The only serious crime that occurred in their county was the kind that could happen anywhere, to anyone. Out in the country or in a big city, to the rich or to the poor.
Al Moorfield had lived in their town most of his life. When Al died, his son, Oscar, and his maternal half-brother Burton, had moved in. They’d come from Nashville. Oscar had explained that he was a widower with one child, a six-year-old daughter, and they’d wanted to move out of the city. He lived on a military pension and was a disabled veteran with a prosthetic leg.
He said he homeschooled his daughter, so the only time Daralyn had been seen was when they came to town with her in their company. She’d been a tiny, skittish shadow in baggy clothes, her uncle’s hand firmly clamped on her shoulder.
They did bring her to the Baptist church, even though they discouraged conversation with anyone, and went home without attending any of the Sunday afternoon socials.
Though they were considered “somewhat peculiar,” people assumed they were okay. They made regular church appearances and had roots in town, which were reinforced as they settled in and years passed without them causing any waves. The first thing made them “seem” like good people, and the last two meant they’d earned the right to be left alone, no matter how eccentric they seemed.
In hindsight, they’d all been clueless about something that should have been so fucking obvious.
Daralyn had been out of that hellhole for five years now, so Rory didn’t know why he was getting himself worked up thinking about it. Maybe because the more he went over what had happened before she got into the van today, the more certain he became that he should have gone with her.
The rhythmic sound of an axe being swung told him Thomas was behind the house. Marcus would be close to where Thomas was.
Rory pushed himself up the ramp onto the porch and followed it to the back.
Marcus was on the phone, no surprise. He owned a gallery in New York, and was always scouting talent, promoting talent, buying or selling. Rory’s mother had once tartly suggested he have the cell surgically implanted into the side of his head. Marcus had told her he’d thought about it, but it would mess up his hair.
When Rory came around the corner, he saw Marcus was in one of the roomy rockers, painted a clean white with a blue patterned seat cushion. He wasn’t relaxed in it, though. He leaned forward with a tablet under his long fingertips while he spoke in the strong, smooth voice that fit the rest of him.
He glanced Rory’s way and gave him an absent nod, gesturing toward the backyard. Thomas was currently stripped down to jeans, splitting cords of wood for the stove and fireplace inside.
Rory shook his head, and pointed to Marcus. A flicker of surprise went through Marcus’s green eyes, but he inclined his head and held up five fingers. A few minutes, then.
Rory positioned himself at a companionable but polite distance and settled back. An electrified fence enclosed several acres, in order to give grazing room to the two cows, one female goat and a wandering pig with the girth of one of the cows. A flock of chickens hung around near their coop, clucking or roosting. Thomas had planted a garden back here, a hobby patch by local standards. It was enough to provide him and Marcus with some fresh vegetables in season, though, and flowers for Daralyn to cut for table vases. The vegetables were done for the fall, but a few flowers were still holding out, since they weren’t likely to get a prolonged cold spell until sometime in November.
In a couple weeks, Marcus had a fundraiser slash new talent scouting opportunity coming up. Since he was talking to whoever was on the phone about a silent auction, it sounded like his call was about that.
Rory had never been to New York City. He couldn’t imagine living there, all those people crammed together. But when Marcus or Thomas talked about the museums and art, the little coffee houses and colorful people on the streets, or parks like the elevated High Line or the view from the Rockefeller Center observation deck, Rory saw how closely Daralyn listened.
Thanks to his adaptive challenge group, Rory was comfortable traveling, having gone on several trips with them. While he still preferred visiting wide-open spaces, versus crowded cities to broaden his cultural horizons, he’d be okay doing things like that with her.
He returned his attention to his reason for being here. Rory was as inflexibly straight as a railroad tie, but there was no denying his brother-in-law was insanely good-looking. His dark hair fell to his shoulders and over his forehead, feathering and layering perfectly without any apparent effort. His features were chiseled, mouth firm. Those piercing green-like-sea-glass eyes could make a woman of any age forget what language she spoke. Rory had seen it, any time Marcus came into the store. Even his mom or Les, both used to being around him now, could still sometimes be caught just staring at him, as if he wasn’t entirely real.
Rory wondered if they’d ever noticed that was how Marcus looked at Thomas. He expected they had, because as much as women liked a pretty face, it was the emotional stuff that really won their hearts.
Marcus’s obvious love for Thomas, his possessiveness combined with his devotion to his well-being, elevated the female attention for Marcus to a whole different level of adoration.
Women.
Daralyn sometimes went completely mute around Marcus, but Rory suspected there were other reasons for that. Though Marcus always spoke to her kindly, he never asked her anything that could be phrased as a statement. “Daralyn, I’d like a cup of coffee.” “Daralyn, I’ll drive you home.”
Marcus clicked off the phone and removed the earpiece, putting it on the table with his phone and tablet. He stretched out his long legs and settled deeper into the chair, cracking his neck. As he picked up his half-full wine glass, his eyes shifted with undisguised appreciation to Thomas swinging the axe, the roll of muscles, the stretch of the jeans over ass and thigh.
“Could you pretend he’s my sister and not ogle him like that when I’m around?”
One of Daralyn’s words. Ogle. Ogling. She usually put them in a sentence to help her remember the meaning. Rory wondered what sentence she’d used for that one.
Marcus slanted him an amused glance. “Sexist prick.”
“Yeah, whatever. You know what I’m saying.”
“Well, my only other option is to ogle you.” Marcus tossed him a look. “Showing up all sweaty and muscular, with your masculine stench.”
“Control your lust, you twisted perv.”
Part of their usual banter, so all good. But when Rory attempted his usual fuck-off grin, he could tell Marcus registered it was a little forced, thanks to the sudden bout of nerves. Shit, this was stupid. He said it straight out before he could change his mind.
“So you said to come talk to you when it’s time. About Daralyn. I’m here to talk. If now’s good.”
Marcus’s gaze could go from neutral pleasant to cool and laser-focused in a blink. Rory had seen it fluster Thomas, though Thomas was no pushover. The part of Rory that had him here now understood why that look could unsettle Thomas, the way Rory’s similar expression could do the same to Daralyn. It made him feel better, more reassured, while at the same time…unmoored. Daralyn’s new word. He almost smiled at the thought.
“Okay,” Marcus said. “Where do you want to start?”
Rory told him about what had happened before she left for school. Some of it wasn’t easy, because though it sounded general enough, the things he’d said and done, the chain around her wrist, had a motivation that became more blatantly clear under Marcus’s intent regard.