Chapter 4

Rebekah let out a low whistle as she preceded Hawthorne through the hallway that opened into a large, open concept space with a living room, fully equipped kitchen, and a white spiral staircase that climbed to the balcony and bedrooms.

Hawthorne smiled at his sister as he moved past her into the living room decorated in a modern style with white furnishings and gray and black accents. "Welcome to my temporary home."

Rebekah's big blue eyes found Hawthorne, the wonder in them reminding him how young she was. Or how old he was. "I've never seen a Floatbnb like this one. Well, only in pics, I guess." She slipped her oversized bag from her shoulder and let it drop on the wood floor. Kicking off her flip-flops, she scurried onto the white shag rug.

She giggled as she curled her bare toes into the soft fabric. "Wow. Is this how you always live?" She whipped out her smartphone from the pocket of her barely there jeans shorts, probably planning to take pics, as she called them.

Yep, thirty-one had never felt quite so old until being in the presence of this nineteen-year-old sprite.

He was glad all his personal belongings were tucked away in his suitcase upstairs, so he didn't have to interrupt her frenzy of photos. Which she was probably already posting to her social media accounts in the next five seconds that she tapped on her phone.

"Not exactly." He pressed the button on the espresso maker to start the drink he'd prepped before Rebekah had arrived. "I got a good deal on this rental."

"Uh-huh, sure." She turned her bright eyes on him and hurried to the island in the kitchen where he stood on the opposite side. "The stuff online about you is pretty crazy. You're really famous." And rich, her big grin probably meant. "Don't try to be all humble about it."

He closed his mouth, stopping the response she would probably deem too humble. "I've been blessed to have some success."

"It's so unbelievable you're a writer. I'd love to do something like that."

"I don't think you told me what your major is."

She paused before answering, giving Hawthorne a moment to study her face. Strange that his own sister was so unfamiliar to him. But she'd only been six years old when he'd left.

Her eyes were still the same. Those big blue orbs that could persuade anyone to give her anything she wanted. She'd been the baby of the family in every way. Everyone's favorite. She'd been their energy and hope. The joyous distraction from the tension and rifts that eventually drove them apart.

Her other features, though still framed with baby fat, had developed to create a face he wouldn't have recognized if not for its similarity to their mother's. The small, rounded chin. The oval-shaped face with high forehead. And her glossy blond hair. Rebekah was a very pretty girl. Like a reflection of the photos of their mother when she was young.

"I've switched it up a few times." She gave him a careless grin. "Can't really decide what I want to do, you know? I love art, but that might not pay the bills. And I don't want to work at a grocery store all my life."

"Art, as in painting?"

"Yeah, but digital art mostly."

Of course. "That sounds cool."

"Yeah." She shrugged one slim shoulder under the strap of her fitted tank top. Her smile faded as she dropped her gaze.

Probably remembering why she'd stopped by. The reason he'd come to the Twin Cities.

"Want an espresso?" They could both probably stand to be fortified a little before discussing that. "I can always use a pick-me-up by this time of day." The hazards of being an early riser.

"No thanks." She shook her head. "I can't get past the taste. So bitter." She stuck out her tongue.

He chuckled. "It's not for everyone." And she apparently didn't need the caffeine anyway. He poured himself an espresso and nodded toward the living room. "Let's sit."

"Sure." She hurried over to the sofa, and he followed at a slower pace, sitting in the armchair kitty-corner to her. She bounced her knees up and down in front of her.

Was she unsure how to ask what she wanted to? He took a sip of his espresso. Maybe she wasn't comfortable with him. They were practically strangers, especially from her point of view. Did she even remember him?

A lump formed in his throat, and he took another drink to wash it down. Lowering his espresso, he looked at her. "Did you have something you wanted to talk about?" He'd assumed her text last night, saying she wanted to drop by in the morning, hadn't intended a casual visit.

"Yeah, what have you found out?"

He stifled a smile at her sudden directness and set his cup on the glass coffee table in front of him. "Well." He rested his hands on the arms of the chair. "It has only been one day. I'm afraid I'm going to need a little more time to make progress."

"Oh." Her mouth puckered, so reminiscent of her little-girl pout that he had to squash another smile.

"Sorry. But these things do take time."

"Yeah, I know. But…" She looked away. She pushed off the sofa and stalked to an abstract painting on the wall.

He waited as she stared at it for a minute. Hard to believe, looking at her skimpy outfit, that she'd grown up at Best Life. But a lot of kids who decided to flee when they turned eighteen were desperate to leave much more than the cult's white robes behind them. He'd been eager to explore a lot of what the world had to offer, too.

She turned to face him. Something glimmered on her cheek.

Was she crying?

His chest pinched.

"It's just…" She bit her lower lip, then let it go. "I've already waited so long." Her voice faded on the last word.

He stood and crossed the room to her but stopped a couple of feet away. He was like a stranger to her. What could he do to comfort her? Not that comforting anyone was his strength to begin with. He hadn't given anyone a hug in…well, ten years or so? And that was a farewell with his last girlfriend.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. It must be very hard."

