16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He didn't announce his and Rocco's arrival, but it struck him as weird and slightly disconcerting when they stepped through the front door and nobody was downstairs. However, murmurs upstairs quickly quelled his worries, and he quietly headed toward Talia's room while Rocco used the bathroom off the downstairs hallway.

His heart cracked hearing his daughter mourn her mother the way she did, but it also swelled close to bursting when he listened to Brooke comfort Talia. How she was real and open and gentle with his daughter. It couldn't have been easy for Brooke to look at pictures of Jacqueline, but she did it anyway, because it was what Talia needed. She was a selfless woman with a heart of gold.

Talia wasn't Brooke's daughter, or Brooke's responsibility, and yet, she'd gone to the little girl when she was in pain and eased her suffering in a way not even Clint was sure he could have done. Because yes, his mother had passed away, too. But only recently. He had her for all his life.

Talia lost her mother at the age of three, and Brooke lost her mother at fifteen. That was different. They still had growing up to do without their mothers. Big, monumental life events that traditionally involved a mother.

Talia had Clint and his brothers, but Brooke hadn't had anybody. At least not anybody who really gave a damn—besides her younger brother.

He'd blanched a little when Brooke told Talia how her mother died, but she didn't go into detail. She was honest, but not specific. And Clint appreciated that. Talia would want the truth—she always wanted the truth, no matter how hard it was—but she was also only eight and didn't need to be burdened with something that gruesome.

It was also not something Brooke probably wanted to relive, either.

Desire burned through him when Brooke came around the corner. All he wanted to do was kiss her. Wrap his arms around her and carry her off to bed to tell her with his body, just how he felt about her. Because he wasn't sure he could ever put into words just how amazing he thought she was.

But Talia was there. Brooke's brother was downstairs, and they had a wannabe killer to find.

So he took what he could, which was physical contact, and scooped her up to carry her downstairs.

It didn't even occur to him that they would need to hide their ... whatever it was from Talia and keep letting his daughter think Brooke was staying in the guestroom. He was a dick for putting Rocco on the blowup mattress in the study, but there wasn't really any other option.

Rocco headed to the bathroom to shower, so Clint took off downstairs to go find Talia and Brooke. They were chatting in the kitchen with their milk and cookies.

Joy filled him with a pleasant warmth when he took in the beautiful scene. At how normal all of this felt, even though it'd only been a few days.

"Barnacle was a jerk at school today," Talia said, glancing up at her dad. "He made fun of me for not having a mom and teased me for making a Mother's Day gift when I have nobody to give it to."

That pleasant heat in his chest turned into an uncomfortable prickly sensation that flickered its way up his neck and into his face. His fists bunched at his sides. "Is that so?"

Talia didn't seem too put out, though, so he reined in his ire. "Yeah. But his parents are divorcing, so he's trying to make other people feel his pain. His heart hurts, and he doesn't want to be the only person whose heart is hurting." She turned to Brooke. "Right, Brooke?"

Brooke nodded. "Right, sweetheart. I mean, the kid's got enough strikes against him with a name like that."

Talia snickered.

Clint snorted. "Brooke's, right."

"Compassion over anger is what he needs right now," Brooke added.

"But we all agree it's a terrible name, and his parents are terrible people for naming him that, right?" Clint asked, unwilling to let the name abomination go quite yet.

Brooke's mouth twitched. Talia giggled.

"It's really bad," his daughter finally said. "And I thought Petal and Blossom were weird names."

"Are those kids in your class, too?" Brooke asked.

Talia nodded. "Twins. They're my friends. They're not mean like Barnacle. And they have two moms and no dad."

"It's a hippy island," Clint said, blandly. "The class list looks more like a bunch of items you'd see on a nature walk than birth announcements in the newspaper."

"Oof, you really aged yourself with that," Brooke teased. "It's been years since I've seen a birth announcement ... or a newspaper."

He grinned at her. "Maybe."

"Petal, Blossom, Lavender, Barnacle, Fern, Sage, Sunshine, Zephyr—that means wind, I think—" Talia listed all the kids in her class with weird names, counting them on her fingers. And this was just her class. The school was a smorgasbord of parents who had to be smoking something when they picked their kid's name. "Bramble, Blade, Holly—that's not too weird, but it's still a plant—Ocean, Breeze, Cumin." Her nose wrinkled as she paused to think. Then her eyes widened. "Oh yeah, and Dock."

"Dock?" Brooke asked. "Like the shortened version of doctor. D-O-C?"

"No, like a boat dock. D-O-C-K," Talia said, spelling it out.

