Chapter 40

"Lord, please protect Rebekah." Hawthorne whispered the prayer in the silence of his car, pressing the gas pedal as far as he dared without attracting the kind of attention that would only slow him down.

He looked at the GPS he'd activated on his phone to calculate how many minutes away he was from the fairgrounds. Still twenty-five.

He smacked the wheel with his open palm.

Regret and guilt more bitter than he'd ever felt gnawed at his insides. How could he have let this happen?

Rebekah had taken matters into her own hands because he hadn't been able to solve Sam's murder fast enough. And now she could be in the hands of the killer himself.

Hawthorne had almost called the police the moment he'd learned Rebekah was at the fair. But he'd realized just in time the mistake that would be.

The police would contact fair security when on their way, probably have them look for Rebekah.

But security at the fairgrounds tonight was in Butch's control. He might even be the one who'd answer the call from the police. Then he'd find Rebekah for sure, if he hadn't already.

"Please, God. Please don't let him find her. Keep her safe. Protect her."

Protect her. His own words echoed back at him and stabbed his conscience. Because that was exactly what he should've done.

His better instincts had tried to tell him to give her some help and guidance. Protection. But he'd tossed them aside because it seemed to violate the greatest possession in his own life—freedom.

Rebekah wanted freedom, too. That much was clear in the fact that she'd left her family and all she'd known behind to set out on her own, make her own decisions, craft her own life. Who was he to stand in the way of that when he'd done the same?

He couldn't steal the freedom she'd given up everything to have by being an overbearing control freak.

But as he pictured her at the fair, possibly running from a killer, maybe already caught by him, and—

No. Hawthorne tightened his fingers around the wheel. That couldn't happen. He couldn't have made that big of a mistake.

Despite his excuses, there was no denying it was a mistake. A catastrophic one.

Rebekah was only a kid, completely alone in the world. And she'd come to him for help. Not only help with Sam's death.

He'd heard it in the way she'd spoken of their brother, wondering if Hawthorne ever talked to him. In the story she told of her doubt she would've been able to find Hawthorne if he hadn't been an author with a website. And in the glistening tears in her eyes when she'd admitted she missed their parents.

Had she wanted him to be involved in her life? To care enough to check her freedom a little with his concern for her safety and well-being?

She had asked him if he'd go to a movie or hang out with her. He knew he'd disappointed her when he had said he was too busy. But hadn't it been better to help her preserve and enjoy her freedom instead of relying on him—a brother who would be gone in two weeks?

He swallowed, slipping the car into the right lane to catch the exit ramp off the freeway.

The burn in his chest from his searing conscience gave him the answer to his own questions. And to another he hadn't formed into words, even in his thoughts.

Why? Why had he left her vulnerable?

He'd told himself he was staying out of her life to give her freedom. But the truth smacked him in the face so hard he winced.

He hadn't gotten involved because he wanted to guard his own freedom. It was for him. So he didn't feel tied down, didn't have to watch out for anyone but himself. So he wouldn't have to set aside what he wanted to do or how he wanted to live for someone else.

He'd done the same thing with Jazz. The look on her face that he'd never forget flared in his memory—the palpable sting of rejection. Who knew the full extent of the damage his words and actions may be having on her.

But at least refusing to risk his freedom to care about Jazz hadn't sent her into danger. Like Rebekah.

He could've tried to get closer to Rebekah like she'd wanted. Could've invited her over or hung out with her instead of only seeing her when she wanted news about Sam. He could have told her about the way guys tend to think and the dangers of dressing too scantily. He could have asked her if she was careful not to walk to her car alone at night. If she knew any self-defense.

He could have tried to get to know her, learn who she really was beyond the girl who grieved her boyfriend's death. They could have done fun things together.

He should have told her about Christ and salvation through Him.

Now it might be too late. For all of those things.

Hawthorne's heart felt like someone was squeezing it in a vise, trying to crush it completely.

Dear God, please don't let my mistake cost Rebekah her life.

He still had his freedom. But what would that be worth if keeping it sacrificed his sister?

"Uncle Pierce? What are you doing?" Jazz's voice came out weak, strangled by the horror filling her lungs.

He smiled, still holding the suppressor-equipped gun to the poor girl's head. It wasn't his new smile, the one that was warm and gentle, full of approval and love.

No, it was the old smile. The condescending smile that meant she'd better get out of his way if she knew what was good for her. "I thought you might have grown into a reasonably intelligent person. What does it look like I'm doing?"

Jazz stared at him, her mind as frozen as her body. She couldn't figure it out. Who was the girl he was threatening to kill? And who was the man on the ground who still hadn't moved?

She couldn't make the leap from her uncle's desperate call, saying he'd been kidnapped, to the scene unfolding in front of her. "Where's Butch? Or is he not even here?"

"Oh, he's here. Behind you."

The man on the floor. She didn't dare turn her back on Uncle Pierce to confirm it. "Is he dead?"

"I certainly hope so. That was my intention when I choked him that long."

"You choked Butch?" The man was thickly built and muscled, though not as tall as Uncle Pierce.

"I was in the Army, too, remember? They taught us those things even back in my day." A coldness seeped into Uncle Pierce's eyes.

