Page 31 of Finding His Redemption

Walker moved off the porch and put his body between Jax and Goodwin. “You’re reaching, Hank.”

“Am I? Young woman. Pretty. Brutalized. Found right where Thorne was walking. Timing fits. Profile fits. His history fits, too.”

Jesus, he should say something—defend himself, demand a lawyer, anything—but his tongue felt welded to the roof of his mouth.

“I need to know exactly where you were between four and six yesterday morning,” Goodwin pressed.

“Sleeping,” he finally managed. “Then I took a walk.”

“Anyone other than Nessie see you?”

“He left the bunkhouse at five-thirty. We all saw him,” Ghost said, his voice quiet but no less steely for it, and a murmur of agreement came from the rest of the guys. “If you want proof, I can pull the security footage. It will show him coming in late that night when he and Walker got in from California, and not leaving again until he went for the walk. So what was T.O.D.?”

The sheriff’s expression soured.

Walker nodded. “You’re done here, Hank. Next time bring a warrant.”

Goodwin plastered on a smile and held up his hands in surrender. “Like I said, just a friendly visit.” He strolled back to his cruiser, but paused at the door, turning just enough so his profile was visible, and spoke to the yard without facing anyone at all. “But if I get reason to think any of you lied to me, I’ll be coming back with that warrant.”

He got into the cruiser and slammed the door, the echo of it hanging in the morning air like a gunshot.

“Fucker,” River muttered.

“Get back to work,” Walker said. “Those horses need tending, Beckett. The rest of you, too. Go.”

Jax exhaled, slow, steady, but the pressure in his chest didn’t ease. He should be used to this. To suspicion, to the heat of an accusation. To being the first and only suspect.

He replayed yesterday morning in his head. Waking up to the chaos of King tearing around the bunkhouse. The curious stares from the men. Nessie on the side of the road, and the way her kid had stared at him through the glass. The way she’d sized him up before deciding he was safe enough to help.

He hadn’t lied. He hadn’t seen the girl, hadn’t known about the murder until Goodwin told him.

But none of that mattered, did it? All that mattered was who they’d decided he was.

He watched the road long after the cruiser was gone. When the last dust settled and the guys had all gone back to whatever they’d been doing before the sheriff’s visit, Boone turned, hands on hips, and fixed him with a stare. “You didn’t do anything, right?”

Jax got the feeling if he so much as twitched the wrong way, Boone might break his jaw just to make a point. “If you have to ask, we got a problem.”

Walker cleared his throat. “Boone’s not your judge, son. He’s your shield.”

Boone nodded. “Exactly. I ain’t asking if you killed her. I don’t care, but if I gotta stand between you and a murder charge, I need to know what to be ready for.”

Jax tried to relax his hands, but they kept curling into fists. “I walked Ridge Road. Fixed a tire for the woman and her kid. She drove me to the bakery. You picked me up there and brought me back here. End of story.”

“You didn’t see anything unusual? Anyone else on the road?” Boone pressed.

“I told you everything.”

“You sure about that?”

“Last time I killed someone, it was from behind a sniper rifle while I was still on the Teams.” The words came out flat, emotionless. “The last time Iattemptedto kill someone, I wasn’t in my right mind and got sent to prison. Now I am in my right mind, and I’m not itching to go back inside.”

A hint of a smile turned up the corner of Boone’s mouth, and the tension eased out of his shoulders. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

A big hand clapped down on Jax’s shoulder hard enough that he had to stumble a step to keep his balance. He straightened and looked between the two men, searching for the lie, the angle, the trap. He’d spent too many years with people who assumed the worst about him. His own parents hadn’t believed he wasn’t responsible for those murders in California, even after the DNA evidence cleared him.

“You… believe me?”

“What I think,” Walker said carefully, “is that Hank’s never met an ex-con he didn’t want to put back behind bars. And you’re fresh meat.”

---