were full of data he was compiling. From what we can tell, he was trying to stockpile enough proof to make a move on the man himself, even though he was a victim and deep in the business himself. I believed he was trying to get out. Before…" Jameson sighed.

"Jackson knew how to point all the blame on others," my dad said.

"Yes, and he would have reason to clear the brothers off his competition list. They attacked me and made a very public spectacle of murder. I'm wagering Jackson hadn't approved of that, and he would have felt it his right to remove them as obstacles," Jameson said, getting everyone's attention. "One thing about living and working with the Reapers for over a year, I understand the code they lived by. No killing. At least not by us." He closed his eyes. "We were to pick up and drop off only. Drugs. Money. Guns. Sometimes all at the same time."

"From where?" I asked.

Jameson's eyes moved to mine. "Several places. Some in other counties." He tilted his head. "The old man and the young boy. There's one more loose end I have to check on." He snapped his fingers, then pulled out his cell phone and stepped out of the room.

"What happens now?" I asked my dad as Mom cleared up the fast-food mess.

"Now, I retire," he said. "This moves my timeline up a little." He motioned to his leg as I took his hand. "Think you can convince your fiancé to step in for me?"

I smiled. With all the horrors that had happened in the past hours, I'd almost forgotten the good thing. I looked down at my finger. At the ring I'd dreamed of for years. The man I'd wished for had slid it onto my finger at one of my favorite places.

"Yeah, I think my fiancé will be happy to step up," I said, just before Jameson came back inside.

"Rayne." Jameson's tone had my smile dropping. He walked over and took my hands in his. "I…" He glanced at my parents.

"What it is?" my mother asked.

"I don't know how to say this but, during my time with the Reapers, one of our drop-off points was deep in the bayou. There was this man." He shook his head. "I thought he was old. Ancient. There was this little kid with him that would run around and do his bidding. During the bust, the kid was put into the foster care system. His DNA was taken to see if there were any living relatives because the old man died of a heart attack shortly after we took him into custody."

"It's standard procedure in the county now," my mother added. "We were firm advocates of the law passing." She reached over and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Because of Rayne."

"They found a match. A sister," Jameson said, and I felt my heart stop. "You."

My hearing and vision temporarily ceased.

"He's eight years old, severely malnourished, lacking any education, and completely alone."

"We'll take him," my parents said at the same time.

I turned to them. Love flooded their eyes for a boy they hadn't met yet. My brother.

"I figured," Jameson said. "He's on his way here. Should be here sometime tomorrow. I've requested that he be put into our custody for the time being. Until you're back on your feet or we make an even bigger decision than setting a wedding date," he said with a grin.

I wrapped my arms around him and held on. "I have a brother," I said and felt tears sting my eyes.