14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When they walked toward the front doors of the police station, it was impossible not to notice the shift in Rocco's demeanor. His angular jaw sharpened, almost like he was jutting his chin forward. He stood up taller with his shoulders back and the deep pinch to his brows gave him a menacing scowl.

It was like he was preparing for battle or something.

Clint opened the door for Brooke's brother, and Rocco stepped inside. They made their way to the front desk person, who was behind a thick wall of Plexiglass. Roughly twenty small holes had been drilled into the clear plastic in the shape of a circle so that they could speak to the civilian worker and there was a metal tray on the counter, so documents could be passed between them and the employee.

"How can I help you today?" the woman at the desk asked.

Rocco cleared his throat. "I'm here about the Brooke Barker case."

The employee appeared to be fighting an eye roll, but she caught herself before her gaze reached high noon, then glanced back at Clint and Rocco. Clearly, they weren't the first people to come into the station regarding Brooke's case.

"Yes, and what information do you have?" she asked, her smile fake but not unkind.

"I'm her brother," Rocco said, his irritation detectable in his stern tone.

Clint thought for sure that would change the woman's reaction to them being there, but she appeared unfazed. "Oh, yeah?" she asked. "We've already had her aunt, two uncles, and three cousins come in."

Rocco growled. "Oh, yeah?" he mocked.

The woman's brows barely twitched. "Yes. And I'll tell you what we told them. We are a police station, not a lawyer's office. If you want information regarding Brooke's will, then you need to speak with her attorney."

Rocco's fists bunched at his sides, and he pulled in a deep breath that inflated his broad chest. "I'm not here about that," he bit out. "I'm here because I'm her brother and I want to speak with one of the officers that is dealing with the search for the person who tried to kill her."

Well, that seemed to finally wake up the woman behind the glass. She sat up straighter. "It's being ruled a suicide."

Rocco looked one frayed thread away from snapping.

This was not the place to snap. Not when a jail cell was mere feet away.

"I would like to speak with the investigating officer, please," he gritted out.

She rolled her eyes again. "Hang on, I'll see if Detective Atkinson is available." She reached for her phone and murmured into the receiver. Then she hung up and lifted her gaze back to Rocco and Clint. "He'll be right out."

"Thank you," Rocco said, his words clipped and his smile tight.

She nodded, then immediately pretended they no longer existed.

It was only a minute or two before a side door clicked open and a barrel-chested man with thick gray hair and dark blue eyes came walking out. He wore a mustard-colored dress shirt and black slacks, with his badge clipped to the waistband. His appearance reminding Clint of a big hairy bumblebee for some reason. He held out his hand. "Detective Marv Atkinson."

Rocco and Clint both shook his sweaty palm.

"So you say you're Brooke Barker's brother?"

"I am her brother," Rocco said defensively.

The detective clicked his tongue. "Forgive us, but we've had a lot of interest in this case. A lot of people have come in claiming they are related to Brooke."

Rocco sucked in a deep breath. "I'm sure you have. However, I am her brother." Then he proceeded to pull up photos of the two of them on his phone as well as photos of his and Brooke's birth certificates. The man came prepared. Clint had to give him credit. "She changed her last name when she became famous. But as you can see, she is my sister."

Detective Atkinson nodded. "Okay, I believe you. What can I do for you?"

"I want to know what you're doing to find the person who tried to kill my sister," Rocco said with an edge to his voice, like he couldn't believe the detective didn't know why they were there.

"Tried?" the detective said slowly.

But Rocco wasn't flustered at all. "Yeah, tried, because I don't believe she's dead. You haven't found a body, have you?"

"Well, no, but ..."

"But nothing. I'm her brother. And I'm going to believe she's alive until I see definitive proof otherwise. Like a body. And you definitely can't rule it a suicide after only three days."

The detective's mouth dipped into a deep frown beneath his bushy mustache. "I understand that, Mr. Barber. And we haven't officially ruled anything yet. But we are paying attention to the evidence and the eyewitness statements. We have scuba divers in the water, the coast guard is patrolling the shores and helicopters are searching everywhere else, but so far all that's turned up is her dress. However, given everything we know so far … the eyewitness statements from those on the yacht, we know that she was distraught after seeing Ms. Blakely. Various other things occurred as—"

"Like what?" Rocco demanded.

