Chapter 38

Jazz stared out the windshield of her SUV parked in the dark lot of some diner. She was living out the dramatic heartbreak scene in a rom com. But knowing that didn't stop Jazz's heart from feeling like it was breaking into a million tiny shards that cut her inside as they fell.

Flash whined from the back seat, either worried about Jazz or wondering why they were sitting there instead of going home after their patrol shift at the fair.

Home. Like she really had one.

She looked at the dashboard clock. 12:45 a.m.

There was no way she'd go back to Nevaeh's. They were pretty much finished. That much was clear.

And Jazz didn't feel up to going to her apartment where thugs or other such surprises could be waiting for her. Awfully suspicious how Phoenix and the agency had been able to help everyone else when they were in danger, but when it was Jazz—nothing. The attempts on her life just kept coming and Cora and Phoenix—the whole team—didn't do a thing to stop them.

Whatever. She would move on from them, too. Enough of trying to please people who didn't want her.

"You don't get it. I don't want you." Hawthorne's words cut deeper every time they echoed in her memory.

Tears tumbled down her cheeks, and she blotted them with a tissue, soaked from all those that had come before.

Why did everyone reject her?

No. Not everyone. Uncle Pierce cared about her. He'd made that clear. He wanted to protect her and support her like his own daughters. And Aunt Joan had even wanted to get closer to Jazz before she was killed.

Aunt Joan. The sabotage.

Jazz reached for her phone she'd left in the cupholder. She'd completely forgotten to try to find the ex-husband of Patch's wife.

If he turned out to be the culprit behind the sabotage and Aunt Joan's death, it would bring such comfort to Uncle Pierce. He'd have closure, knowing her killer was caught and justice was served. And that Jazz was protecting Aunt Joan's legacy by eliminating the threat to the fair.

He would probably love Jazz even more if she could do that for him and Aunt Joan.

Her gut told her Gary wasn't their man. Maybe she just didn't want to believe it. But it made more sense that he was simply trying to find his son's murderer.

And Patch's stalker—the jealous ex of his wife—sounded much more like the type of guy to exact that kind of revenge. Violent, targeted, vindictive revenge.

If Jazz could find out who he was and somehow get the evidence to prove he was the culprit, then she could give Uncle Pierce the news, and they could put all this behind them. Start getting to know each other without the grief and danger.

Her biological family was her only real chance at being loved and accepted. She'd forgotten that when her family rejected her for so long. She got desperate for substitutes. Nevaeh, PK-9, and now Hawthorne.

But she didn't need any of them. She had real family that cared for her and loved her now. Uncle Pierce.

She would stay and build a life with him. Be his comfort when his daughters left him after the funeral to return to their own lives while he had to find his way without Aunt Joan.

Jazz would be his shoulder to cry on and help him through. She'd support his campaign for governor and maybe take over his security to be sure he was protected.

The plans for her new family of two were like a salve that covered and soothed the wounds in her heart that Hawthorne had inflicted. That this whole day had inflicted, starting with Neveah.

But there was happiness in store for Jazz yet, with Uncle Pierce.

First, she needed to find out if the police had the right guy behind bars. Or if Patch or his crazy stalker were the real culprits.

She lifted her phone and woke the screen. A notification appeared. A voicemail message from Cora.

Jazz's finger paused over the notification. She was quitting the agency, leaving them behind. She didn't need to march to the beat of Phoenix's orders anymore. She'd check the message after she finished the more important task of finding her aunt's killer.

Jazz swiped the notification off the screen. Then she navigated to a court records search website and typed in Desmond Patch.

Hawthorne turned his head against the pillow to see the alarm clock on the nightstand.

12:55 a.m.

Five minutes later than the last time he'd checked. Maybe he should get out of bed since he apparently wasn't going to be able to sleep.

The pain in Jazz's eyes and the echo of his own, unnecessarily hurtful words wouldn't leave him alone. Neither would the guilt contorting his belly.

He'd only been trying to tell her the truth he had failed to make clear before—that he wasn't looking for a relationship. And he did need to stay focused on fulfilling his promise to Rebekah and then leaving as planned.

He wasn't good husband material anyway. That much was clear from the way he'd handled communicating—or not communicating—with Jazz this whole time. And especially today. Or yesterday, technically, given the time on the clock.

She probably realized now, after he'd told her he didn't want her, that she shouldn't want him. She was likely moving on already, realizing he was an insensitive jerk who wasn't worthy of her.

And that was for the best.

The painful twist in his chest didn't match what was supposed to be a positive train of thought. It was good Jazz would get over him now. He couldn't have become attached to her anyway—even if he'd gone crazy and wanted to do so against his better judgment—because she wasn't a Christian.

Why did that thought feel like desperation? Like grasping at straws to assuage his guilt. Or an attempt to distract himself from the disturbing stirrings of regret within.

Good grief. He pushed to sitting and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, pulling off the light sheet.

If his priority was getting out of there, he'd better get to work on that goal rather than lie in bed obsessing over something he couldn't change. And shouldn't want to change.

He'd examined the designated smoking area at the midway while on patrol, sans a K-9 or Jazz to offer their keen senses and insights. Still, looking at the spot in person had helped him visualize the circumstances better.

If Sam had gone there on his own, he could have talked to other people also there, or he could have smoked alone. The area was a small grassy patch with one park bench and an ashtray fixed on top of a stone pedestal.

Seemed like Zeke should've been able to see Sam the whole time he was there if Zeke had been in line for the SkyPlunge ride as he'd said. But given that Zeke had apparently been drunk and enjoying the company of his pals, he probably hadn't cared to notice.

