Page 73 of Finding His Redemption

“You’re a liar and a killer,” Goodwin said flatly. “We both know it. So, why don’t you make this easy on us both and tell me what happened with her?”

“Nothing. Happened.” Jax enunciated each word. “Because I never met her.”

“Then why are her hair fibers on a jacket at Valor Ridge?” Goodwin slammed his hand on the table. “Explain that.”

Jax blinked, his mind racing despite the fog of exhaustion. Hair fibers? That was new. And specific.

“Which jacket?” he asked carefully.

Something flickered in Goodwin’s eyes—triumph, perhaps, at getting Jax to engage. “We went out there with a warrant and found it stuffed behind the trash cans at the kennel. Dark blue canvas. Military style. Ring any bells?”

It did. Half the men at Valor Ridge owned similar jackets. He had one. River had one. So did Ghost. And Anson. And Jonah.

Jesus. Had one of them killed Bailee?

No. As soon as the thought entered his head, he shook it away. No fucking way.

Jonah didn’t have that kind of violence in him.

Ghost did, but he had it on a tight leash, and this type of overkill wasn’t his style. He was a cold-blooded son of a bitch. If he’d killed Bailee, it would’ve been with a quick, clean bullet to the head, and nobody would’ve found her body.

Sure, River claimed he killed his best friend in a premeditated act, but Jax suspected there was more to that story and that was just River’s guilt talking. The man who wore bunny slippers around the bunkhouse didn’t have the stomach for a murder this messy.

And Anson…

Well, Jax didn’t know enough about the quiet man to pass judgment, but he was gentle with the horses and that wolfhound of his. If he had this ugliness in him, wouldn’t the animals sense it?

Goodwin leaned in, his breath hot and stale. “I’m going to prove it’s your jacket. And when I do… boy, they haven’t executed a prisoner in Montana in twenty years, but I’ll make damn sure you’re the first.”

Jax met his gaze unflinchingly. “Lawyer,” he said.

A muscle twitched in Goodwin’s jaw.

“Lawyer? You need Jesus. You’d be better off asking for Pastor Glenn.” He gathered the photos, shoving them roughly back into the file. “Get comfortable, Thorne. You’ll be our guest a while longer.”

Jax had thought nights in the bunkhouse were bad, but that was like a damn five-star hotel compared to nights in county lock-up.

The concrete building took on a smothering silence at night, broken only by the occasional snore from the drunk tank or the squeak of the night guard’s shoes as he made his rounds.

Jax lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, listening to the building settle. The scratchy wool blanket did little to ward off the cold seeping through the thin mattress, but physical discomfort was the least of his concerns.

In the quiet darkness, his mind became his enemy, circling through all the ways this could go wrong, all the people who would be hurt if he didn’t find a way out.

Echo would be spiraling without him. He knew it like he knew his own heartbeat. Three days were an eternity to a dogwho’d spent most of her life expecting abandonment. Was she eating? Had she retreated to the farthest corner of her kennel, eyes wary, body tense with the certainty that everyone she trusted would eventually disappear?

She’d been making such good progress. A week of sitting in silence before she’d stopped growling at his approach. Three more days before she’d take food from his hand. And another three before she’d pressed her head against his palm, a gesture so tentative it had broken something inside him. Just a couple of days ago, she’d ventured out into the main yard without pressing against his leg, had even allowed Walker to pet her. Two steps forward, and now this—a setback that could erase a month of patient work.

Fuck.

His thoughts drifted to Valor Ridge. What was happening there? Had Goodwin already started pressuring Walker to kick him out? Or pressuring the county to shut them down?

The other guys would be caught in the crossfire. Men who’d found stability and purpose at the ranch, who were slowly rebuilding lives shattered by war, trauma, and bad choices. Men like Bear, who’d finally started getting weekend visits with his son. Like Anson, whose leatherwork was beginning to sell in local shops, as well as one over in Hamilton and another up in Missoula. Like River, who needed the stability of the ranch more than any of them. They didn’t deserve to lose everything because Jax couldn’t control his temper.

The thought left him feeling hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides and replaced them with cold, dead air.

Maybe Goodwin was right.

Maybe he was already dead inside.

---