Zyah expected the worst was coming. The sheriff hadn’t come there for tea. She wanted to reach out to her grandmother as well. They’d had another good week. Player had been good for her grandmother. Torpedo Ink had. They’d all come to visit, one by one, just as they said they would. Each of the club members had brought Anat a small gift and made her laugh.
Zyah was more than grateful. Anat might not be able to do physical therapy on her leg yet, but she still had work on her arm, and therapy on her arm was fun now, not so demanding and painful with Player there, according to her grandmother. He played his guitar and sang to her. He made the time go by faster.
Zyah was a little jealous that she had never heard him sing or play. She knew he was in the Torpedo Ink band, and he had a voice that could move over her skin like the touch of his fingers, but she thought if he sang, the notes would dance over and through her. She wanted to experience the sensation—and yet he never sang to her.
Jonas Harrington sighed. “Fisherman pulled a couple of bodies just off of Pudding Creek sixteen days ago. Both men had died from gunshot wounds. Both were head shots, although neither died immediately. The shooter was on the ground, most likely lying down when he or she took the shots.”
Player frowned. He exchanged a look with Maestro and then Zyah. She had tightened her fingers around his until her knuckles were white. He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed kisses over her knuckles before turning her wrist so he could pull the tips of her fingers into the heated cavern of his mouth. His mouth was hot. So hot her fingers caught fire. The flames seemed to spread out of control, rushing up her arm to her shoulder and neck. Heat took her fast, color turning her neck and face a soft pink she couldn’t control.
“What has that to do with any of us?” Anat asked.
“One of them had a ring on his finger, Anat,” Jonas said, his voice very gentle. “It was among the items listed as taken in the robbery of your home. One of the men had broken ribs. His cheekbone was broken as if he’d been in a fight. His opponent had to have been a very experienced fighter. Nearly five weeks ago, there were reports of a disturbance in a neighborhood close to yours, a vehicle taking off, sideswiping a fence just two blocks down, hitting a parked car before disappearing.”
Maestro frowned at him. “Surely you were able to get paint from the fence and the car that was hit.”
Player’s eyebrow shot up. “Two blocks down, Jonas? That’s pretty thin.”
“Was it my husband’s ring?” Anat asked.
“I believe so,” Jonas confirmed, ignoring Maestro and Player. “The autopsies revealed that both men were alive for at least a few days before they succumbed to the bullet wounds. We checked with hospitals, clinics, local doctors and nurses, and no one remembered treating either of the men. Regardless, they would have had to report gunshot wounds.”
“I certainly didn’t beat these men up or shoot them,” Anat declared firmly. “Although had they come into my house again, I might have, especially if I’d known they had my husband’s ring.” She made a face at Zyah. “My granddaughter has forbidden me to have a gun.”
“That’s because you might shoot me when I come in late at night. You’re just a little bit bloodthirsty, Mama Anat.”
Maestro laughed. “She always says that, and I don’t believe her. Zyah’s more likely to shoot someone than you are, Anat. My money’s on her, Jonas. Arrest Zyah.”
“If he arrests Zyah, you’ll be running the store all by yourself,” Player pointed out. “Czar will be so pissed he’ll have you not only running the place but stocking it too.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think that one through. Zyah might mouth off, but she really couldn’t shoot anyone,” Maestro hastily backtracked. “She’s too sweet. Doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”
Raw passion had brought Player full force back to the present, all faculties functioning, but it was knowing Zyah was terribly upset that kept him from allowing his mind to retreat from the terrible pounding in his head. He couldn’t stand having her feel as if she were stripped completely naked and left alone and unprotected—completely and utterly vulnerable. He might know she had seen things too terrible for anyone to know about him, things he might kill someone else for knowing, but he wasn’t leaving her to face whatever was going on alone.
“Player, do you have anything to say?” Jonas prompted. He pulled out two photographs and, shielding Anat from seeing the grisly sight of the remains, he shoved them under Player’s nose. “You ever see these men before? The photographs won’t help, but the artist’s sketches might bring back a memory.”