Chapter 17

"Thanks for meeting me." Hawthorne set the small basket holding his fully loaded hot dog on the picnic table and smiled at Jazz.

As if she would turn down a texted lunch invitation from her favorite author—who also happened to be the most gorgeous guy she'd ever been this close to. She kept that thought to herself and lifted her sunglasses to rest on top of her head—maybe so she could see him better—as she sat down with her corn dog and fries.

Flash panted heavily and dropped onto the blacktop. He apparently wanted to take immediate advantage of the shade under the canopy that covered the cluster of tables between food vendors.

She didn't blame him. The noon sun was punishing today with the humidity.

She swung her backpack off her shoulder and dug out Flash's water thermos. Unclipping his collapsible water bowl from the zipper pull, she filled the dish with water for him to enjoy while the humans ate.

"So you're just starting your shift?" Not that Jazz had been disappointed when she'd seen he wasn't on the morning shift duty roster with her today.

Hawthorne nodded, finishing chewing before he responded.

Looked like a model and had decent manners. Be still her heart. She held back her amusement as she took a small bite of her corn dog. Didn't usually eat lunch at the fair at all since finding a salad anywhere on the grounds was impossible, other than in the rabbit pens. She'd tack on another half hour to her run to burn off the fat and calories tonight.

"I switched shifts so I could go to church this morning."

The piece of corn dog stuck in her throat, and she coughed.

"You okay?" Hawthorne's eyebrows pulled together with genuine concern as he watched her.

She nodded and grabbed for her thermos on the table. She took a long swig of water, willing away the color she could feel heating her face. Hawthorne Emerson was a churchgoer? Pretty serious one if he'd rearranged his work schedule for it. Hopefully, that didn't mean he was as extreme as Cora, Bristol, or Sofia. Even Nevaeh was getting there.

A little church could be good. Made some people more moral and civilized. But then there were the people who only went to church to feel better about themselves and look good to others. Like Jazz's family. She tamped down the emotion rising in her chest. Better move off the church topic as quickly as possible. "You'll have burned your lunch break early with this."

"I don't mind." The smile he gave her sent a tingle down her spine. "I wanted to tell you what I found."

She blinked. Did he mean about the flat tire? Had he—

"I spent a couple hours last night going over the security footage from yesterday."

"You did?" Why did that spread warmth through her chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat?

"Yeah. On faster speed so I could get through it all." His gaze caught hers. "I said I wanted to help."

She smiled. "You did." And he'd remembered. About the fair, her aunt's death—things that mattered to her.

His lips curved slowly upward, and a twinkle glittered in his eyes as he watched her.

She was staring. Probably with a dumb, lovesick smile on her face.

She redirected her gaze to the sunglasses he'd set on the table. "What did you find?" Stuffing the corn dog in her mouth, she bit off a ridiculously large piece. Great. Now she probably looked like a chipmunk, cheeks stretched round while she tried to chew the glob of food.

His mouth twitched like he was holding back a grin as he glanced away and picked up his soda cup. "Well, the police have a copy, too, so I'm sure they'll go over it thoroughly. But I did observe some things. Your fellow agent, the explosive detection team…" He paused like he was waiting for her to give him a name.

"Bristol." Jazz managed to mumble the word around the corn dog she was still trying to mash down.

"Bristol. She checked all the cars on the Skyride yesterday morning starting at seven." He took a quick drink through the straw, then set the cup down. "After that, the ride operators at both Skyride docking buildings did a safety inspection on each car before opening the ride at eight."

Jazz finally swallowed the last of the corn dog. "So someone would've had to put the bomb in the pod after the ride opened."

Hawthorne nodded. "Looks that way. The ride operators were on camera during their entire inspection at each of the buildings. They'd have to be really stupid, or incredibly brilliant at sleight-of-hand, to have placed a bomb in one of the cars while on camera. I didn't see them do or hold anything that looked suspicious."

"What about the rest of the time leading up to the explosion?"

"Only visitors got in and out of the cars. The ride operators physically helped some visitors on and off, but not your aunt. And that would've been too risky of a moment to try to plant a bomb anyway. Not enough time and too many witnesses."

