“You’re still not sure it was murder.” She dropped onto the sofa, whether from defeat or emotional exhaustion, he couldn’t say.
He rounded the coffee table and returned to his chair, perching on the edge to be closer to her, better able to catch her gaze when she looked up again. “You asked me to do this because I write crime thrillers—mysteries—and because I was an MP, right?”
She nodded, admitting to what she’d said on that phone call.
“The only way to solve a mystery, especially one in real life, is to approach it without any assumptions. I have to look at all the evidence before I let myself form conclusions or come up with any theories.”
She pressed her lips together. “But you know it’s not just me, right? His dad swore it was murder, too.”
“You have to trust me, Rebekah. I will find the truth for you, okay?”
She stared at him a beat or two. Then she nodded and glanced away.
Compassion filled his chest as he watched the sadness cloak her young face. A nineteen-year-old girl shouldn’t have to carry the burden of the tragic death of a loved one. Especially in circumstances like those surrounding Sam Ackerman’s death. A death deemed an accident by authorities but believed to be murder by those close to him.
If Hawthorne had read about it in case files while doing research or in the pages of a novel, he’d have thought it was great material for a thrilling plot. But there was nothing thrilling about death—murder or accidental—in real life. Especially when it grieved his sister so much.
“Oops.” Rebekah stared at the smartphone she must’ve picked up while he was thinking. “I gotta go. Work.” She jumped up from the sofa and rushed to her flip-flops. She slung the bag over her shoulder as she spun toward him. “Text me as soon as you find out something?”
“Absolutely.” He stood to see her out.
Her flip-flops smacked the wood floor as she hurried to the door. “Or even if you don’t find out anything?” She threw the question over her shoulder with a glance that seemed to carry a hint of vulnerability. Or maybe fear? Of what, he couldn’t say.
“Sure.” He slowly closed the door behind her.
He looked at his watch. 4:26 p.m.
Would anyone get suspicious if he showed up at the fairgrounds when it wasn’t his shift? Probably. He’d been up front when he had signed on for the two-week stint as a Tri-City Fair security guard. He’d said he was a thriller novelist, wanting to research the fair. He hadn’t mentioned he specifically wanted to investigate a suspicious death at the fair, but no one should be surprised when they learned what he was doing.
Still, he was brand new. He didn’t need to make people uncomfortable right out of the gate. He’d wait until his morning shift tomorrow. And remember to start his drive earlier this time. Thanks to Minneapolis traffic, his commute to the Tri-City Fair in St. Paul took far longer than he’d expected when he’d rented the Floatbnb at this location.
He returned to the living room, and his gaze landed on the flipped throw pillow where Rebekah had sat. Maybe he should’ve admitted that he hadn’t been able to start investigating Sam’s death today because of the unexpected disaster with the Ferris wheel.
Talk about things that shouldn’t be labeled an accident.
He supposed it was normal for the police and fair staff to assume the cabin falling that way was accidental. Rust did cause problems, and the research he’d done when his shift ended yesterday showed the General Manager was right. Accidents with rides happened much more frequently than he’d realized. So maybe this event was an accident, too.
Yet he couldn’t help but consider other possibilities. Like a person swapping out good rivets for rusted. Ones the culprit knew would break.
He blew out a breath and grabbed his espresso off the coffee table, finishing it in one quick gulp as he walked to the kitchen.
He was the one whose brain was abnormal, his imagination always suspicious and overactive. Served him well in fiction writing and military investigations. But he had to remember to keep it in check for civilian life.
He had his hands full with trying to investigate Sam’s death. No need to pile up imaginary villains and conspiracies all over the fair.
At least unraveling a mystery wasn’t the only thing he had to look forward to at his new security job. He smiled as he rinsed the cup and put it in the otherwise-empty dishwasher.
The memory of fascinating Jazz Lamont filled his mind. If only he’d been able to talk to her after they’d rescued the passenger. But she’d been engrossed in private conversation with the General Manager, which was curious. Perhaps the General Manager recognized she had something special in Jazz Lamont. And then Butch had sent Jazz and Hawthorne out on patrol in separate directions.
He hadn’t seen her again during the long shift, even though he’d kept an eye out for her. But the fairgrounds were massive and as crowded as New York City sidewalks most of the time.
He might not see her tomorrow either. If they were even working the same shift again. He could legally base his next series’ heroine on her without her permission, so long as he didn’t use anything obviously specific to her.
But if he could use her first name, at least, that would be fantastic. And it would be a dream to be able to sit down with her and explore how she’d become such an amazing woman of action and skill. To learn what made her tick, what drove her, and who she really was.
The series would practically write itself.
He just needed to find his heroine again and get her to say yes.