She sucked in a trembling breath as she swiped away the tears with her hands. "It's been two years since Sam—" She cut off abruptly, as if she didn't want to say the word died. "That's too long, you know?" She lifted her gaze to him, her blue eyes shimmering in the pool of her grief.

He nodded.

"It's especially too long to let someone get away with killing him." Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides as she strode back to the sofa but didn't sit. She spun to face him. "Do you still think you can do it? Can you find who killed him?"

He paused, choosing his words carefully, as he'd done when she'd called him to ask if he would come to Minnesota to solve the death—the murder, she believed—of her boyfriend. "I'll do my best to find the truth. I can promise you that. And if that leads me to murder and a killer, then that's where I'll go."

"You're still not sure it was murder." She dropped onto the sofa, whether from defeat or emotional exhaustion, he couldn't say.

He rounded the coffee table and returned to his chair, perching on the edge to be closer to her, better able to catch her gaze when she looked up again. "You asked me to do this because I write crime thrillers—mysteries—and because I was an MP, right?"

She nodded, admitting to what she'd said on that phone call.

"The only way to solve a mystery, especially one in real life, is to approach it without any assumptions. I have to look at all the evidence before I let myself form conclusions or come up with any theories."

She pressed her lips together. "But you know it's not just me, right? His dad swore it was murder, too."

"You have to trust me, Rebekah. I will find the truth for you, okay?"

She stared at him a beat or two. Then she nodded and glanced away.

Compassion filled his chest as he watched the sadness cloak her young face. A nineteen-year-old girl shouldn't have to carry the burden of the tragic death of a loved one. Especially in circumstances like those surrounding Sam Ackerman's death. A death deemed an accident by authorities but believed to be murder by those close to him.

If Hawthorne had read about it in case files while doing research or in the pages of a novel, he'd have thought it was great material for a thrilling plot. But there was nothing thrilling about death—murder or accidental—in real life. Especially when it grieved his sister so much.

"Oops." Rebekah stared at the smartphone she must've picked up while he was thinking. "I gotta go. Work." She jumped up from the sofa and rushed to her flip-flops. She slung the bag over her shoulder as she spun toward him. "Text me as soon as you find out something?"

"Absolutely." He stood to see her out.

Her flip-flops smacked the wood floor as she hurried to the door. "Or even if you don't find out anything?" She threw the question over her shoulder with a glance that seemed to carry a hint of vulnerability. Or maybe fear? Of what, he couldn't say.

"Sure." He slowly closed the door behind her.

He looked at his watch. 4:26 p.m.

Would anyone get suspicious if he showed up at the fairgrounds when it wasn't his shift? Probably. He'd been up front when he had signed on for the two-week stint as a Tri-City Fair security guard. He'd said he was a thriller novelist, wanting to research the fair. He hadn't mentioned he specifically wanted to investigate a suspicious death at the fair, but no one should be surprised when they learned what he was doing.

Still, he was brand new. He didn't need to make people uncomfortable right out of the gate. He'd wait until his morning shift tomorrow. And remember to start his drive earlier this time. Thanks to Minneapolis traffic, his commute to the Tri-City Fair in St. Paul took far longer than he'd expected when he'd rented the Floatbnb at this location.

He returned to the living room, and his gaze landed on the flipped throw pillow where Rebekah had sat. Maybe he should've admitted that he hadn't been able to start investigating Sam's death today because of the unexpected disaster with the Ferris wheel.

Talk about things that shouldn't be labeled an accident.

He supposed it was normal for the police and fair staff to assume the cabin falling that way was accidental. Rust did cause problems, and the research he'd done when his shift ended yesterday showed the General Manager was right. Accidents with rides happened much more frequently than he'd realized. So maybe this event was an accident, too.

Yet he couldn't help but consider other possibilities. Like a person swapping out good rivets for rusted. Ones the culprit knew would break.

He blew out a breath and grabbed his espresso off the coffee table, finishing it in one quick gulp as he walked to the kitchen.

He was the one whose brain was abnormal, his imagination always suspicious and overactive. Served him well in fiction writing and military investigations. But he had to remember to keep it in check for civilian life.

He had his hands full with trying to investigate Sam's death. No need to pile up imaginary villains and conspiracies all over the fair.

At least unraveling a mystery wasn't the only thing he had to look forward to at his new security job. He smiled as he rinsed the cup and put it in the otherwise-empty dishwasher.

The memory of fascinating Jazz Lamont filled his mind. If only he'd been able to talk to her after they'd rescued the passenger. But she'd been engrossed in private conversation with the General Manager, which was curious. Perhaps the General Manager recognized she had something special in Jazz Lamont. And then Butch had sent Jazz and Hawthorne out on patrol in separate directions.

He hadn't seen her again during the long shift, even though he'd kept an eye out for her. But the fairgrounds were massive and as crowded as New York City sidewalks most of the time.

He might not see her tomorrow either. If they were even working the same shift again. He could legally base his next series' heroine on her without her permission, so long as he didn't use anything obviously specific to her.

But if he could use her first name, at least, that would be fantastic. And it would be a dream to be able to sit down with her and explore how she'd become such an amazing woman of action and skill. To learn what made her tick, what drove her, and who she really was.

The series would practically write itself.

He just needed to find his heroine again and get her to say yes.