Reckless (Mason Family #3) - Adriana Locke Page 0,31

from the temperature and the surge of uneasiness as I approach the deep blue counter. A woman on the other side looks up.

The room smells of disinfectant and stale air. The lights give everything a strange white glow. It’s a place I hope to never have to come to again.

“Hi,” I say, feeling Boone’s presence behind me. “I’m Jacqueline Thorpe, and I’m here to see Sergeant Boudreaux.”

“Just a moment.” She picks up a phone and turns away from me.

Boone rests his hands just below my shoulders. The contact surprises me in its abruptness but also in its warmth. He runs his palms up and down my arms, easily encapsulating my biceps in his hands. It takes everything I have not to lean back against him in response.

“Miss Thorpe?”

A loud, thickly Southern voice comes from a doorway to my right. I jump and turn.

“Yes,” I say, stepping toward him. “I’m Jaxi Thorpe.”

“Please come into my office.” He looks over my shoulder. “And you are?”

“Boone Mason.” Boone extends a hand as we approach. The sergeant shakes it. “I’m a friend of Miss Thorpe’s.”

Sergeant Boudreaux smiles at Boone. “I know your father. He’s a good man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My father, he was in his eighties, used to play poker with your dad and his buddies,” the sergeant says as we enter his office. He shuts the door behind us. “He really looked forward to that every month.”

Boone and I take a seat across the desk from him. I shift my weight back and forth as I will the two of them to shut up so we can get on with it.

“Your dad was Duke then,” Boone says. “He was quite the character.”

Sergeant Boudreaux laughs. “That he was.” He shuffles some papers around on his desk, the levity falling from his face. “I was surprised that you were in town, Miss Thorpe. My notes said you were in Columbus.”

“I’m house-sitting,” I say. “I grew up here and have a cousin here. It’s just by chance.”

He frowns. “Well, it’s well-timed. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

I run my hands down my thighs. “Okay. What is it?”

“Jeanette Hannigan is your sister. Correct?”

My stomach revolts against the stress. It churns and twists so hard that I lean forward slightly to try to ease the pain.

Boone angles his body toward me.

“Yes. She is my half sister,” I tell him. “We had the same mother but different fathers. Why?”

He folds his hands on his desk. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your sister has passed away.”

What?

No. It can’t … She can’t be … dead.

I sink back in the faux-leather chair, my clothes squeaking against the fabric as I move. My gaze falls to an uneven grout line on the floor as his words echo in my brain.

My palms are cold now, the sweat having evaporated into the cold room. The pain in my stomach easing, only to have relocated into my chest.

Nettie died?

I blink slowly and try to pry myself out of the downward spiral in my head. I need to pay attention.

Boone’s hand rests on my forearm. I don’t really even feel it.

“What happened to her?” I ask. The words sound like they are coming from someone else.

“From what I understand, she went to the emergency room sometime in the past forty-eight hours and was diagnosed with sepsis. You need to talk to the medical professionals about that if you have questions.”

“Okay.”

My voice is as hollow as I feel. It’s a strange sensation to process.

I have seen my sister twice in the past fifteen years. Once when our grandmother died. I think Mom guilted her into attending the funeral. The other instance was when Mom passed away when I was nineteen, Nettie twenty-seven. We spent two days together for that six years ago. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.

“I always thought she was so cool,” I say, mostly to myself. “I would tell everyone she was my sister. You’d think she was a movie star or something by the way I talked about her. But if she was around, she’d emphasize half sister and then explain that we had different dads and different last names.”

The gazes of Boone and Sergeant Boudreaux are heavy. Still, I keep talking.

“She was so talented,” I tell them. “She would constantly be singing Mariah Carey songs, and she loved to dance. I used to watch her and then go to my room and try to mimic it.” I smile at the memory. “She was