The girl in a hold he could turn into a choke at any moment became paler by the second as tears streaked her cheeks. Whoever she was, Jazz had to get her away from him.

"Okay." Jazz held up a hand, palm out. "Why don't you let the girl go, and we can talk about whatever is going on here."

"Let the girl go? Come now, Jazz. You know I'm not stupid. She's the only reason you haven't tried to take me down already. Isn't she?"

That and the fact that shock seemed to be seeping into every inch of Jazz's body, shutting down the function of most of her limbs with a numbing sensation.

This had to be a mistake, some massive miscommunication. Her uncle was not a criminal. He didn't kill people.

He was her future. Her family. The only person who accepted her and loved her.

She wasn't losing that. She couldn't.

"Uncle Pierce, this doesn't make sense. This isn't who you are. Just tell me what's wrong, and we can fix it together. Whatever it is, I can help you get through it."

"You?" A sardonic laugh popped from his mouth, echoing in the large building. "That would be ironic, to say the least, considering you've been the problem from the beginning."

He shifted the girl to the side slightly, as if to have a clearer path to level at Jazz the fiercest glare she had ever seen. "You're the reason I'm in this mess. I have to do this because of you. I had to do it all because of you."

The words would have hurt more if they made sense. But they seemed to be the ravings of insanity. "I don't understand."

"No, you never understood, did you? But you would have someday. When you came across the evidence in Lawrence's things."

Dad's things…Was that why Uncle Pierce had wanted to go through them with her? But she still had no idea what he was talking about. "What evidence? Of what?"

His eyes narrowed. "I should have found a way to get rid of you years ago. The moment Lawrence dumped you with us so you could be a threat hung over my head. Instead, I let him force us to take care of his brat he didn't even want."

The truth stung, pricking her eyes with hot moisture. But she blinked it back. She'd never heard the part about being a threat. About Uncle Pierce and Aunt Joan being forced to take care of her.

Evidence in her dad's things. The realization of what he must be talking about rolled through her in a freezing wave of shock. "Blackmail." The word popped out without her meaning to say it.

"Yes. Pernicious, relentless blackmail." Uncle Pierce's mouth twisted with pure hate. "That's the kind of man Lawrence was. Didn't matter we'd served together, been friends once. Whenever he needed something, I had to supply it. Money, childcare, schooling. And if I refused, he would threaten to expose me."

"But what could he have had to blackmail you with?"

"You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" Uncle Pierce sneered. "So you can use it against me, too. You won't get the chance." He jerked a nod in the direction of the body behind her. "That's what happens to people who try to blackmail me now."

"Butch was blackmailing you, too?"

"No, my dear." He spoke the endearment in a tone of pure ice. "I killed him so he could not."

"How would he know what my father knew?"

"He didn't. He knew what I did here." Uncle Pierce glanced up toward the ceiling and dropped his gaze to the right, as if encompassing the building.

Did he mean the fair? Her breath caught. "You were the one who sabotaged the rides?"

"Well, not all of them, no. I'll have to give credit to Butch for the first incidents, and for the inspiration for how I could get rid of my little problem."

The first incidents. The last one was…Aunt Joan.

Jazz's heart leaped into her throat, nearly gagging her. "You…killed…Aunt Joan?" She could barely force out the words.

"Yes." That horrible, hateful smile curved his closed lips again. "Amazing how easy it was. A simple IED in that giant purse of hers."

"Why?" The question emerged as a near whisper, from the depths of her stinging heart.

"I already told you. Because of you."

"That doesn't make any sense."

His smile faded. "I didn't think so either. But she didn't think I should have you killed."

"Have me…You're the one who hired the hitmen?"

"All the good it did me." He stared at her, that hatred flashing in his eyes. "Joan was so sure we could talk things out so I wouldn't have to take such a step."

The Sunday brunch. That was why Aunt Joan had suddenly invited Jazz to brunch. Maybe why she'd acted friendlier the day she died, too.

"She had never liked you, so I was quite taken aback by her sudden desire to protect you. Very inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" A small spark of anger flared in Jazz's chest. "You killed your own wife because she wanted to save her niece from being murdered by you, and you call that inconvenient?"

"Very." He snapped the reply with a glare. "It meant I needed to get rid of her, too, and that gave the fool over there," he cast a glance toward Butch, "the idea to blackmail me. And now we end up here. Where I have to do away with you myself—something I should have done from the beginning, apparently. And this unfortunate girl." He squeezed the girl's neck tighter, and she clutched at his arm with her fingers.

Maybe Jazz could at least help her out of this. "Who is she?"

"I have no idea." He lifted his eyebrows with mild annoyance. "But she showed up here right as I dispatched Butch, so I have no choice but to eliminate her, as well. I suspect she must have been here in connection with Butch somehow. It will add more validity to the theory the police will no doubt arrive at. That Butch killed the girl and you because you discovered he was the culprit behind the sabotage and my dear wife's death."

He gave Jazz a sickening smile that dropped as quickly as it appeared. Then he dug the suppressor deeper into the girl's head. "Now, lay down any weapons you're carrying, or I'll blow the girl's head apart right here."