Mann 01 - Where Angels Rest by Kate Brady Read Free Book Online Page B

and standing in front of her masks wringing her hands. Huggins’s shotgun finally came down and Erin shook off the hands that held her.
    She caught her breath and glanced at a clock over the mantle: seven-thirty. Nearly two days gone of Justin’s seven, but she was on her way. She’d identified Huggins and the police were here. Next would come the media and soon people would hear the truth and Justin would have another chance.
She
would have another chance. To do what she’d never been able to do before, even when they were children.
    To protect him.
    “I want to see Sheriff Nikolaus Mann,” she said, to a deputy who might have been twelve. He had red-blond hair that stuck up like an elf’s and had been reaching for his belt when she spoke. For handcuffs, Erin realized.
    He seemed startled by her demand but relaxed his hand. “Uh… Okay. Come with me.”
    Huggins intercepted them. “Deputy Jensen, this woman is trespassing, committing slander, and in violation of a restraining order.”
    “I’ll take care of it, Jack,” Jensen said, and walked her out, seeming in a hurry to have it over. Erin heldHuggins’s gaze as they passed him, and his blue-green eyes bore into her like daggers.
    She shook it off and they stepped into the cold night air. Erin noticed the two deputies’ cars, both with blue lights flashing. “Where can I find the sheriff?” she asked.
    “He’ll be back Monday,” the young deputy said. His badge read C. J ENSEN . “Come on to headquarters and we’ll write up your complaint. Or, Jack’s complaint. Or…” He stopped. Confused.
    Erin steeled her spine.
    “This can’t wait until Monday. I need to see him now.”
    “Ma’am, I’m sorry. He’s not here.” But he’d blinked. Weakening.
    She stuck her hands on her hips. “And does he have a phone?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And do you know how to dial his number?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “Then do it.”
    Somewhere in the distance, funky music played. Nick stirred, lying on the floor of the cabin. A tequila bottle lounged in his fingers, cigarette butts littered the hearth of the fireplace. His brain sloshed at the bottom of his skull.
    A minute passed and the music stopped. He climbed to his feet and humped to a chair—a rickety wooden grab from a yard sale three years ago. There was a table, too, also with one leg shorter than the other. “A matched set,” the seller had said, right before Nick gave him ten dollars for all three pieces of junk. The third was an old mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace.
    Otherwise, the cabin was empty. Nick had paid a guy to haul away the Italian leather sofa and chairs, the cherrydining room set, the king-size bed in the master bedroom and the princess furniture in the adjoining room. A salvage guy had even pulled out the carpet and molding.
    The music came again and Nick frowned. It seemed to be coming from his ass. He shifted and it got louder. It
was
coming from his ass.
    He pulled the phone from his hip pocket, cursed at the number. Chris Jensen. He opened the phone and snarled into it. “What the hell are you doing, calling me?”
    “Sheriff—”
    “It’s not Monday yet. Leave me alone.”
    “Sheriff, we have a situation.”
    “Is Hannah okay?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “My mom okay?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Has Hopewell been attacked by terrorists, burned down, or washed away in a flood?” That long of a speech actually left him dizzy.
    “No, sir.”
    Then Nick remembered, and an instant of sobriety threatened. “Did they find the son of a bitch who killed Carrie Sitton?”
    “Uh, no. But there is one thing on that. Turns out she was a friend of Rebecca Engel’s.”
    “Friend?”
    “Carrie was on her way home from Rebecca’s house when she was murdered. Cleveland cops were down here interviewing Rebecca today.”
    Aw, hell. Rebecca Engel lived in Hopewell. She was Nick’s. Too close, too close.
    Jensen went on. “Rebecca didn’t know anything about Carrie’s plans