"Location of conception, I believe," Clint murmured, hoping Talia didn't ask what conception meant—she was already curious about big words beginning with C thanks to that damn spelling quiz.

Brooke shut her eyes and shook her head. "Hippy island indeed. Cumin the Human," she muttered that last bit. "I suppose it's better than Paprika."

"Is it, though?" Clint asked with a chuckle.

She shrugged and finished her second cookie.

"Emme had a Fennel in her class last year, but she moved. And Silas had a Chanterelle in his class last year. She's being homeschooled now, though," Talia went on, shaking her head. "I'm not going to name my kids dumb things. Plants like lilies and roses are fine, but Barnacle?" She wrinkled her button nose, then shook her head some more. "Nope. No way."

Brooke and Clint's gazes locked, and all the humor from a moment ago evaporated into the ether, leaving nothing but heat and longing. She could feel it, too. He knew she could. She knew he'd heard her with Talia upstairs. Comforting his daughter.

The grinding noise of Talia's chair against the floor severed the intense moment between them, and he cringed at the grating sound. "I need to put some new pads on the bottom of that chair," he said, watching his happy-go-lucky child, who still had red-rimmed eyes, take her dishes to the dishwasher.

"I'm glad I only have a month left of school," Talia said. She spun around to face Brooke. "Do you want my Mother's Day gift? It's just a painting that we're making. We can write whatever we want on it. We don't have to write Happy Mother's Day. I could write, "Thanks for not drowning."

Brooke had just taken a sip of her milk, but spat it across the table when Talia said that. She flicked her gaze up to Clint, a mix of horror and amusement in her eyes.

"Uh ..." Clint said, running to the kitchen and grabbing a tea towel.

Talia giggled at the mess Brooke made.

He handed the towel to Brooke, who started to clean up her mess. "We can come up with something better to write than that, don't you think?" Clint postured.

"And as much as I'm honored you thought of me, sweetheart, maybe you could give it to your dad? He's mom and dad to you, right?" Brooke offered, wiping the milk off the table and herself.

Talia was already on another train of thought and just shrugged. "Sure. Talking about you not drowning might make my teacher wonder who I was talking about, anyway. And you being alive is a secret." She glanced at Clint. "Can I go over to Aya and Emme's?"

"Yes," he said, grateful for the reprieve of his precocious, says-whatever-is-in-her-head eight-year-old.

"Thanks." She skipped away and was out the door a moment later.

"I should probably change my shirt," Brooke murmured, standing up from the table.

Watching a bra-less Brooke wipe herself off, Clint snapped. "That reminds me. There's a big box at the front door. Your items have arrived."

Excitement flashed in her green eyes.

He left her there in the kitchen and went to grab the package. It was heavy.

Plunking it on the table in front of her, he grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors and watched as she sliced through the tape. "Finally, a bra," she said, pulling out various items, like a package of women's socks, some leggings, T-shirts and a box of women's cotton briefs with fun floral prints.

His throat bobbed hard.

"Uh ... listen," he said, hating that his voice cracked slightly.

She tipped her eyes to him for a moment, letting him know she was listening, but she resumed unpacking.

He reached for her hands to stop her, so he had her full attention.

Worry spread across her pretty features. Then she hiked one brow.

"I know you know Rocco told me about your childhood. About your parents and what happened to your mom. He explained it to the cops—well, a cop. But I was there. I was in the truck when he called you to give you a head's up. I also overheard most of your conversation with Talia upstairs—thank you for that, by the way. But, please don't be mad at your brother—or me for eavesdropping. And know that I won't tell a soul."

She blinked wide eyes, but continued to stare at him.

A vast array of emotions flitted across her delicate features. Worry. Anger. Pain. Embarrassment.

A muscle feathered in the corner of her jaw like she was clenching her teeth.

Her nostrils flared.

She swallowed.

But she still hadn't said anything.

"You have to know that all I feel for you is astonishment," he started, the cloying sensation of needing to fill the silence taking over. "How brave you were at just fifteen. I don't pity you. I know what it's like to not want people's pity, but to get it in droves. It's maddening. So I'm not going to do that to you. I'm not going to pity you. I am, however, amazed by you. I'm in awe of you. I'm inspired by your strength and courage. But I don't pity you." He licked his lips, and his throat constricted.

He couldn't get a read on her.

It was actually the first time since meeting her, which felt like a lifetime ago and not just four days, where he couldn't figure out what she was thinking. It was unsettling.

And the longer she stood there not saying anything, the more unsettling it became. The more he worried he'd seriously overstepped, and now he'd created a rift between the reunited siblings. Between Brooke and her only family.