"A few people said she rudely refused any interviews, and just wanted to be alone. She was reserved and distant and from what one waiter said—very drunk."

"That's bullshit," Clint blurted out, causing the detective and Rocco to look at him with suspicion. He grunted and lifted one shoulder. "What I mean is, Rocco, you and I both know that Brooke isn't a big drinker. She might have one or two glasses of champagne for an entire evening. She wouldn't have been drunk. Sad? Yes. Upset? Probably. Her ex's side piece was there. But drunk? I don't believe it. And maybe she was rude because people wouldn't leave her alone. I know after an hour in a crowd I'm a lot less nice to people. Hell, after ten minutes in a crowd, I'm done."

Rocco snorted then nodded.

The detective grunted like he didn't agree. "Maybe she decided to start drinking more when she saw Ms. Blakely? A form of coping with an unfavorable circumstance."

"So?" Rocco shrugged. "Even if she was drunk, that's not enough evidence to point you toward suicide. It's more likely she just fell over then. I think you're just looking for an easy way to wrap up this case. This isn"t Occam"s razor. We need to think zebras not horses. Just because you can't find anyone who pushed her over, you're leaning toward it being a suicide, doesn't mean that it was. I know my sister and she would never take her own life. Someone pushed her. I know it. So do your job and find the person."

The detective cleared his throat. "I understand your frustration, Mr. Barber, however given the conditions of the current, and where she fell into the water, we have to be realistic. Our team is doing everything they can, but I think you need to prepare yourself. This has evolved from a rescue mission to a recovery mission. I'm very sorry."

"So you're not even looking for her killer?"

"We need to find a body, first."

"And if you don't? The murderer gets off scot free? What the fuck?"

The detective was beginning to lose his patience. "As I said, we have testimonies from several eyewitnesses, as well as her former partner that Brooke was distraught after their breakup."

Rocco scoffed and shook his head as he glanced around the foyer, looking for someone to appeal to and agreed with him that this detective was being a lazy son of a bitch.

His gaze landed on Clint. "I don't know about you, Clint, but I'm distraught right now. However, I'm not thinking about hurling myself in front of a bus on the freeway or jumping off a yacht into the icy Puget Sound. You?"

Clint shook his head in solidarity with Rocco.

The detective puffed out his chest, now he reminded Clint of a big fat bird trying to intimidate a younger, more attractive and more viral male. "Mr. Barber, I assure you we are doing everything—"

"No, you're fucking not," Rocco exclaimed, raising his voice enough to make the woman behind the Plexiglass look up. The detective remained calm. "My sister is missing. She is missing. You have no body, and can't legally declare her dead for seven years without a body. So she is missing. And you fat fucks are doing what you always do, which is not fucking enough. God forbid you miss a fucking meal to actually look for any clues regarding my sister and who might have tried to kill her."

The detective's cool veneer finally shattered. His nostrils flared, and his complexion grew ruddy. "Mr. Barber!"

"Hey, hey, what's going on out here?" came a smooth male voice.

Clint glanced at the side door the detective had come through to find another police officer, this one younger—probably late thirties—in full uniform, and with a head of thick red hair. His badge said Sgt.I. Fox.

"This is Brooke Barker's brother," the detective gritted out. "Says we're not doing enough with her case."

Sergeant Fox slapped a big palm on the detective's shoulder. "You're at the end of your shift, Marv?"

The detective grunted and nodded. He did have some pretty dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the lines on his face looked particularly deep, even for a man who was probably in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. This guy had seen some shit during his career. No doubt about it.

"Vince just put on a new pot of coffee, and I picked up some pastries from Lilac and Lavender. They're in the breakroom. Go grab something. We don't want your insulin level to drop again. That was scary. Poor Nancy was so upset when we called her from the hospital. And we don't want to upset your wife again, do we?"

The detective grunted once again. "Woman worries too damn much," he murmured as he fixed Rocco with a steely glare, then took off back through the door.

"Sergeant Isaac Fox," the uniformed officer said with a smile. "Sorry about Detective Atkinson."

Clint's respect for this cop was growing. He didn't make an excuse for the detective's behavior, he simply apologized for it and now wanted to diffuse the situation.