"So the bomb had to be planted by one of the visitors." Jazz took another drink from her water thermos.

"They had the best opportunity. A long ride from one side of the fairgrounds to the other. That would be enough time to plant a bomb and hide it under the seats where the next visitors wouldn't be likely to spot it."

"Then we need to check out all the visitors from eight in the morning until the explosion? That has to be thousands of people."

"Yep." Hawthorne lifted his blond eyebrows. "I never knew how many people could go on a Skyride in a few hours until I watched the footage."

"I know, right?" Jazz glanced at the crowds of people who even now were walking past the tables and lining up at food stands. "I wish there was a way to recognize if any of the Skyride passengers were members of that cult you told me about." She turned her head back toward Hawthorne. "My aunt told me, just that morning, that the guy who leads the cult…" She searched her memory for the name.

"Desmond Patch."

"Right." Jazz pointed a finger toward Hawthorne. "Desmond Patch. He apparently made a public statement condemning the fair two years ago when a teen from the cult died in an accident here. Did you hear about that?"

Hawthorne nodded. "I'm familiar with it, yes. And I'm not surprised about Patch. Like I said when we found the pin, the whole cult is taught to be against the fair." He pressed his lips into a line and glanced away, almost like he was scanning the crowd, looking for something. Was he checking to see if someone was listening to them?

He returned his gaze to Jazz and leaned forward, his forearms braced on the wooden table. "I looked for people from the cult on the security footage." His voice lowered enough that she had to press in to hear him above the noise of the fair. "But I didn't see anyone I recognized."

She straightened. "Recognized? You mean from the pin or their white clothes?"

He paused, his eyes seeming to search her face for something. Then he finally answered. "No, I mean from having seen them before. I—" Hesitation halted his voice for the first time since she'd met him. "I grew up in the cult. Well, from the time I was twelve."

She couldn't have been more shocked than if someone from the crowds passing by had suddenly darted over to slap her. How could that be true? He was a celebrity. Wouldn't everyone know if he'd grown up in a cult? "Are you serious?" The question came out before she'd thought it through.

But his mouth relaxed from the serious line it had held before. Maybe not the worst thing to say, after all. "Sadly, yes. I didn't want to join. I was forced into it, kicking and screaming. I hated every minute I was there."

Jazz stared at him, trying to fathom this normal man—but very successful and brilliant author—having been in a cult. He made it sound like it was all in the past, at least. So maybe he was as normal as he appeared. "Your family left eventually?"

His lips pulled downward in a frown. "No. Not all of us. I got out as soon as I became a legal adult." His gaze lowered toward his hands that he brought loosely together on the table. "My younger brother and my baby sister left after I did, when they each turned eighteen. My other sister and parents are still there."

He flattened one of his hands on the table and seemed to be staring at it. His voice had stayed even as he'd told the facts. But tension radiated off him like the heat emanating from the pavement.

Hawthorne was pretty much an orphan. Like her. Just in a different way. "I'm sorry. That must be really hard."

He took in a breath and straightened, giving her another glimpse of those amazing teal eyes. "Thank you. I didn't mean to dump all that."

She lifted one shoulder. "You were sharing it. And I'm honored you did."

His mouth lifted at one side as he watched her. Was he surprised? Pleased? Or just trying to figure her out?

Either way, they could probably both do with switching to something a little less personal. "You said you didn't recognize anyone in the footage?"

"No. But I wouldn't know all the people at the cult now. I'm sure many have joined since I left thirteen years ago." He lifted his soda cup and took a sip. "The police have a huge suspect pool to deal with." He took another bite of his hot dog.

"Well, they usually want to look at motive, and the cult has that." Jazz tapped her finger on the smooth side of her thermos. "If they're trying to sabotage the fair, a bomb on the Skyride would fit as the next target after the Ferris wheel and the Giant Slide."

"True." Something in Hawthorne's response, maybe the note of hedging in his voice, made her pause.

"You think the motive could be different? Not sabotage?"

"Well…" He wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin on the table. "If this were one of my novels, I might have someone disguise an intentional murder as random sabotage."

