Page 135 of Lethal Danger

Why did everyone reject her?

No. Not everyone. Uncle Pierce cared about her. He’d made that clear. He wanted to protect her and support her like his own daughters. And Aunt Joan had even wanted to get closer to Jazz before she was killed.

Aunt Joan. The sabotage.

Jazz reached for her phone she’d left in the cupholder. She’d completely forgotten to try to find the ex-husband of Patch’s wife.

If he turned out to be the culprit behind the sabotage and Aunt Joan’s death, it would bring such comfort to Uncle Pierce. He’d have closure, knowing her killer was caught and justice was served. And that Jazz was protecting Aunt Joan’s legacy by eliminating the threat to the fair.

He would probably love Jazz even more if she could do that for him and Aunt Joan.

Her gut told her Gary wasn’t their man. Maybe she just didn’t want to believe it. But it made more sense that he was simply trying to find his son’s murderer.

And Patch’s stalker—the jealous ex of his wife—sounded much more like the type of guy to exact that kind of revenge. Violent, targeted, vindictive revenge.

If Jazz could find out who he was and somehow get the evidence to prove he was the culprit, then she could give Uncle Pierce the news, and they could put all this behind them. Start getting to know each other without the grief and danger.

Her biological family was her only real chance at being loved and accepted. She’d forgotten that when her family rejected her for so long. She got desperate for substitutes. Nevaeh, PK-9, and now Hawthorne.

But she didn’t need any of them. She had real family that cared for her and loved her now. Uncle Pierce.

She would stay and build a life with him. Be his comfort when his daughters left him after the funeral to return to their own lives while he had to find his way without Aunt Joan.

Jazz would be his shoulder to cry on and help him through. She’d support his campaign for governor and maybe take over his security to be sure he was protected.

The plans for her new family of two were like a salve that covered and soothed the wounds in her heart that Hawthorne had inflicted. That this whole day had inflicted, starting with Neveah.

But there was happiness in store for Jazz yet, with Uncle Pierce.

First, she needed to find out if the police had the right guy behind bars. Or if Patch or his crazy stalker were the real culprits.

She lifted her phone and woke the screen. A notification appeared. A voicemail message from Cora.

Jazz’s finger paused over the notification. She was quitting the agency, leaving them behind. She didn’t need to march to the beat of Phoenix’s orders anymore. She’d check the message after she finished the more important task of finding her aunt’s killer.

Jazz swiped the notification off the screen. Then she navigated to a court records search website and typed in Desmond Patch.

Hawthorne turned his head against the pillow to see the alarm clock on the nightstand.

12:55 a.m.

Five minutes later than the last time he’d checked. Maybe he should get out of bed since he apparently wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

The pain in Jazz’s eyes and the echo of his own, unnecessarily hurtful words wouldn’t leave him alone. Neither would the guilt contorting his belly.

He’d only been trying to tell her the truth he had failed to make clear before—that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. And he did need to stay focused on fulfilling his promise to Rebekah and then leaving as planned.

He wasn’t good husband material anyway. That much was clear from the way he’d handled communicating—or not communicating—with Jazz this whole time. And especially today. Or yesterday, technically, given the time on the clock.

She probably realized now, after he’d told her he didn’t want her, that she shouldn’t want him. She was likely moving on already, realizing he was an insensitive jerk who wasn’t worthy of her.

And that was for the best.

The painful twist in his chest didn’t match what was supposed to be a positive train of thought. It was good Jazz would get over him now. He couldn’t have become attached to her anyway—even if he’d gone crazy and wanted to do so against his better judgment—because she wasn’t a Christian.

Why did that thought feel like desperation? Like grasping at straws to assuage his guilt. Or an attempt to distract himself from the disturbing stirrings of regret within.

Good grief. He pushed to sitting and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, pulling off the light sheet.

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