"So, you're Brooke's brother?" Sergeant Fox asked, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. He held out his hand, and both Clint and Rocco shook it. It was far less sweaty than the detective's hand.

"I am," Rocco said, heaving a sigh. "And I'm distraught to hear that the incident is being ruled a suicide."

"Well, it's not being ruled a suicide. It's being treated as a recovery mission and that the likelihood that it was a suicide is high."

Rocco shook his head dramatically. He was really selling the whole worried brother schtick. The guy was a decent actor. "You haven't found my sister's body, so for all we know, she might still be alive."

Sergeant Fox's expression turned grim. "I understand. I have a sister, as well. And until I had definitive proof, I'd always hold on to hope, too. If it makes you feel any better, nothing has been released to the press. Anything you read is conjecture, not from a legitimate source."

Rocco nodded and made "Mhmm" sounds. "I don't even like that you're calling it a recovery mission. It's only been three days. You can understand how that appears lazy. Maybe she's in hiding because she knows someone out there wants her dead?"

Clint held his breath. Was Rocco going to spill the beans? He was a good actor, but he needed to remember that they were trying to keep Brooke's whereabouts and aliveness a secret.

Sergeant Fox nodded. "Yeah, I can see that, and I hope you're right. That she is just in hiding. And it won't be ruled a suicide until we've exhausted all other options. I'll make sure nothing like that is discussed with the press. I promise."

Finally, a person with integrity and motivation to find the truth. Rocco relaxed a little. His shoulders dropped to their regular height, and the tightness in his jaw dissipated enough that Clint wasn't worried the guy was going to chip a molar anymore.

"So, what are you going to do about it?" Rocco asked. "Someone tried to kill my sister and the longer we wait, the longer we do nothing and think it was a suicide, the easier it will be for them to disappear or cover their tracks."

Sergeant Fox's head bobbed. He was a big guy with breadth to him and thick corded arms that emerged from a tight-fitting police-issued T-shirt. "As her brother, can you provide us with any new insight into who you believe might have had issues with Brooke and wanted her dead?" He pulled out a pad of paper and a pen from his pocket.

Rocco released a slow breath through his nose. "Honestly, nobody. Not even Flynn, her ex. Everyone loved Brooke, and those who could have wanted her dead are behind bars."

Sergeant Fox's blue gaze shot up from his pad of paper to Rocco's face. "Who is that?"

Rocco's eyes slid sideways to Clint. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of giving the cop more information.

"I can leave if you'd prefer," Clint offered, the curiosity over learning more about Brooke burning in his gut like a hot lava rock.

"Who are you, by the way?" Sergeant Fox asked.

Clint cleared his throat. "Clint McEvoy. A friend of the family. Rocco is staying with me while he's stateside."

Sergeant Fox seemed to accept that answer, then pivoted his attention back to Rocco. "Who would want Brooke dead?"

Rocco huffed a deep sigh through his nose, and his shoulders rounded. "Our father. Maybe."

"Your father?" Sergeant Fox repeated. "And he's in prison?"

Rocco nodded. "For murder, yes."

What the fuck?

Who did Brooke's dad kill?

"He was also a police officer," Rocco said, bringing his voice down to just above a whisper. "He killed our mother."

Something weird flickered in Sergeant Fox's eyes. Almost like he was triggered by what Rocco said. But he stowed his visceral reaction quickly and nodded. Jotting things down in his notebook. "May I ask how he killed her?"

"He beat her to death. He was always beating her."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"But because he was a cop and all his buddies were alcoholic wife-beating cops, too, reporting it was useless."

Sergeant Fox shoved his fingers into his hair, causing his bicep to pop. "Jesus," he murmured.

"Brooke saw the whole thing, so she ran. His cop buddies helped him dispose of our mother's body. Brooke took a bus six towns over, then filed a report. It ended up going through internal affairs and all the way up to the FBI. My dad and his friends were dirty cops. Took money and drugs from local gangs, leaned on businesses for protection payment. They thought they ran the town ... but they never anticipated Brooke. She took them all down. She was fifteen."

At this point, Clint's mouth was dry. He'd had it open so long as he just stared at Rocco.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. No wonder Brooke didn't trust cops and was so protective of her past. She'd taken down an entire police force, watched her father kill her mother, then bravely went up against him and turned him in.

