“The posts I didn’t write?” Jessie reminded him.
“That’s not the point anymore,” he said resignedly. “No matter how much proof you offer that your account was hacked, some people are still going to want to assume the worst of you.”
“So you think I should just lie low until people forget that they think I’m a racist?” Jessie said skeptically.
Garland sighed but refused to take the bait.
“Maybe do what your friend Kat is doing,” he suggested.
Jessie’s friend, private detective Katherine “Kat” Gentry, was currently getting a full neurological workup at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix. She’d been with Jessie during the rescue of the abducted woman from the burning house. They’d both suffered concussions when a bomb exploded at the scene.
For Kat, who’d served as an army ranger in Afghanistan and prided herself on ignoring her scars, both external and internal, this was at least her sixth. She’d finally consented to get checked out when the headaches and ringing in hers ears hadn’t subsided after two full weeks. She would be in Arizona for five days before returning this weekend.
“Kat’s a military veteran dealing with PTSD, IED injuries, and possibly CTE,” Jessie told him. “I’m just a gal who got a few burns.”
Garland smiled paternally.
“That was quite the alphabet soup there, Jessie. And while it’s true that your friend is dealing with potentially serious issues, so are you. You’ve been concussed multiple times. And you’ve got more scars, physical and emotional, than most soldiers. How many of them were tortured by their own birth father after watching him murder their mom?”
“Probably a few,” Jessie snapped snarkily.
“And how many of them had to take on that same father in a fight to the death? And later kill his serial killer protégé? And tangle with her sociopathic killer of an ex-husband? And…”
“I get it, Garland,” Jessie interrupted.
He sat quietly for a moment.
“I’m just saying you need to take care yourself. If you won’t do it for your own well-being, think of your little sister and that dashing detective you love. Those relationships are inevitably going to suffer if you keep your foot on the pedal all the time. Looking out for you helps you look out for them.”
She nodded, taking another small bite of the muffin she was no longer interested in.
“I noticed you changed the subject too,” she pointed out.
“What?”
“The case? Did you solve it?”
“Any minute now,” he said wryly.
“Are you going to actually tell me anything at all about this case?” she asked, annoyed.
“Dead woman found in a neighbor’s home,” he said matter-of-factly. “We eliminated the husband, which disappointed me because he’s a genuinely unpleasant person. I would have loved to have nailed him for it. But at least that means I don’t have to interact with him anymore. He was like a walking, talking ulcer.”
“What else?” she asked.
He looked at her with an odd expression, as if he wanted to ask her something but couldn’t think of how best to broach the subject.
“Do you consider yourself a fashion plate?” he finally asked.
Jessie hadn’t expected that one.
“I can dress myself,” she said. “But do I have a subscription to Vogue? No. Why?”
He started to speak, but then stopped himself, instead taking a sip of coffee.
“Is that it?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to expand on that?”
“I don’t think so,” he told her. “I’ve already said more than I should have. I worry that anything else I tell you will be like catnip and you’ll just want more. You’re supposed to be recuperating and I don’t want to undermine that. If you really want the particulars, pump Hernandez for them.”
“Ugh,” Jessie said. “That was the only reason I asked you to meet me.”
“And here I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company. That’s very hurtful.” He sounded wounded but she could see a grin starting to form at the corners of his mouth.
“You are a very unpleasant man,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
He took another sip of coffee and allowed himself the full-on smile this time.
“Did you want to discuss any non–case related topics?” he asked. “I feel like you’re holding back.”
“What am I holding back?” she replied more petulantly than she’d intended.
“We haven’t talked about Hannah in a while. How’s she doing?”
Jessie exhaled deeply.
“Sometimes sweet. Sometimes moody. Sometimes hilarious. Sometimes bitchy. Sometimes silent. Your basic nightmare.”
“But no killing, right?” Garland said.
“What?”
“The half-sister you’re worried might be a budding, sociopathic serial-killer-in-training—she hasn’t murdered anyone yet?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” Jessie answered.
“Then moody doesn’t seem so bad in comparison,” he noted.
She shrugged in agreement.
“Not when you put it that way.”
“Maybe count your blessings,” he said mildly. “Considering the life you lead, things could be a hell of a lot worse.”
Jessie couldn’t deny that. She was about to ask him for his input on another matter when her phone rang. She looked down. It was her FBI agent friend Jack Dolan, who’d been having his people keep tabs on her ex-husband, Kyle.
“I have to take this,” she said.
“That’s okay,” Garland, said, dropping a five on the table. “I should get into the office anyway. Your boyfriend probably misses me.”
“You want a ride?”
“Nah. You’ve got your call. Besides, you know I like to walk.”
“Okay,” she said as she answered the phone. “Hi, Dolan.”
“Hey, Jessie,” Garland added in a hushed voice as he stood up.
“Hold on one second, Dolan,” she said into the phone before looking up at the crusty guy in front of her. “Yeah, Garland?”
“Just remember, you’re in charge of your life. Not Decker, not Hannah, not Hernandez, and not any serial killer. Sometimes it’s hard to see it that way. But you always have choices.”
“Thanks, Confucius,” she said as she winked at him. “We’ll talk later, okay. I’ve got to take this call. It’s about Kyle.”
Garland smiled, bowed slightly, and headed out, his shock of unruly white hair fading into the distance as he disappeared leisurely into the crowd of people hurrying to their destinations.
“I’m back,” Jessie said. “What have you got for me, Jack?”
“Bad news—it’s about your ex-husband.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Hang on a minute,” Jessie said, even as her heart dropped into her stomach. “I need to find somewhere private to talk.”
Jessie almost regretted waiting. The three minutes it took to pay, leave the diner, and get into her car felt interminable. Dolan, a hard-bitten cynic whose attitude was only mildly tempered by his morning surf outings, was not known for hyperbole. If he said a situation was bad, it was usually worse. She thought she might throw up the quarter of a muffin she’d eaten.