Protector - Laurel Dewey [168]
“No,” Emily said, burying her head in Jane’s chest. “You think it’s A.J.’s daddy?”
“No, it’s not A.J.’s daddy.”
Emily lifted her head and looked at Jane. “How do you know for sure?”
Jane purposely looked straight ahead. “I’m a detective. My gut tells me things. And I know that wasn’t Amy’s dad.”
Emily pulled back from Jane. “How’d you know A.J.’s first name?”
Jane felt the floor fall out from underneath her feet. She kept staring straight ahead, poker-faced, but bumbling inside like a lost child. “Lots of kids are named Amy. Like I said, I’ve got that detective gut.”
Emily stared at Jane in stone cold silence. “What’s your detective gut say the ‘J’ stands for?”
Jane craned her neck as if she were searching for the answer. “Juliet,” she said, confidently turning to Emily.
“No. It stands for ‘Joan.’ ”
Jane shrugged her shoulder, desperately trying to act nonchalant under Emily’s prying eyes. “Well, one out of two, eh? So, how did you and A.J. meet?”
“I met her last year at my private school. We were in the same class.”
The pieces were fitting together very quickly. Did David see incriminating activity or someone important at Bill’s office? Possibly. Did Bill confide sensitive information to David? Probably. Drug addicts like Bill can’t keep their damn mouths shut. And from what Jane could decipher from the limited contact she had with Stover, he was like all meth addicts: talkative and out of control. “Did you ever hear your dad tell your mom anything that he and A.J.’s dad talked about? You know, any names you can remember?”
“How come you’re asking me these questions?” Jane realized her desperation was too obvious. Reluctantly, she pulled back. “I just thought that—”
“You said your gut told you that the voice I heard downstairs that night wasn’t A.J.’s daddy. So, if he wasn’t there that night, why do you care what kind of things he and my daddy talked about?”
Jane knew it was pointless to prod further. “Sorry. My detective mind never stops.”
Emily sat back against the couch, fiddling with the buttons on her pajama top. “I wonder what A.J.’s doing right now.”
Jane turned away, feeling the tug of the moment pull hard on her. “Oh, I imagine she’s thinking about you and wanting you to be happy and not worry about her.”
“Is that what your detective gut says?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Jane stood up, took a drag on her dying cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray. She walked across the living room and stared out the front picture window at Peachville’s city trucks unloading red, white and blue street decorations. She didn’t realize she was nervously rubbing the old scar across her right temple.
“What are you thinking about?” Emily said carefully.
“There’s something I’ve got to do,” Jane replied, locked in deep thought.
Emily analyzed Jane’s posture and nervous behavior. “Why are you so scared?”
Jane turned to Emily. “Huh?”
“You only rub your scar when you’re scared. What is it you have to do?”
Jane pulled her hand away from the scar. “I have to make an important phone call.”
Jane checked her Glock before slipping it into her fanny pack. She started to walk out of her bedroom when she returned to her leather satchel and drew an extra clip from the side pocket. Placing the clip into the inside pocket of the fanny pack, she zipped it up and headed down the hallway. “Ready?”
Emily was seated on the couch. “You know, we never talked about the sleepover with Heather and her friends.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Come on.”
“No,” Emily stated, not moving an inch. “The sleepover means a lot to me.”
Jane sat on the couch, doing her best to act diplomatic. “Look, you and I are up against the wall right now. I think we should keep the house off-limits to other people.”
“It’s one night. We can lock all the doors and you can sit up in your bedroom with your gun. I just want to feel normal again . . . even if it’s just for a little bit.”
Jane studied Emily’s face. Her gut told her “no,” but the kid’s candid petition was hard to argue with. “Okay,” Jane replied reluctantly.
They drove