Feet thundered down the stairs, bringing the warm scent of the body wash from the upstairs bathroom. "Creek, you here?" Rocco's voice preceded him into the kitchen.

Brooke's gaze flicked to her brother, and he paused mid-stride as he joined them where they stood at the table.

Rocco's eyes bounced from Brooke's face to Clint's. "Shit," he muttered. "You're still pissed?" His hair was damp, but combed neatly, and he had on fresh clothes: an olive-colored T-shirt and khaki shorts.

Clint inhaled a deep breath and nodded. That pulled Brooke's attention back to him.

Rocco came to stand beside them, his gaze still flicking back and forth between Clint and his sister. Then he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not pissed," she said, still glaring at her brother. "Just processing. I'm allowed to process. Your second phone call was like a tire iron to the brain, so I'm just … dealing with the goose egg, thank you very much."

As much as Clint didn't want the two siblings fighting, he was relieved not to have that ire focused on him.

Her shoulders rolled forward, and the burning concentration behind her eyes dissipated slightly. Clint and Rocco stood there ... waiting.

"I know," Rocco said, looking exhausted. "And I should have checked with you first, but aren't you also kind of relieved that Clint knows now?"

A flicker of relief shone in her eyes, but it was only there for a second.

"We've kept this a secret for a long time," she finally said.

"And it's been like a fucking elephant on my shoulders every goddamn day. Don't you feel relieved? Even just a little bit?" Rocco glanced at Clint. "You told me to trust him. That you trust him … so … trust him. With the truth."

Clint's asshole was still tightly puckered. He didn't know Brooke well enough to accurately anticipate how this was going to go.

"Be mad at me if you need to be angry with someone. But Clint hasn't done anything wrong," Rocco went on. "I should have checked with you before I said anything. I know, and I'm sorry." Much like Brooke, the man clenched his molars, and a muscle wiggled in his jaw. At that moment, the siblings doing their weird stare-off thing, they looked a hell of a lot alike.

Clint ached to touch her. To reach out, rest a hand on her shoulder, lace her fingers through his and just comfort her. Reassure her that her secret was safe with him and that he'd never betray her.

Her eyes left Rocco's face and fell on Clint's. "It does feel good not keeping this secret from you anymore. That you understand why I don't trust the cops and why trust in general is something that doesn't come easily to me. And of course, Flynn and his betrayals didn't help with my trust issues."

Clint offered her a small, reassured but also encouraged smile. "No, I'm sure they didn't."

Finally, she took a deep inhale through her nose, held it there, and released it loudly out through her mouth. Her shoulders relaxed even more, and the last remaining embers of frustration in her eyes finally snuffed themselves out. "What are the cops going to do?" she asked, focusing on her brother.

Clint blinked a bunch of times, and his gaze snapped to Rocco.

He wasn't sure what he expected, but her calmly taking a deep breath and then addressing her brother rationally was not even on the potential docket for reactions.

Rocco remained unaffected and nodded. "They're going to look into things. See if Dad has had contact with anybody on the outside or if any of the guys that also went away when he did have been in contact with someone who might be suspect. The first cop we talked to was a lazy S.O.B. and seemed resigned to writing it off as a suicide and moving on to his next porkchop. But then another cop came out, and took things seriously. He's not a detective and wasn't assigned to the case, but he's going to take a special interest in things and look deeper."

"You think we can trust him?" Brooke asked.

Rocco shrugged and scoffed. "He's a cop. I think we can trust him as much as we are able to given our relationship with cops."

With that comment, they both turned to Clint.

"I appreciate that you don't pity me," Brooke said softly. "I guess if I can trust you to keep my identity hidden until the person who tried to kill me has been found, then I guess I can trust you to keep my past a secret, too."

Clint nodded solemnly. "I won't tell a soul. Not even my brothers."

"Thank you." She exhaled another deep breath through her mouth. "To be honest, there's a weight off my shoulders knowing you know."

Rocco's head bobbed. "I know you don't want the world knowing our dirty laundry, and I'm all for that, but this seems different." His eyes shifted between Clint and Brooke. "So what is going on with you two?"

Clint clapped his hands together loud enough to make Brooke startle. "Beer? How about a beer, Rocco?"

Rocco's lip twitched. Then he let the smile out. "Sure."

"Lager? Ale? IPA? Sour? What's your preference?"

"Surprise me," Brooke's brother said before leaning over and whispering something to Brooke Clint couldn't hear since he'd opened the fridge and had his head in there, searching for something to impress Rocco with.

