Page 81 of Crossroads of Love

Ifinish up the few trades that I need to do for myself and my clients. Checking the stock market meticulously, I already have programs set up on my computer that do most of the work for me. It’s just a matter of making sure it’s tracking correctly.

I got Dad’s office set up with my computer system and a new desk. A local company installed cable internet and a Wi-Fi router for me, even helped me locate an extender to improve the cell service. It’s been a game changer and will limit my trips back into the city now.

My father had been working with a private investigator and doing a lot of legwork to research my brother’s extracurriculars. I have a friend that I met from a pickleball group I play with. He’s a private investigator and supposedly one of the best there is in New York City. I sent him a text and email with Hank’s information and what I’ve found so far on my brother.Hopefully, he can get me more information than even what Dad found.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I pull up to Hank’s place. It’s been years since I’ve been out here. There used to be an old barn and hunting cabin out here that Dad had us fix up a long time ago. Things have changed since then.

The barn is gone. The cabin has been updated.

I kill the engine and step out of the truck, scanning the surroundings. The run-down property has overgrown weeds climbing up the sides of the house and a fence that hasn’t been mended in years. No sign of Hank, though. No truck is parked in the driveway. The place is dead quiet.

I walk up to the front door, my pulse quickening as I get closer. I don’t know what I expect to find. Maybe this is just paranoia, or perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions, but my gut tells me that Hank’s not just some harmless man. Something’s off. And when my gut tells me something’s off, I listen.

Henry gave him this property, and my father didn’t part with anything that had been in the family for a century, not unless he absolutely had to. Something about all of this feels wrong.

I knock on the door—once, twice. Nothing. The house feels empty, almost eerie in the silence. I glance around, making sure no one’s watching, then step off the porch and move toward the side of the house. A window around the back is half shuttered, probably still old and stiff.

As I round the corner, my breath catches in my throat. The window’s half open, the curtain fluttering in the breeze. I hesitate for a second, my hand twitching at my side.

Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to see what’s inside?

I crouch down, peering inside the window. The room is dimly lit, cluttered with junk, old tools, and piles of newspapers—theusual mess you’d expect from a guy. My eyes land on the wall at the far end of the room, and my stomach drops.

Photos. Hundreds of them. Pictures of Lena and Jayla. Every inch of the wall is covered, from floor to ceiling, with shots of them. Some are candid, taken from a distance, like Hank’s been following them. Others look like they were taken secretly through a window or something. There are shots of Jayla and her friends in the park and at the school. Pictures of Lena walking to her car, laughing with someone, unaware that someone’s watching.

On the other wall are photos of Aaron, as well as pictures of a few other men in the sheriff’s uniform and a lot of different people. Some of them I recognize, some I don’t.

My blood runs cold, and rage bubbles up inside me. I grip the windowsill tighter, my knuckles white.

What the hell is this man doing? Why the hell does he have these pictures?

My mind races with a hundred different scenarios, each worse than the last.

Is he stalking them? Planning something? Has he already tried something, and we just don’t know yet?

Did Dad know this when he gave him the property? Did he give him this to stay away from the girls?

I want to kick the door down, storm in there, and tear the place apart. I want to find Hank and beat him senseless until he tells me exactly what the hell is going on. But I can’t. I have to keep my cool. If I do anything rash, anything stupid, I’ll tip him off. He’ll know someone has been here, and who knows what he’ll do next.

I force myself to breathe, to calm the surge of anger rising in me. This isn’t the time. I need to think and be smart about this. If I go after Hank now, I won’t have any proof. He’ll just deny everything, and I’ll have nothing to show for it except a brokennose and a fistfight with a guy who’s more dangerous than I realized.

But as I’m about to step away from the window, I hear the unmistakable sound of tires crunching on gravel. I duck down, pressing myself against the side of the house.

Hank’s truck pulls into the driveway, the engine rumbling as it comes to a stop. I stay low, peeking out just enough to see him climb out of the cab. He’s wearing an old ratty jacket, and his face is set in a grumpy scowl.

He doesn’t notice me as he walks up to the porch, keys jingling in his hand. I have a split second to decide what to do.

Run? Confront him? Play it cool?

I move to the other side of the house, walking around as though I’m looking for him. He notices me at the same time I pretend to notice him.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

I shrug, trying to play it off like this is no big deal. “It was my family’s property. I wanted to check it out. I found some paperwork showing my dad sold this to you and wanted to talk to you. Figured I’d stop by, see if you were around.”

His eyes narrow, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. He’s trying to figure out why I’m really here and what I know. But I keep my face neutral.

“Well, you found me,” he says gruffly. “What’s on your mind?”

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