A Broken Christmas by Claire Ashgrove Read Free Book Online Page B

confirm her memory hadn’t failed her—she had, indeed, put several of these in the last book. Other photos of his team he let remain. What was it about these specifically?
    Bewildered, Aimee dropped into the chair and laid the pieces out side by side. She chewed on her lower lip as she fit them together, aligning backgrounds, postures, and clothing differences. Slowly, the pictures took shape. Seven in total. All of his team. They spanned the years. Captured moments from the two tours before his last in Afghanistan.
    With the images lined up in front of her, she zeroed in on the obvious. One man occupied space in all of them. Not a team member, but an Afghanistan native. Well groomed. Confident, friendly smile. In one shot, his arm was wrapped around Conner’s shoulders. In another, he shook hands with Kyle. The rest were various images of the team sitting with him while they apparently dined. Except for the last—one she had particularly liked—that captured the Afghani man and a pretty, dark-haired woman with startling topaz eyes.
    She hadn’t asked Kyle who the man was—shortly after she turned a stack of nondescript photos into a scrapbook, the sheriff delivered Kyle’s divorce petition. In the following months of chaos, she’d forgotten about the pictures. So who was this man?
    Only one way to find out.
    Gathering the torn bits up, Aimee stood. She took them upstairs to the loft and picked up the phone. A glance at the clock made her cringe. Conner would never forgive her for waking him up at seven while he was on leave.
    He answered with a gruff, “What do you want?”
    “Sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was.”
    “Mm-hm.” Rustling covers further emphasized he was still in bed.
    Aimee moved to the chair in the corner and lowered her voice. “I found some pictures in the trash. Kyle tore them up. Who’s the Afghani man you were with over there?”
    Deafening silence drifted through the line.
    She waited, tapped her foot, shifted position in the chair. “Conner? Wake up, would you?”
    “I’m awake.”
    His flat, emotionless answer sent chills rushing up Aimee’s spine. The downy hair on her arms lifted. Apprehension crawled through her like a spider scurrying to sedate its pray. “He’s got something to do with it, doesn’t he? The explosion. Denton, Parker, Jones. Kyle’s injuries. Who is this guy, Conner?”
    Conner cleared his voice, and the rustling met her ears once more. “If you’re so bored that you’re digging through the trash, maybe you should run off some energy and jog over to Starbucks. How long’s it been since you stopped in, anyway? Aren’t they missing you by now?”
    Aimee clenched the photographs in a fist. “Damn it, Conner, don’t pull that crap with me. It’s not going to work. Who is this guy, and what does he have to do with Kyle’s leg?”
    “Put ’em back in the trash, Aims. That’s where they belong.”
    Before Aimee could tell him how sick and tired she was of everyone dodging answers, the line clicked in her ear. She pulled the phone away, blinked at the receiver. He’d hung up on her. What the hell?
    Punching his number in, she ground her teeth together. She wanted answers, damn it. Conner knew, and she wasn’t accepting his silence. His voicemail answered, prompting her to leave a message.
    His refusal to pick up made her want to scream. She dialed again, met the same smooth recording of his voice. Damn. If it wasn’t sleeting outside, she’d drive across town to his house and bang on the door until he explained.
    Angry and frustrated, Aimee slammed the phone down and stomped down the stairs. Clearly, whatever had happened over there wasn’t a simple matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time like Major Renfield and Conner had insinuated. They hadn’t driven over a buried IED. They hadn’t been caught in the crossfire of a counterstrike. And for some reason, the people who had once trusted her with privileged information now shut