The Edge

Devine wondered why Clare Silkwell had not mentioned this.

“So she and Dak stayed here, in the old homestead?”

She nodded absently. “Dak was in the Army for a while and then he wasn’t. I don’t know why. No one ever said.” She gave him a curious look, but Devine merely shrugged. “Then he came back here, learned to be a tattoo artist. And it became his passion. Opened his shop and does really well. Then he invested in some other businesses around town. I think he likes to be a big fish in a teeny pond. And we fit that bill.”

“I guess he and Alex get along, living together?”

“I don’t know how much they actually interact.”

“I thought in small towns, gossip moves faster than jets.”

She laughed softly. “It does. But not for every single aspect of someone’s life.”

“Alex ever come into town?” Devine knew what the man outside the bar had told him about Alex riding her bike into town but not interacting. However, he wanted to hear Kingman’s perspective.

“Very rarely. And then it’s just to get something she needs and then the girl runs back to her hidey-hole.”

Hidey-hole? Interesting choice of words. “Seems like a waste of a promising life.”

“I agree with you.” She settled her attention fully on Devine. “Maybe you can put that on your list to find out. If you do, it’ll be a good thing for all of us that you came to Putnam.”

Maybe not for everyone, thought Devine as he finished his hot chocolate.

Chapter 13

After leaving Kingman in her little apartment, Devine passed by the cottage where Jenny Silkwell had been staying. He had already seen her rental car in the front parking area awaiting a thorough processing. Devine hoped to find her laptop and phone in there or her cottage.

The lights in the cottage were off, and there was police tape across the only entrance.

He stood there in the cold air, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and stared at the little building, which seemed to be a duplicate of the one he was staying in. He wondered what Jenny Silkwell had been thinking on her last night on earth, not realizing that it would be so.

Unfinished business? That could mean a lot of different things.

He also wondered whether he should break into the cottage and her car to see if her electronic devices were inside. That would piss off the local cops, but national security would trump all that. Yet, if the items had been in there, the enemies of this country, if they had killed Jenny Silkwell, surely would have already retrieved them.

Then he heard a noise. His hand went automatically to his Glock. He moved forward and then around the side of the cottage. He took one hand off the Glock, reached into his coat pocket, and produced a small flashlight with a high-intensity focused beam setting. He clicked it on, held it just above his Glock while keeping both hands on the weapon, and kept moving forward, toward the sounds.

In three more steps he saw the source of the noise.

The woman was perched on her haunches on the ground. And she was sobbing.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

When his beam found and held on her features, Devine sucked in a quick breath as he recognized her.

“Get that fucking light out of my face,” barked Alex Silkwell.

Devine killed the light and simply stood there gaping. His mind was whirring, trying to process all this. He looked around to see if a window on Jenny’s cottage had been broken, or any other sign that her sister had intruded into what was potentially a treasure trove of possible evidence in a murder investigation. He saw nothing of the kind.

“Are you all right?” he asked again.

She rose. Alex was tall, about five eight, and lean.

“Who are you exactly?” she asked in a calmer tone.

“Travis Devine.”

“Right. The man they sent to find out about Jenny.”

“And you’re her sister.”

“How brilliant you are. They must have been thrilled when you became a detective, or whatever it is you actually do.”

Devine pulled his creds and flashed the light on them. “Homeland Security.”

“Right. Anybody can print a card and make a badge. I can make them for you. How many more do you need?”

“What are you doing here?”

Alex Silkwell was beautiful, but there was such misery in the woman’s features that her looks became a secondary consideration. With each rapid breath of hers, visible air was propelled into the sky. Devine’s breaths were less rapid, but not by much. She had done to him what the two assassins on the Geneva train and the three drunk idiots back at the bar had failed to do: thrown him off his game.

“My sister,” she began.

“Yes. By everyone’s accounts she was a wonderful person. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Not everyone’s account, Mr. Devine. You haven’t talked to me yet.”

And with that stunning statement, she pushed past him and strode off.