Discovering You. Brenda Novak

      “No need,” Dylan said. “I’ve already called over there. Liam Crockett has a broken jaw, a broken nose and a concussion.”

      “Damn!” Mack said. “You busted him up good.”

      “What’d you do?” Dylan asked. “Slam his head into the pavement?”

      Rod wasn’t even sure. It’d all happened so fast—and when someone pushed him that far, he fought to win. “I honestly don’t remember. After I went flying from my bike, I got up, saw him charging toward me and...unleashed. But it wouldn’t have been like that if he hadn’t asked for it.”

      “Might be a few days before we find out what he has to say,” Dylan informed him. “I talked to Chief Bennett this morning, too. Called him as soon as Grady filled me in. He’s not even going to take Liam’s statement until the guy gets out of the hospital.”

      “When will that be?” Rod asked.

      “Tuesday or Wednesday,” Dylan replied. “At least, that’s what his sister told me, who’s with him.”

      Rod scratched his neck. “Stupid bastard shouldn’t have run me off the road.”

      “I doubt he’ll ever make that mistake again,” Dylan said wryly. “Call me after your X-ray.”

      Dylan had his own son to worry about these days. Little Kellan was nearly eighteen months old. Dylan doted on him, but Rod figured he’d never stop taking care of his brothers, too. Their father was out of prison and living at the house with his wife and her daughter, yet J.T. hadn’t replaced Dylan. Dylan had been there for them too many years to suddenly stop playing that role.

      Rod considered it a blessing that Dylan retained some interest in them. Their father was more of a liability than an asset, even now.

      “Okay,” Rod said grudgingly. “But it might be a while before you hear from me. You know how long the hospital takes.”

      “Cheyenne can bring Kellan over and sit with you, if you like,” Dylan offered.

      “Kellan doesn’t need to be in a hospital waiting room,” Rod said.

      “They can keep you company, help you pass the time.”

      Mack cut in, raising his voice so Dylan could hear. “Hey, Dyl, I can always send some toy trucks with Rod, if you think that’ll make the wait any easier.”

      Rod shot Mack another warning glance for being such a smart-ass but spoke to Dylan. “You’re getting soft in your old age, big brother. You know that? You’re treating us more like little girls every day.”

      “Just get yourself back to work,” Dylan snapped.

      “That’s better,” Rod teased and hung up.

      “So you’ll go to the hospital if Dylan asks you to but not if I do?”

      “I’d walk through fire if Dylan asked me to, and so would you,” he replied. As far as Rod was concerned, Dylan had earned it.

      * * *

      India had tried to reach Detective Flores three times and received his voice mail every time. She wanted to talk to him. But when she saw his number flash across her screen, she drew a deep breath. There was so much she needed him to say, so much he never seemed able to say. Her disappointment in the criminal justice system and the lack of information and closure she received from the police could be crippling. Sometimes it took days to recover.

      “India, Detective Flores,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”

      He always sounded so warm and friendly. But she didn’t trust the encouragement and hope his tone offered. His voice had the same inflection the day he’d told her that the crime scene analysts hadn’t found any of Sebastian’s DNA in her house—and on the day he’d told her that Sebastian’s wife, despite the way he’d treated her, was providing him with an alibi.

      “I’m good. Better.” To a point, that was true. She had some bright moments, usually when she was working or feeling grateful to still have her daughter in her life. At other times the memories flooded back or she missed Charlie so much she could scarcely breathe. Then the questions would start. Could she have saved him if she’d called 911? Or would Sebastian have shot her, like he’d said he would?

      “I’ve moved to Whiskey Creek and set up my pottery workshop in a lovely screened-in porch overlooking a small river,” she told him. “So that’s nice.”

      “Sounds like you’ll be able to open your studio soon.”

      “I hope so—when I find the right spot.”

      “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that you’re moving on.”

      She cringed as she thought of the mistake she’d made with Rod Amos last night. Was that a sign that she was making progress—or backsliding? Her behavior would shock Detective Flores; it would shock anyone who knew the person she’d become once she’d managed to gain some self-esteem and change her life, and that included Charlie’s parents. “Thanks. How are you?”

      “Busy, as usual. My wife and kids are actually at Disneyland. I was supposed to go, too, but something came up here at work. With any luck, I’ll be joining them tomorrow.”

      “You work hard, and that’s a blessing to every single person attached to the cases you handle.”

      If only he could do more... As kind as he was, she hated to think that, but it was the truth. She’d seen firsthand how difficult it could be to hold anyone accountable—even when that person had committed a horrendous crime and she had a diligent detective investigating the matter.

      “I appreciate that,” he said. “I’m guessing you called to see about Sebastian’s new trial.”

      “Yes.” She wanted to know when it would be taking place, although she wasn’t sure she’d attend the whole thing. The first trial had dominated her life after Charlie died, what with waiting and wondering and preparing—and then testifying and listening to everyone else testify, including the infuriating witnesses called by the defense.

      She’d have to testify again, of course. There was no way to avoid that; she didn’t even want to. She had to do her part, for Charlie’s sake. But she didn’t have to sit in court day in and day out and see all those gruesome photographs of the man she loved. The morning the first trial ended in a hung jury had been almost as painful as the night Charlie was shot.

      The prospect of going through it all again was too daunting to consider.

      That didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep abreast of what was happening, however. Only once she knew Sebastian Young was back in prison—this time for the rest of his life—would she feel entirely safe.

      “Yes. When’s the new trial? Have you heard?”

      Once she had the date, she’d have a legitimate reason to call her in-laws, and then she could approach them about having Cassia come home before July. India had escaped San Francisco and all the people and places that reminded her of Charlie. She had fresh scenery and the promise of reestablishing her life—but now she was too alone. She thought that was the reason she was flailing around, grabbing on to strangers, like Rod Amos, who had no reason to care that she was drowning in a sea of loss and regret.

      “The district attorney called me a couple of days ago,” Flores said.

      She curled her fingernails into her palms. She could sense that, once again, she was about to be disappointed. “And...”

      “It’s not good news.”

      “Don’t tell me the DA has changed his mind!”

      “I’m afraid so. He doesn’t want to try Sebastian again for fear the state will lose. He’s decided to wait until we can gather more evidence.”

      Unable to continue standing, India sank into a chair. “What does