Their murmurs made him nervous, but it was also none of his business, so he waited until their chatting stopped before grabbing the blackberry IPA and closing the fridge.

He was just popping off the cap of the tallboy bottle when his phone vibrated in the back of his pocket. He ignored it until he'd poured the three of them glasses.

"It's five o'clock somewhere, right?" he asked, handing Brooke and her brother each a glass, then pulling out his phone.

Rocco took a sip and made an mmm of approval. "Blackberry?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah. IPA."

"It's really good. Not too sweet."

"Thanks." Clint clicked the link that Jagger just sent him. It opened to a video with a picture of a gray-haired man with familiar green eyes, dressed in an orange jumpsuit with numbers printed on the corner below his shoulder. The caption below said, "Fletcher Barber."

"Oh no," Clint whispered, as dread caused chills to race up his spine.

"What?" Brooke asked, wiping a small bit of froth from her upper lip. "Or I guess I should say, what now?"

He hit play, then turned his phone so they could all watch. Rocco and Brooke crowded in.

"Oh fuck," Rocco muttered. "God, he looks old."

Brooke's hand trembled as she brought it up to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened and Clint could tell she was holding her breath.

"Hit play." Rocco's grunted demand held nothing but rancour and his entire body tightened with deep-seated rage.

Clint hit the button.

On the right side of Fletcher's grizzled mug-shot sat a young brunette woman—maybe twenty-two at most—at a desk with earbuds in her ears. She also held up a small microphone.

"I'm on the phone with Fletcher Barber, father of Hollywood sweetheart Brooke Barker, who is presumed dead after she jumped from a yacht in the Puget Sound on Saturday night. A body has yet to turn up, but sources are saying it will probably be ruled as a suicide given the distraught state of Brooke right before she was reported missing."

"They can't rule squat," Rocco said angrily. "Right now, it's alleged. This reporter is a fucking moron. And what fucking sources is she talking about? It's click-bait. And they've roped Fletcher into it to get more views."

Clint grunted an agreement.

"Mr. Barber, would you care to comment on the devastating news about your daughter? It's our understanding the two of you have been estranged for some time."

"Oh, this is going to be rich," Rocco said, shaking his head and sipping his beer. "You're estranged, because you're a fucking narcissistic psychopath that murdered our mother."

Brooke remained quiet, but Clint could feel the fear rolling off her. He handed Rocco his phone and wrapped a protective arm around her, earning a curious look from her brother, before Rocco shrugged and focused back on the video.

"Yes, it's true. Brooke and I have been estranged for several years now," their father started. "She was always a very troubled girl. I'm not surprised she went into acting, to be honest. She was always very good at making up stories, pretending and unfortunately spinning lies that were so utterly believable they ... well, they put me here."

"Wait, you're saying the reason you are incarcerated is because of your daughter?" the reporter asked.

Fletcher grunted. "I don't blame her, though. Mental health is something we need to take more seriously in this country. I tried to get her help so many times as a child and a teenager, but she refused. There's only so much you can do as a parent, but when the child refuses the help, what else can you do?" He made a sound that was probably meant to be a whimper or something. "I wish I'd tried harder, though. Done more."

"Why that lying motherfucker," Rocco blurted out.

Brooke was still quiet, but her nerves were shot. She vibrated. Clint tightened his hold on her.

"Do you agree with the police ruling that this was a suicide? Or do you think there was foul play? As a retired police officer yourself, what is your opinion?"

"Retired?" Rocco said with outrage. "He didn't retire. They fired him and sent him to prison for fucking murder. Along with like twenty other felonies they convicted him of. Fuck me. Retired." He made a noise in his throat and finished his beer. "I'm honestly surprised that smug asshole wasn't shanked in prison years ago."

"Knowing Brooke, unfortunately, I'm going to agree with the local authorities in Seattle. Brooke was always very troubled, and I think this time her troubles became too much to bear." He sniffled, trying to convince the listeners he was crying. "It breaks my heart to think she was in that much pain and unable to get the help she needed. I'll always carry guilt that I couldn't do more for her. I just hope that she's finally found peace." His words came out choked. "If you or someone you know is struggling, please get help. Please talk to someone. Don't be like Brooke and keep it all bottled up inside. Your life is worth something. You have people in this world that love you. Get help."

"Thank you, Mr. Barber. We really appreciate you taking the time to speak with us today."

"Like he had anything else to do," Rocco muttered.

The photo of Fletcher disappeared, and it was just the idiot reporter now with her overly done-up fake everything. "Be sure to comment below, send thoughts and prayers for Brooke and her family. Don't forget to subscribe and follow for all the latest on the most famous. For Celebrity Scoop News, I'm Tinsley McTavish." Then she sat there with a fake smile while another whiny voice woman did some voiceover for their next segment.