Hawthorne knew from personal experience that young guys that age had plenty of other things on their minds than watching out for the safety of their friends.

So Zeke and his other buddies had grown tired of the line and decided to move on. There had probably been plenty of girls for Zeke to be distracted by, as well.

Sam would've been at the smoking spot for a while, until he finished his cigarette.

Or until someone attacked him. Maybe it had begun quietly, a verbal challenge or argument between two males under the influence.

But if a violent altercation had broken out, wouldn't people have noticed?

That thought had led Hawthorne to consider another theory. Maybe Sam had left the smoking area and went somewhere nearby. Maybe a girl lured him away or someone else had approached him.

Adjacent to the smoking area stood a small building with indoor bathrooms. A maintenance shed was also nearby, but it was gated off for staff use, locked with a padlock that required a key.

If Sam had been lured somewhere close, there weren't many choices that would've been private enough to hide a fight. There was a patch of blacktop behind the restroom facilities that was slightly off the beaten path, but also a distance from the smoking area.

A person would have to leave the smoking spot, cross the wide blacktopped path full of visitors, and oddly stand by the pipes and plumbing that connected to the restroom facilities in the unlit area behind the building.

Would Sam do that while smoking a lit cigarette he wanted to finish? Not unwillingly, coerced or pressured by an attacker. Which meant that couldn't be the likely explanation for how he was killed.

The trouble was, after Zeke had left for other parts, Sam could've gone anywhere. No one would have recognized him and known to come forward with the information later.

Hawthorne couldn't calm Rebekah's impatience with another dead end. He had to find something more.

Like the information Jazz had told him about Patch and the ex-husband of his wife.

Thanks to the need to straighten things out with Jazz, he'd completely forgotten about what she'd found. She'd said the cult stalker had been around two years ago.

He hadn't missed the significance of the timing. Seemed like a long shot to think the ex of one of Patch's wives could be connected to Sam. And yet, maybe it wasn't such a stretch.

Sam had been at the cult then. If the stalker was around before his death, had Sam interacted with him? Been followed by the man?

Hawthorne stood and went to his computer on the desk, waking it from sleep. Sitting down as it came to life, he navigated to the internet browser and looked up family court records.

He found Patch's more recent marriage record and scanned it for the wife's name.

Brenda Klika.

Hawthorne froze.

Butch's last name was Klika. Maybe it was a more common surname than Hawthorne thought. Or maybe she'd used her maiden name, rather than her previous husband's surname.

He quickly clicked through to divorce records and searched for Brenda Klika.

The divorce listing popped up on the screen.

Brenda Klika had divorced Butch Klika. Two months after Sam Ackerman's death.

The pieces fit together in Hawthorne's mind as he leaned back in the chair, staring at the screen.

Butch had supervised security the night Sam was at the fair. He'd been stalking people at the cult, furious with Patch and his soon-to-be ex-wife.

Had he recognized Sam from obsessively watching the commune and following the Best Life members? He could've waited until Sam was alone at the smoking area and approached him.

Then what? Butch started a fight?

Hawthorne ran his fingers and thumb down the stubble on his chin. But why would Butch attack Sam personally? Maybe his anger had grown out of control, and he wanted revenge on the cult anyway he could get it. Butch wasn't exactly the friendly or gentle type to begin with.

If he'd attacked Sam in the open, he could've been seen. Butch must have managed to get Sam behind the restroom facilities nearby. But how?

There were still unknowns, but enough fit into place. Butch would have had the key to access the storage shed. A shed where he could've hidden Sam's body until the fair closed.

Then, since he had full knowledge and control of the security detail that night, he could've easily waited until no one was near and moved the body across the grounds to the Logboat Adventure ride.

A mixture of satisfaction and grim determination pulsed energy into Hawthorne's limbs. He should call the police. Even without solid evidence, he was sure they'd want to know about a new suspect with a powerful motive for the fair sabotage. If Patch had lured Butch's wife away from him, Butch would hate Patch enough to craft a plan that would incriminate Patch for terrorism, shut down his cult, and land him in prison.

Hawthorne wouldn't mind it if that had been the result, but justice was more important than seeing Patch put away. And justice for Sam might finally be possible if Hawthorne could convince the police to look at Butch as a murder suspect. Maybe the detectives could get Butch to confess if he knew he was already going to prison for Joan Cracklen's death.

Hawthorne went back to his nightstand to grab the phone he'd left on the silent setting for the uninterrupted sleep he'd intended to be enjoying right now.

When the screen lit, the symbol for a voicemail message caught his eye. He tapped to see more details. Left at eleven thirty p.m. From Rebekah.

His gut clenched before the message hit his ear.

"Hey, I'm going crazy just waiting around not doing anything. I never wanted to go to the fair after Sam. Thought it would be too hard, you know? But I realized when we talked that I should be the one to come here. I knew Sam best. I can figure out where he was. What he really did that night. I've gotta try." She paused, and he heard something in the background. Music from one of the rides. The Spin and Roll. Her voice lowered slightly as she continued. "I'm staying here when they close."

Hawthorne gripped the phone tighter, not believing his ears.

"I'm going to hide somewhere so they won't know I'm here. I'm sure I can find something. Figure it out. This is where somebody killed Sam. I'm going to prove it."

The line went dead.

Hawthorne's breath caught. He'd glanced at the duty roster before he'd left, mostly verifying when Jazz was working. But he'd seen the overnight supervisor's name.

Butch Klika.

Rebekah was there alone. Now. With Sam's killer.