Rye Mallett’s stare was unmoving, unblinking, and unnerving.

She would give anything to know what he’d told the deputy. Their accounts of discovering Brady White would be similar, if not word for word. But she wondered about his version of their meeting at the crash site. How much had he told, how truthful had he been, what had he left out?

Working in her favor was the man’s innate terseness and avoidance of conversation. He also had a self-proclaimed aversion to involvement. He would want this to be over and done with as soon as possible, the same as she, so she doubted he would elaborate or give the deputies anything except brief answers to direct questions.

For her part, she’d been guarded when answering the deputy’s questions, but not so evasive as to arouse suspicion.

He had asked about the scratches on her hands. She had attributed them to stumbling into a thicket while making her way through the woods in search of the plane. “When I reached it, I was so relieved to discover the pilot alive and unharmed.”

“You and Mallett know each other?”

“Not at all. He was stranded out there, and so was I. We walked here together.”

The deputy—his name was Wilson something or something Wilson—had looked over at Rye where he was being questioned. Coming back around to her, he said, “Rough-looking character.”

She’d had to agree. His stance was arrogant, his mannerisms insolent. He had a surly disposition, the reflexes of a rattlesnake, and an air of menace, which was a troublesome combination when being questioned at a crime scene by officers of the law. A more congenial attitude and friendlier aspect would’ve been beneficial to them both, but it was too late to advise him of that.

“As I said, I didn’t meet him until tonight,” she’d told Wilson. “But, honestly, I was glad to have him with me. The fog and all.”

They’d gone back and forth like that without her revealing anything of substance. She’d been relieved when they moved from her initial encounter with Rye Mallett to their finding Brady White.

“The people who attacked him left shoe prints. Unfortunately…” She gestured at the floor.

The tips of Wilson’s ears had turned red with embarrassment when he saw that any prints left were now smudged and useless as a means of helping to identify the perpetrators.

He’d asked a few more questions, then posed the one she’d most dreaded. “What was he delivering to you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Sorry?”

“To tell would be a violation of my patient’s privacy.”

Wilson had studied her for a moment, then said in a lower voice, “I know your daddy, Dr. O’Neal.”

Her heart had bumped, but she’d kept her voice cool. “Do you?”

“Y’all going to spend Thanksgiving together?”

“No. I have to work tomorrow. In fact…” She’d made a grand gesture of checking her watch and, upon seeing the time, had made a small sound of distress. “I need to return to Atlanta as soon as possible, and since my car can’t be driven, I need to be making other arrangements for getting back. How much longer will this take?”

Showing no sympathy for her time crunch, he’d stuck to the subject of her father. “When did you last see Wes?”

“We haven’t had any contact in a long while. Years.”

He’d poked his tongue into his cheek and continued to search her eyes for an uncomfortable length of time, then had turned away from her and summoned his crony. “Rawlins? Talk to you for a sec?”

And now, while the two deputies conferred in whispers, she and the pilot exchanged stares, and to her supreme consternation, it had been easier to withstand Wilson’s incisive gaze than it was Rye Mallett’s.

Seen in full light, he looked no more reputable than he had when he had her pinned to the forest floor. He had a rangy build, but, as she knew from experience, he was stronger than his leanness suggested.

His dark blond hair was thick and unruly and grazed the collar of his bomber jacket. No extra flesh softened his square and well-defined jaw, but it was dusted with a scruff only slightly darker than his hair. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes because the sockets were cast in shadow by the overhead light. But she felt the hostility they trained on her. Indeed, if looks could kill.

What bothered her most, he wore his ruggedness and hostility well.

Wilson’s return came as a welcome relief from Rye’s glower.

“I sent a deputy out to assess the damage to your car,” the deputy said. “He confirmed that it can’t be driven. I’ve called a tow truck, but they won’t go out till daylight. You can ride to the department with me. Mr. Mallett can go with Deputy Rawlins. Okay?”

She got the sense that the question was asked out of politeness and not because her opinion of the plan made any difference. “Department?”

“Sheriff’s office. We’ll take your statements there. Get y’all some coffee. You’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

Having overheard the plan, Rye hissed an expletive. As coarse as it was, Brynn wanted to underscore it. “How long will that take?” she asked.

“Can’t say,” Wilson replied.

“There’s nothing I can add to what I’ve already told you.”

Wilson gave her a pleasant smile. “Maybe in the retelling, you’ll think of something else.”

“I won’t.”

“And anyway,” he said, continuing as though she hadn’t spoken, “we’d like to take a look inside that box.”

Chapter 7

4:02 a.m.

The two squad cars arrived at the sheriff’s department at the same time, but Rye and Brynn were kept separated as Rawlins and Wilson escorted them toward the building. They didn’t want them collaborating on their stories.

Police procedure. Rye got it. He just didn’t like it. He was being treated more like a suspect than a material witness. The implication made him angry and apprehensive.

Just what the hell was going on? The answer lay with Brynn. She might not have aimed that laser at him herself, but were she and that damned box the reason someone had? Something was keeping her from being up-front, and not just with him. The deputies smelled a rat, too.

The four of them entered through a door marked “Official Personnel Only.” No sooner were they inside than a gruff voice called out, “Brynn! Is that you, honey?”

The woman lumbering down the corridor toward them wore a deputy’s uniform stretched to capacity over her full figure. With iron gray hair and lips so thin they were nonexistent, Rye placed her age as sixty-something. Her no-nonsense bearing was belied by her smile as she approached Brynn.

“I heard your name over dispatch and knew you were coming in. Couldn’t wait to see you!”

Brynn smiled at her with genuine warmth. “Hello, Myra.”

Myra wrapped her in a hug that looked bone-crushing, then set her back and held her at arm’s length. “Look at you! I’m so proud of you, girl.”

“Thank you.”

“Still in Atlanta? And a doctor?”

“Yes to both.”

“Mercy sakes,” the woman said. “That’s wonderful. Pretty as ever, too.”

Brynn’s smile became a bit more tentative, as though the woman’s flattery made her uneasy. “I thought you would have retired by now, Myra.”

“To do what? Sit and rock? Take up knitting or rose-growing? Just shoot me now. Besides, this department would fall apart if I wasn’t here to hold it together.”

Brynn laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”

Myra continued to beam, then seemed to remember that Brynn hadn’t simply dropped by to say hello. “What happened out there at the airfield? Brady White’s in the ER. What’s going on?” She’d addressed the questions to Rawlins in a tone that was almost accusatory.

“We’re trying to determine that,” he replied. “Excuse us.”

Under his and Wilson’s prodding, Rye and Brynn were shepherded toward the staircase. Over her shoulder, Brynn said, “It was good to see you, Myra. Happy Thanksgiving.”

As they started up the enclosed stairwell, Rye slid off his bomber jacket and folded it over his forearm. Rounding the landing, Brynn happened to bump elbows with him. When she turned her head to excuse herself, she caught a glimpse of the jacket’s lining.

It stopped her where she stood on the tread above him. Her gaze snapped to his.

With exaggerated care, he refolded the jacket so that the well-endowed pinup girl, hand-painted on the silk lining, was no longer visible. “Sorry,” he said, with all the sincerity of a snake oil salesman. “There’s a world map on the inside.”

“How convenient.”

“It is, actually. Unfamiliar terrain can be tricky to navigate.”

From behind them, Wilson said, “Move it along, please.”