Rocco's gaze turned hard. "I expect this information stays between us, Sergeant Fox. I don't particularly trust the detective in there. But I trust you—and believe me, that says a lot. You have honesty in your eyes. I really hope I'm not wrong here."

Normally, Clint was better at detecting a military background in people he met. They all just carried themselves differently. Standing at attention had been drilled into them in such a way he didn't think he'd ever slouch again. But it wasn't until Rocco said he trusted the sergeant that Clint's suspicions were verified. The sergeant's back went straighter, and he lifted his chin just a little.

"Well, I appreciate that trust," Sergeant Fox said. "Can't imagine trust in the police comes easily to you or your sister anymore."

Rocco shook his head. "Sure doesn't." Then he scoffed. "And I live in Brazil full time, so you can probably imagine that my faith in law enforcement hasn't exactly been restored."

The Sergeant snorted. "Probably not, no. What do you do in Brazil?"

"I'm a veterinarian at an animal rescue facility in Rio," Rocco said without hesitation.

Sergeant Fox smiled and nodded, jotting that information down in his notebook. "Let me look into things." His lips twisted in thought for a moment. "Was there any chance your dad got out for good behavior? Or he had someone on the outside do his bidding?"

"Good behavior?" Rocco snorted and shook his head. "Uh, no. He got convicted for first-degree murder as well as two dozen other charges. His sentence was like fifty something years with no option for parole. Honestly, if Brooke and I weren't keeping tabs on him just for our own peace of mind and we didn't know for certain he was alive, I'd have thought a cop like him would have been killed in prison a long time ago."

Sergeant Fox rolled his lips inward and made a noise of agreement. "Any other family?"

"Well, Mom's dead. And we had an aunt and uncle take us in after dad went to prison, but once we turned eighteen, we cut ties with them completely. They treated us like shit. Came crawling out of the woodwork when Brooke got famous, but her lawyers had a gag order issued on them. If they breathe a word of our past to the media, they'll be sued. My sister has covered her tracks and, so far, kept our past a pretty good secret."

"If the world thinks she's dead, it won't stay a secret for much longer," Sergeant Fox murmured. "Not even a stellar PR team will be able to stop every cretin from digging."

Clint was thinking the exact same thing.

"Let me make some calls," Sergeant Fox said. "I'm not a detective, nor am I on this case, but after everything you've told me, I empathize. If this were my sister, I wouldn't stop until I had answers, either. I'd want closure one way or another. I'm on it, okay."

Rocco's face finally brightened, and a hint of a smile touched his mouth. "Thank you."

Sergeant Fox nodded and reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a card and handed it to Rocco. "Here's my card. Call if you have any more information."

Rocco reached into his wallet and pulled out a card of his own. "Ditto," he said, handing the card to Sergeant Fox.

The two men shared a look of deep understanding before shaking hands again.

Sergeant Fox offered Clint his hand, and Clint took it, tilting his head. "Rangers?"

The Sergeant instantly understood, and his smile grew wider. "Marines. Iraq."

Clint matched the man's cheerful grin and gripped his hand harder. "Me, too. Two tours."

Sergeant Fox's expression warmed even more. "Always good to meet a fellow brother."

"Oorah," Clint replied before he and Rocco took their leave and headed back out to Clint's truck.

"Brooke's going to kill me," Rocco muttered as they climbed into the cab of the truck.

"Why? Because you told the cop about her past?"

They buckled their belts, and Rocco lobbed a weary sigh. "Yeah, that. But more so because I told you. As far as I know, she's never told a soul. And you, a guy she just met and barely knows being privy to her secret, is not going to sit well."

"Well, I won't tell a soul. I swear."

Rocco lobbed a weary sigh and nodded. "She trusts you, that's what she told me on the phone. That she trusts you, so I should, too. And as I'm sure you can guess now, trust doesn't exactly come easy to either of us."

"I can imagine it doesn't. And I won't take that trust for granted."

Rocco glanced at Clint's phone where it sat in the cupholder on the center console. "Do you mind if I call her and tell her that I told you? It needs to come from me."

Nausea filled Clint's belly, but he nodded, grabbed his phone and unlocked it, then hit the speed-dial for his landline and handed the phone to Rocco.

