One Foot in the Grave (Carly Moore #3) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,27
to go runnin’ off after his son like he’s a piece of chocolate cake.”
I shot him a mock glare. “Really? You’re draggin’ innocent chocolate cake into this?”
“Charlene.” His tone turned harsher.
I couldn’t hide my surprise. For one, he knew it wasn’t my real name, although he’d insisted he didn’t want to know my true identity, and for another, no one had ever called me that before.
“I care about you, girl, and you’re dippin’ your toe in dangerous waters.”
“You think Wyatt killed his girlfriend?” I asked.
“Hell, no. If I did, he’d never have stepped foot into this house.”
“But you think his father did?”
“I think his father played some part in it, but it will never be tied back to him.” He glanced at the small kitchen table, then back at me. “I know what you’re doin’, and you need to stop.”
“What exactly do you think I’m doin’?”
“You’re out to expose Bart, but I’m here to tell you that you’ll get burned. Let it go, Carly.” His voice steeped with exhaustion, he added, “Just let it go.”
I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “I can’t let it go.”
“Why?” he asked, looking me in the eye. “Why?”
“He was behind Seth’s death, and you and I both know it.”
“That’s my vendetta, girl, not yours.”
“That’s not true!” I whisper-shouted, not wanting Wyatt to hear us.
“Seth’s my kin, not yours. There’s something else in play here.” He paused, then added, “I’ve seen your notes.”
I sucked in a breath, knowing exactly what he was talking about. “You’ve been through my things?”
“Carly,” he said, sounding weary. “You fell asleep on the sofa with your notebook open next to you. I moved it to tuck a blanket around you and a name caught my eye. I wasn’t snoopin’, but it got me worried. Where are you gettin’ that information?”
I could lie or refuse to answer, but I didn’t want to do either. “The library.”
His face paled. “Such a public place? Who else knows you’re investigatin’ him?”
“Marco knows a little.”
“What about Carnita? She’s nobody’s fool.”
“I told her I’m researching town history.”
He frowned. “Those computers aren’t very private. Anyone could be watchin’ over your shoulder.”
“I’m careful.”
He still didn’t look pleased.
“Look,” I said with a sigh, “my research into Bart aside, Wyatt’s innocent, and you and I both know the sheriff’s gonna pin it on him.”
Fear filled his eyes. “You’re playin’ with fire.”
I lifted my hand to his cheek and whispered, “I spent thirty-one years livin’ a careful life, Hank, and look where it got me—my own father nearly killed me. Playing safe isn’t always the safe way to go. So I’ll stand up for what’s right because no one stood up for me.”
He slowly shook his head, his eyes glassy. “I can’t lose you too.”
I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a hug. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
He kissed my cheek and held me away from him. “I suppose that’s all I can ask for. Now you’re about to burn my breakfast.”
Gasping, I turned back to the stove and slid the frittata onto a plate. “You want to eat on the porch?”
“Yep. I’m about to have a chat with Wyatt Drummond.” He spun around faster than should have been possible for a one-legged man with a crutch and headed out the front door.
I quickly grabbed a fork and followed him out with the plate.
Hank was standing at the top of the porch steps, pointing his finger at Wyatt, who was leaning against his truck.
“If you’re involvin’ her in this, then I’m holding you personally responsible for her safety.” He jabbed his finger toward Wyatt for good measure. “Do you understand me?”
Wyatt had already moved away from the truck, his gaze on the elderly man. He nodded, then said respectfully, “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” Hank said, his voice harsh. “If anything happens to her, you’ll pay the blood price.”
“Wait. What?” I stepped in fully, out of the shadow of the doorway, but they were both intent on one another and seemed to take no notice of me. I set the plate on the table and moved next to Hank, giving them both expectant looks, one after the other.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Wyatt said solemnly.
“What the hell is a blood price?” I demanded.
“Nothin’ you need to concern yourself with,” Hank grumped, then hobbled to his chair and sat with a plop.
Only it seemed like it did concern me.
Wyatt walked around to the passenger door of his truck and pulled it open, giving