"Up next, does Brooke Barber truly deserve all these vigils, or was Hollywood's sweetheart really a devil in designer disguise?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Rocco grumbled.

Brooke was numb. Clint could tell.

Her face was blank.

She hadn't said anything, but the shaking had stopped. She simply stood there, leaning heavily into him for support, staring unblinkingly ahead at where the phone had been before Rocco put it down on the table.

Clint and Rocco both looked at her with deep concern.

She'd gone ashen.

He knew that look.

Fuck.

Pulling out a chair at the table, he helped her into it, then ran for the first thing he could think of, which was a soup pot in the drying rack of the sink. He managed to get it to her just in time before she leaned over and vomited.

"Charming fellow, isn't he?" Rocco asked dryly, shaking his head as anger flickered in his green eyes.

Clint swept Brooke's hair away from her face and just tucked it down the back of her shirt as she held the pot and wretched up milk and cookies.

"This has gone from terrible to ... I don't even know," Brooke said, her words echoing in the bowl. "He's going to ruin my career. My life."

"No, he won't. We won't let him," Rocco said. "I'll go on the news and set the record straight. I'll even call up that Tinsley McTavish and get her to interview me."

Brooke shook her head. "No. That's what he wants. Fletcher wants to fight. He wants the attention. He always wanted attention. If you respond, you're giving him what he wants. More news outlets will interview him and give him a platform. Don't give him the satisfaction."

Clint didn't necessarily agree with her. He leaned toward Rocco's way of thinking. Counter Fletcher's story with the truth. And if that meant telling the world some of the shit Fletcher really did to discredit him, then so be it. Nobody would blame Brooke for what happened when they knew the whole story. When they knew Fletcher was a murderer.

Since the media had already found Fletcher, did that mean any kind of gag order Brooke's PR team had put into place over the last decade was now obsolete?

Surely, she had a posthumous clause somewhere. That all her dirty laundry stayed buried even after her death. And she wasn't even declared dead, yet, so legally, they needed to continue to keep things hidden and track down any leaks.

He rubbed her back. "We'll figure it out."

Lifting her head, she used the back of her wrist to wipe her mouth. Rocco went to the kitchen to grab her some paper towel and a glass of water.

"I won't do anything you don't want me to do," Rocco said, returning. "But think about it. Dad's not going to expect me to agree to an interview—he knows I hate the limelight. So when I do, it'll carry a lot of weight. Besides, the man will say anything to deflect the blame. He's a narcissist whose native language is gaslighting."

Brooke swallowed and accepted the water, finishing it in one long sip. "I just need to think."

The more Clint thought about it, the more he believed Fletcher Barber had something to do with the attempt on Brooke's life. The fact that he insisted her death was a suicide spoke volumes. He wanted the media and public to form an opinion that would stick, even before the police made any kind of an official ruling.

Rocco said he'd been convicted of multiple crimes and sentenced to something like fifty years. But maybe they'd reopened the case, and he was up for an appeal? If Brooke was brought in as a witness, that would definitely be bad, so the best thing to do was eliminate her from the equation all together. Brooke obviously had a will, and Clint hedged a guess that Rocco stood to inherit everything if she passed. But who inherited her estate if Rocco was dead?

Incarcerated people could still inherit estates.

If Fletcher was behind all of this, maybe he had someone coming after Rocco next.

Maybe he anticipated Rocco coming to Washington state, and now he was a sitting duck?

He shook his head and dismissed that conspiracy theory. He watched way too many Sherlock Holmes episodes, and they were starting to mess with him.

But the idea of eliminating Brooke before she could speak out against Fletcher still held merit.

He would keep that speculation to himself until he had a bit more time to think about it. To do some reading. He'd also run the idea past Rocco before he ran it past Brooke. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her even more.

Brooke stood up and gingerly walked back to where her box of supplies was still open and only half unpacked on the table. "I'm not going to let that bastard take anything else away from me," she said with conviction as she opened up a vacuum sealed bag to reveal a white T-shirt. She met Rocco and Clint's gaze, determination burning brightly in her irises. "Rocco, call that cop in Seattle. Let's let him in on our little secret. Maybe if he knows I'm alive, we can use it to our advantage and flush out my killer." Her nostrils flared, and relief flooded Clint.

His strong and brave woman was back. After a brief blip into despair, she was rallying and ready to fight. "Because Brooke Barker isn't going to let anybody ruin her, let alone kill her. Least of all her mother-murdering father."