Page 18 of What We May Be

Charlie’s gaze followed her detective’s. “You thought he might be?” she asked Sean.

“It has to be considered,” he said. “The stables are owned by HU, close to campus, and Jeff was dressed for lecture.”

“But?”

“He was well connected, and his son, a fed, thought the least of him.”

“Guilty, then?” Jaylen said. “Of treason of some sort?”

“I’d stake my Harley on it.”

“That bike is a thing of beauty,” Abel said. “But even I wouldn’t take that bet.”

“You always were a smart gambler.” Charlie smirked, then began assigning tasks. “Dig deeper into Professor Marshall,” she ordered Diego and Jaylen. “The crime scene didn’t give us much, so let’s focus on the victim. Friends, enemies, debts, the full work-up. Psych too. While I agree murder seems more likely, we can’t rule out suicide yet.”

“We’re on it,” Jaylen replied.

She turned to Trevor. “Can you ask around campus?”

“Already on it, and he”—Trevor jutted a thumb at Sean—“already gave me the ‘be discreet’ lecture. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“You said there were two things, Agent Hale,” Jaylen prompted.

“Yeah.” Sean’s face took on a decidedly darker expression. “We should prepare for the possibility of more victims.”

Charlie had worried about the same, another thing that had kept her up last night. “The number written next to the quote,” she said. “You think we could be dealing with a serial?”

Sean nodded. “If it is in fact murder.”

“Diego, Jaylen,” Charlie said, “double-time it on Professor Marshall’s background. Give Abel all the financial results.”

Her uncle was HPD’s best forensic investigator. His sister, Charlie’s mother, had been a high school math teacher. Charlie could have gone the same route had the station not called more loudly. Math genes ran in the family.

“If you run into any roadblocks, let me know,” Sean told Abel. “Marsh can clear the way for you.”

“Obliged,” Abel said, then followed Diego and Jaylen out.

Charlie returned her attention to Trevor. “Will you make it to Annie’s in time for dinner tonight?”

Growing up, their mother had insisted on Sunday family dinners. They’d carried on the tradition with barely any misses, save for the month following their dad’s and brother’s deaths. Now, though, they were back on schedule, with dinners moved to Annie’s since the beach house was packed up and Charlie was as terrible at cooking as she was at sports.

“Might be late.” Trevor slid his hand across her back again, and while the gesture, the casually affectionate nature, was typical Trevor, same as he’d used to comfort her earlier, something about it now sent a tendril of heat unraveling in her belly and weaving along that connection between them. “But I’ll be there in time for dessert.” His hand lingered on her hip before stepping away. “Sean,” he said, clipped but not murderous, on his way out the door.

“Trevor,” Sean returned, his voice so falsely polite, his frame strung so tight Charlie almost laughed out loud.

Whatever détente they’d struck was a fragile one. Shaking her head, Charlie turned to the table and gathered the crime scene photos into the case file.

“I talked to Marsh,” Sean said. “Nothing rang a bell for him as far as treason.”

“He’d tell you the truth? He is the victim’s son.”

“I’d know if he were lying.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d know,” he repeated curtly.

He knew Agent Emmitt Marshall, all right—as more than just a colleague.

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