Jazz stared at him. "You mean like someone wanting to intentionally kill Aunt Joan? Not sabotage the ride?"

"Or someone with her could have been the intended target. Gretchen Mehl was in the car with her and your uncle and Albert Ferrey were right next to that car. All board members. Plus, your uncle is running for governor. That's another possible motive for him to be the target."

A little thrill buzzed behind Jazz's ribs. It was like getting to see her favorite author in action, creating another fabulous mystery before her eyes. "That does sound exactly like a twist in a Carson Steele novel."

Hawthorne grinned. "Which probably means it's fiction and not likely to be true in real life."

"I don't know. It sounds plausible. They could've known Aunt Joan would go on the Skyride, since she does every year when the board visits."

"But the bomber couldn't have had any way of knowing which car she'd ride in. Or which one your uncle or other board members might ride in. Not to mention the specific timing."

"True." Jazz nodded. "And my uncle doesn't always ride with her. Sometimes he takes a different ride or doesn't even go on the tour. He used to have appointment conflicts sometimes. I remember Aunt Joan fighting with him about it."

"Right. A lot of holes in that theory." Hawthorne smiled.

"I know you could make it work in a book." Jazz grinned. "And I'd love to read it."

"I'll be sure to eliminate all the holes first. And give you credit for helping me." He winked.

Goodness. A bolt of electricity shot through her torso, stopping her heart for a split second before it jumpstarted again. If he really decided to turn on the charm, she would be a serious goner. If she wasn't already.

A beep sounded from her watch, just in time to save her from swooning. "Oops. Lunch break is up." She silenced the alert and bent over to grab Flash's bowl.

"Hey, can I see you again?"

She nearly dropped the bowl as she jerked her head up to Hawthorne. Had he really just said that? To her?

He held up a hand. "Sorry, that came out wrong." A cute little smile curved his lips even as she inwardly willed her pounding pulse to calm down. "I just wondered if I could pick your brain again. You know, find out more about you for the heroine I'm writing."

Right. His books. The heroine he wanted to model after her. His interest was professional, not personal. Her heart rate slowed only somewhat with the reminder.

"I didn't know if you'd be free today? Maybe I could buy you that dinner. I get off at eight."

An idea Nev would no doubt call one of Jazz's devious schemes formed in her mind. But even if Hawthorne only wanted to meet for professional reasons, that didn't mean a girl couldn't make the most of the situation. "I'll cook you dinner. At my place."

"I can't let you do that. It's too much trouble. And I'm already taking up your time with my research questions."

"Are you kidding me?" She waved her hand at him with a smile as she stood and gathered her trash. "Cooking dinner for the famous Hawthorne Emerson at my apartment will be something I can boast about for a long time." Especially if she managed to romance him with candles and music.

He laughed. "I doubt most people would be impressed."

"You're being modest. And besides, I want to do this as a thank-you for changing my flat tire."

"Which you could've done yourself." He grinned as he followed her and Flash to the trash can.

She shrugged her shoulders and dropped in the garbage. "Like you said, I needed the break." She met his gaze. "Will you come?"

"Yes. And thank you."

"Wait until after you taste my cooking to thank me." She cast him a grin as she hoisted her backpack and slipped her arms through the straps.

He quirked a teasing eyebrow. "Do I need insurance for this?"

"No, but I might require you to sign a waiver."

He laughed, that warm sound that thrilled her to her toes. "Sounds like my kind of adventure."

"Perfect. I'll text you my address."

"See you then, Jazz Lamont."

Something in the way he said the parting words, then turned and walked into the crowd, made Jazz feel like she was in a romance novel, willing her dashing hero to return as soon as possible.

But when she headed the other way with Flash, reality hit her. She wasn't supposed to go to her apartment at all right now. Because of the shooting in the parking lot.

Oh, well. She shrugged off the hindrance and blazed a trail with Flash through the thick humidity and crowding people.

She had to go to the apartment to get the photos for her goodwill visit to Uncle Pierce anyway. She'd just scope it out, clean it up from the way she'd left it, and check all the closets for lurking visitors.

When a girl was going to host the famous Hawthorne Emerson, the last thing she needed was for a hitman to shoot up her dinner.