Clint backed the cube truck out of the stall in the police station parking lot and headed out onto the busy Seattle street.

Rocco gulped and put the phone to his ear.

Clint held his breath.

"Hey, yeah, it's me," Rocco started. "I uh … I need to tell you something."

Every muscle in Clint's body tightened—including his asshole.

"I told the cop a lot about our past. About dad and stuff. Clint was right there, too."

Clint couldn't hear Brooke's response. He strained to listen, but she either wasn't speaking, or was speaking quiet enough that only Rocco could hear.

"I know … I know," Rocco said with another big sigh. "I'm sorry. It's my past, too, though. And I know for a fact that your shrink is telling you not to run from it just like mine is telling me. We did nothing wrong … You told me to trust Clint. Was I wrong to think that we could trust him with this?" He glanced at Clint. "I didn't think so. Okay … yes, I know. Okay … We'll see you in a bit. I love you." Then he hung up and stowed Clint's phone back in the center console, his features contorting into a hangdog expression as he dragged his hand over his face and exhaled. "Well, she wasn't happy, but I don't think she's going to kill me either." He glanced sideways at Clint. "Or you."

Clint dramatically swept his wrist over his forehead. "Phew."

He was being playful, but on the inside was seriously relieved.

After what Rocco just told Clint and the sergeant about Brooke's past, the woman deserved nothing but green lights, sunny days and a permanently cold pillow for the rest of her life.

Rocco watched Clint. "Why does she trust you? You haven't known each other for very long. I mean, yeah, you rescued her from hypothermia and nursed her back to health, but still. What is it about you that has my sister letting down her guard?"

Clint merely shrugged. "I dunno. I guess with me, what you see is what you get. I'm not hiding anything. I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not, and my way of life is simple and honest."

Rocco frowned like he was thinking it over, but eventually he nodded and shrugged then glanced out the window. "I trust my sister's judgment." Then he paused. "Well, mostly. She fucked up with Flynn, but otherwise, I trust her judgment and if she trusts you, then that's good enough for me."

Clint nodded in thanks, but focused his attention on the road.

It wasn't his place to tell Rocco that he and Brooke were sleeping together. Sure, they barely knew each other and had just met, but traumatic experiences tended to expedite relationships. She was seeking comfort and reassurance. Looking for a bleak beam of light in an abyss of unknown darkness. He wasn't sure what the future held for them, but he hoped that when Brooke found out he knew her secret, she felt relief rather than anger.

Because he only carried astonishment and pride for her after uncovering her secret.

Although he"d carried those feelings for her already, but now knowing what she'd been through just amplified those feelings.

He was in awe of her strength and bravery, and it only made him fall harder for her. She'd endured so much. There was no pity in his heart for her, only ... well, it was too soon to say love. But there were warm tendrils of something akin to love beginning to grow in his chest. He hated being away from her, thought of her constantly and knew she was a good person before she even woke up on his couch. He could just feel her goodness deep in his bones, and when she did finally wake up, she confirmed everything he already knew. Brooke Barker might be Hollywood's sweetheart, but it was because she was a sweetheart. Pure of heart, brave and bold and quite possibly everything that had been missing in Clint's life until she washed up on his beach.

"Can we stop and grab something to eat?" Rocco asked, breaking through the fog of Clint's thoughts.

"Huh?" Clint grunted.

Rocco gave him a weird look. "Can we get something to eat before we head to the ferry? I'm starving. You okay?"

Clint grunted again. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry. Just in my head."

Rocco eyed him suspiciously. "Brain going to explode from everything you just learned?"

"Hard to not think about something like that," Clint took a right on a green light. "Did she actually see your dad kill your mom? That would fuck a kid up for sure. And all things considered, she seems so ... normal, for lack of a better word."

"Therapy," Rocco said without hesitation. "We've both been through a shit ton of it."

"Yeah, you'd have to be after that."

"It is nice to talk about it with someone other than my therapist or sister," he admitted.

"Had my own shitty episodes of life. I get it. It does help to talk about it. Get the thoughts out into the air rather than all tangled up in your head making a mess."

Rocco simply bobbed his head. "I'm craving fried chicken. Can we swing in here?" He pointed to a fast-food fried chicken chain and Clint agreed, taking a right off the main road into the drive thru.

