“I just came by to make sure you two are okay. I’ve been so worried, what with the case you’re working on. That Dean guy really gave me a bad feeling.”
“I’ve got to go.” Eager to extricate himself from the conversation, Jonah walked toward his car. “Nice seeing you both.”
It appeared as if Francesca had more to add to their earlier exchange, but now that Adriana was here, he knew she wouldn’t say it. She nodded instead. “Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
He waved at Adriana, who smiled a little too broadly in return, and got in his car. That moment when Francesca had softened, when she’d looked up at him with a hint of the old trust, had rattled him—and given him hope. But he was foolish to reach for it. What they’d had was long gone. They’d be crazy to try and resurrect it.
“Just get the hell out of here,” he told himself. “Do the safe thing for once in your life.”
And he did. He almost couldn’t believe it, but less than an hour later, he was waiting to board a plane to L.A.
Butch waited until Champ went inside, like he’d told him to do, before addressing Dean. “Where’d you get those?”
Filled with the adrenaline of being more daring than he’d ever thought he could be, Dean considered the scrap of fabric he’d taken from the metal box buried beneath the train car. “Where you keep all the others,” he said. “I found your little stash. You recognize them, don’t you? Or have you collected so many you can’t tell them apart anymore?”
Butch didn’t yell, didn’t holler at him to get the hell out of the way or to crawl back under whatever rock he’d crawled out from, like he normally did when they crossed paths. His brother-in-law approached this situation with some caution, maybe even a touch of respect. “How did you find my box?” he asked, dropping his voice so they couldn’t be heard inside the house. “I didn’t find it, exactly. It was more a matter of…stumbling across it,” he said, although he’d been searching for it or something like it ever since Butch and Paris had married. Even with his extensive knowledge of the yard—and the abundance of time he spent in it—it’d taken years to unearth Butch’s precious trophies. He could hardly believe he’d done it. “Imagine my shock when I opened it,” he went on. “There have to be…what? Fifty pairs of panties in there?” He whistled. “I’m impressed, Butch. How many women have you slept with?”
“That’s none of your business.” His initial flash of surprise now over, Butch wasn’t messing around any longer. His hands curled into fists and the veins stood out in his neck. He wanted to kill Dean as brutally as he’d killed Julia. That wasn’t hard to tell.
Fortunately, Butch wouldn’t go that far. He cared too much about Paris and Champ, was already close to losing them. And he had his home and job to consider; all of it came through Paris.
“Paris might consider it her business,” he mused.
Butch spat at the ground. “You think she doesn’t know?”
“If she does, she has no clue about the magnitude. Or what you do to the women after you get their panties.”
“Shut up!” His voice turned into more of a rasp as he struggled to control his temper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Have you taken your meds today?”
“Forget my meds.” Finally feeling safe enough to reveal the irritation and anger that welled up inside him so often, Dean grimaced. “My medication is my affair. And I’m tired of you and everyone else around here getting involved in it.”
“You need those pills. You act crazy when you’re not on them. Because of that, I’m going to forget this little…incident.”
Butch was discounting him again. Refusing to let that happen, Dean stepped forward. “Collecting proof of your conquests may not be crazy, but I’m pretty sure everyone would agree that murder is a serious problem.”
After shooting a wary glance at the front door, Butch moved closer to him.
Fear tempted Dean to back away. He’d witnessed how drastically his brother-in-law’s moods could shift. Today, he’d given Butch a reason to be upset. But he stood his ground. That stash of women’s underwear supplied him with leverage he’d never had before. That was why he’d wanted to find it so badly.
“I haven’t murdered anyone, Dean.” Butch towered over him like a giant redwood. “Francesca Moretti is wrong. You’re wrong.”
Pursing his lips, Dean studied his treasure as a way to avoid the malevolence in Butch’s eyes. “Good to hear. So…you can probably explain why Julia’s body is in the old freezer?” He finally looked up. “Had to get there somehow.”
The dark stubble on Butch’s chin contrasted sharply with the sudden white of his face. Putting his brother-in-law in such a compromising position made Dean feel powerful. He was glad he’d found those panties. Butch would never dare mistreat him again.
“Are these hers?” Dean asked. “Julia’s?” Bringing the panties to his nose, he sniffed. “Nope. Couldn’t be. They still have the distinctive scent of the wearer, which means they came into your possession too recently. Could it be that they’re April Bonner’s?”
Butch’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re the one who put that other pair of panties in my jockey box.”
Widening his eyes, Dean played dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The underwear your sister came across. That’s what you hoped would happen. Are you the one who called her, too? The hang-up she thought was Kelly?”
“That must’ve been someone else,” he lied, but his chuckle gave him away, as he intended.
“What did you hope to accomplish, Dean? Did you think she’d leave me? That it would get me out of your life once and for all?”
Dean would’ve liked nothing more. He’d hated Butch since the day they’d met. Butch was every bully he’d ever known. But he had to be careful. At the moment, Butch was the only one capable of taking care of them all, and Dean would never do anything to harm his family, especially his mother.
“You’re jumping to some terrible conclusions, Butch.”
“Where are those panties? Did you pick them up after Paris dropped them? Are you hiding them somewhere, trying to scare me?”