Page 134 of Beat of Love
“The son you’ve never met.”
“His mother didn’t want him tainted by” — he flicked his eyes toward his folder — “that. I honored her wish. She’s dead, and now he’s my responsibility.”
He turned toward the door.
“Don’t bother showing me out. I’ll find Mrs. Bronson myself.”
“Sarah Robertson was murdered.”
The clipped pronouncement stopped him cold.
“What the fuck?” He spun around, stalked back to the table, and dropped back into the chair. “I was told she died in a car crash.”
Without a word, Sheriff Stirling slid the file labeled Sarah Robertson across the table.
Rafferty opened it with stiff fingers. The accident report blurred slightly as he scanned it, each line landing like a punch to the gut.
Rammed from behind. Pushed off the road. Then—
His gaze snapped up. “She wasshot?”
“She died from the gunshot wound, not the accident.”
Jaw clenched, Rafferty bit out, “You know who did it?”
The sheriff nodded toward the stack of images he hadn’t yet examined.
“The red paint transferred to her vehicle during the crash matches an abandoned Maserati found just beyond the town limits. It’s the only one of its kind in Clearbrook that day. We’re hoping you can help identify the driver.”
“Me?”
“You knew herbeforeshe was Sarah Robertson.”
It took everything in Rafferty not to react.
Keep your face blank. Keep your eyes steady.
Sheriff Stirling wasn’t fooled. His gaze narrowed to slits. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t insult me.”
Rafferty dragged a hand over his head, unable to deny it.
“I don’t take kindly to women getting killed on my watch,” Stirling went on, voice low and grim. “And I want the person who murdered Sarah behind bars. But the fact is that, until seven years ago, Sarah Robertson didn’t exist. I think her past caught up to her. And you, Rafferty Lawson, are part of that past.”
He flipped through the stack of photographs and slapped one onto the table. “Do you recognize this woman?” he asked, tapping a finger on the glossy surface.
Rafferty prepared his denial. How the hell would he recognize anyone in Nebraska? His gaze dropped.
His lungs emptied in a whoosh as recognition slammed into him.
He surged to his feet, the chair skidding back and crashing into the wall.
No. No. No.
No fucking way.
She was dead.
Dead.