Clint wasn't particularly hungry since he'd had a late breakfast with his dad, but he ordered some fries and a strawberry shake. They sat in the line for the ferry, munching on their artery clogging deliciousness.

"We're only a year apart, and I was bigger than Brooke by the time I was thirteen. The summer I turned thirteen, I shot up five inches and gained like thirty pounds in almost pure muscle. I'm glad I managed to skip the lanky, awkward teenage years." He slid his gaze sideways to Clint as he took a sip of his chocolate shake. "It was a way to protect myself. He rarely came after me—because our mother always stepped in—but sometimes he did. So I bulked up, that way I stood a fighting chance. Also, so I could protect Brooke and our mother."

"No thirteen-year-old should ever have to do that," Clint said, his voice deep and strained with emotion over what Rocco and Brooke must have endured.

"No, they shouldn't. But that was my reality. He came home one night from work, and was already shit-faced. He immediately went after our mom. I stepped in and he punched me so hard I blacked out. I was unconscious on the floor. According to Brooke, our mom went apeshit on him, and he grabbed her head and slammed it onto the corner of the granite counter. She died instantly."

Clint had a fry in his grasp, but it hung midair as the image of that horror scene took shape in his mind.

"Brooke was upstairs, but the way our house was laid out, you could hang out in the hallway upstairs and look through the spindles to see into the kitchen and living room. She saw the whole thing. Then she heard our dad call his cop buddies in a panic. Three of them came over within twenty minutes, helped him clean up the scene and they drove her body—rolled up in a rug—to a pig farm half an hour away."

Clint no longer had an appetite. He closed the lid on his fry container. "Why a pig farm?"

Rocco's snort was laden with disgust, not humor. "Because pigs will eat anything. It's a great way to dispose of a body. And my dad and his buddies knew that because of the company they kept with gangs and traffickers. It's how a lot of them disposed of their rivals, girls who OD'd, or anybody that looked at them the wrong way."

"How did ..." Clint had a million questions. He just had no idea where to start.

"Brooke is a smart cookie. Once she woke me up, she helped me into our mom's car and drove me to one of her friend's houses. She didn't have her license yet, but took the risk anyway. That friend's mom was a nurse, so I was in expert hands. Then she hopped on a bus and went six towns over to turn in our dad. The only way they were able to find any proof was they took stool samples from the pigs and found our mother's DNA."

Bile coated the back of Clint's tongue. Brooke and Rocco's mother was murdered then fed to pigs. They didn't even have a body to bury or ashes to spread.

Rocco had obviously recounted this enough times that he was numb to the whole thing. Or he was compartmentalizing like a champ and would hash this shit out later with his shrink.

"How did Brooke know about the pig farm?"

Rocco smiled with pride. "She told the FBI to check the soil deposits on the bottom of their shoes. They did, and then they traced it back to the pig farm. The pig farmer sang like a canary, too, when they promised him immunity and a placement in witness protection. It was a massive investigation. Brooke opened up a giant can of worms, and ten cops were put away for various crimes. Our dad was just one alcoholic sleazeball in a department of many."

"Holy ... shit," Clint breathed. "Brooke is—"

"The strongest fucking person I know. Which is why I never for a second believed that she was dead. And I certainly never believed that she tried to take her own life. And neither of us drink much given that our dad was an alcoholic. So I don't believe that she was drunk on the boat."

"She said she only had two glasses of champagne the whole night."

"Yeah, someone out there tried to kill my sister, and we're going to find them and they're going to pay."

Clint nodded as his gut spun with dread and unease.

He wanted to find Brooke's wannabe killer just as much as Rocco, but he couldn't go off like Batman and find the bad guy himself. He'd lived a life of danger as a marine. That part of his life was over now, though. He was a brewmaster and a single dad. Danger was not part of his daily routine. He had a family to think about. He was all Talia had.

But then he thought about Brooke and everything she'd gone through. And, yet, like a lotus, she rose from the thick, suffocating mud and out into the sunshine, more beautiful, resilient and stronger than ever. If she could do that after such a gruesome past, then Clint could suck it up and help her anyway he could. But where was the line?

There was only one way to know if a risk paid off.