Page 23 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

He nodded, and she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and returned to her bedroom.

Garrett sat on the edge of the sofa. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean’s color was returning. He glanced at the hallway entrance. “She’s overreacting. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“You’re going to the doctor. You’re not going to get all stubborn and stupid on me, right?”

The older man smiled. “When have I ever?—?”

“I can make a list.”

Dean chuckled, but the sound died fast. “What I need is for you to do this for me. And don’t tell her we had this conversation or anything about me.”

How could Garrett do this to her?

“If she knows what her mother did or where she is,” Dean said, “just let me know. If she doesn’t know anything, then there’ll be nothing to report.”

Dean was right. If Aspen knew nothing—and he suspected that was the case—then what would it hurt to report that to Dean? Garrett could put his mind at ease. In fact, he could be doing Aspen a favor by convincing Dean, who could convince others in town, she knew nothing about her mother’s whereabouts or complicated history. He could be protecting her.

And anyway, how could he refuse his uncle?

This could be good for Aspen. As long as she never found out what he was up to, everything would be fine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THIRTY YEARS AGO.

The Planner was the first to enter the seedy bar off the interstate. Early, of course. He ordered a beer and found a table in the back corner, where he sipped and studied his notes while he waited.

After a few minutes, two more people stepped into the dark interior. They paused to let their eyes adjust to the light and then made their way to where he sat at a round table in the far back corner.

All three were students, which anybody who cared to look would guess. He himself had a notebook. The second wore a sweatshirt emblazoned with the college’s logo—which earned a glare from him. Everything about the third—from the glasses to the leather messenger bag—screamedintellectual. But the bar was mostly empty, and the bartender was too busy flirting with her customers to pay any attention to them.

Once they were all seated at the table, the Planner started the meeting. He directed the conversation, never using the others’ names. He called them the Crusader and the Builder. They were all integral to the operation, of course, but it was the Planner who would make it happen. And keep them all out of prison.

He focused on the Builder. “You’re sure you can do it?”

“No question.”

“And the supplies?”

“It’ll take time. I’ll need to go on a few day trips, make sure I buy everything out of state.”

He turned to the Crusader. “And the target?”

“You know who it has to be.” As usual, her voice was too loud, earning a vehementshushfrom the Builder. The Crusader lowered her volume and leaned in. “They got a slap on the wrist, barely a hiccup in their operation. We have to make them pay.”

The Planner didn’t know if that was true, but the idea of what they were going to do filled him with a heady sense of power. He’d gotten away with everything he’d ever done. Thanks to his parents’ positions and money, nobody’d ever looked twice at him for the petty crimes he’d committed. He’d been labeled a good kid early on, and everybody believed it.

He was good, still. This plan wouldn’t benefit those doing it, but it would benefit the world. It was worth the risk.

Not that he planned for any of them to go to prison. He’d mitigate all the risks. The lumber company would pay, and the three of them would walk away without so much as a blemish on their records.

It would just take very careful planning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As soon as the sheets were clean that evening, Aspen lay down for a short nap and ended up sleeping for almost three hours.

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