Final Verdict. Jessica R. Patch

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      “Sweeping will be fine.” He smirked. “I don’t want to put you out a vehicle.”

      “Hmm...” Aurora snagged a broom and dustpan from the pantry, slipped on a pair of house shoes that had been lying under the kitchen table, and they went to work cleaning up the glass and boarding up the window.

      When it was finished he noticed her fire was dying. “You got any wood? I can get a fresh fire going before I head out.” No way was he letting her do it. Instinct told him this wasn’t over. But he didn’t want to scare her further, and it didn’t technically warrant putting a detail on her.

      Meghan had begged and pleaded with the sheriff in her small Georgia town to patrol her house. But they couldn’t prove she was in danger. Her stalker had been cunning, averting the law yet tormenting her. When it first started, Beckett had been on an extended tour in Afghanistan with Meghan’s brother, Wilder. He’d had no idea, not until he came home. He’d been powerless.

      He had the power to do something about this.

      “I’ll do a few drive-bys through the night. Make sure everything’s safe.” He might not be able to use taxpayers’ dollars for a deputy to sit outside, but Beckett could on his own time.

      Aurora met him with a delicate smile. “I appreciate that. But I don’t think it’s necessary, and I have some self-defense training, as well as gun-range time. I’m a pretty good shot.”

      Brave. Resilient. But Beckett had seen fear on thousands of faces. “I believe you, Counselor. Now, about that firewood?”

      “Oh.” She scratched at the base of her neck. A dainty neck. Smooth. “It’s under the tarp on the side of the house, but I can do it. Really. I mean, I started that one.”

      “I don’t feel comfortable letting you haul wood in out of the dark. Just in case. Precaution, is all.” He flipped the collar on his coat up and stalked to the woodpile. Doing a slow scan with his flashlight, he checked out the woods that surrounded the house. No footprints. The branches rustled. Critters slunk around, crunching dead leaves. Something was off. Puffs of night air plumed in front of him as he patrolled the yard. He couldn’t spot anyone, but red flags waved.

      Someone was out there.

      Watching.

      Or maybe he was paranoid after what had happened to Meghan.

      Beckett hauled in the firewood and a few extra logs. Inside, freshly brewed coffee uncoiled one of the many knots tightening his neck and shoulders.

      Aurora handed him a steaming cup. “It’s brutal out there. Warm you up. Least I can do.”

      He dusted his hands on his pants and accepted the cup, her fingers brushing his. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

      “It’s black, like you like it.”

      He sipped, the French roast warming all the way down his throat. “You know how I like my coffee?”

      “I’m in the coffee business.” She shrugged, but her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of rose and she broke eye contact. First time for everything. She held his glares quite well in the courtroom or at the jail.

      “Why are you in the coffee business? You seem to be living in high cotton.” Driving that BMW, wearing fancy clothes, and the air about her simply smelled like money. He took another sip and squatted by the fire.

      Aurora folded her arms across her chest and gazed into the flames. “To be honest, the coffee in Hope stinks. I drink enough that it dictated opening up a business.”

      He snorted. “Uh-huh, now really, be honest.”

      “How do you know I’m not?”

      Her upturned and perky nose might give off an appearance of snootiness, but the averting gaze and body language said she had a more private reason and didn’t care to divulge. “I just know. But you don’t have to get personal with me, Counselor.” He stood and studied the few photos on her mantel. “That’s you. Can’t miss the hair.” Blondish red. Probably still long like the toothless little girl in the photo; he’d never seen it down before. She’d grown from adorable to beautiful. “That a brother or something next to you?”

      “Yes. Richie. He died.”

      The words punched his chest. “I’m sorry.”

      She clutched the photo and seemed to slip down memory lane. “He’s why I do what I do. He committed suicide in prison when I was in my second year of law school.”

      Beckett grimaced. “Went to school to get him out somehow?”

      “He was innocent. What choice did I have? Someone had to give him decent counsel. Who better to advocate for him than someone who believed in him?”

      “Ninety-nine percent of criminals say they’re innocent.”

      Aurora’s eyes hardened and she set the photo back on the mantel. “Some are telling the truth. Like Richie.”

      Beckett had worn out his welcome, but that suited him. He wasn’t diggin’ seeing Aurora as a victim. A really soft, beautiful woman who grieved her brother even if he was a criminal. “Thanks for the coffee.”

      “When I clear his name, you’ll be the first to know, Sheriff.”

      He opened the door and stepped onto the porch. “Lock it behind me and I’ll be by a few times. If you need anything—”

      “I can handle it myself.” Brazenness and a need to prove her case held his gaze, but beyond that lay something else. Torment. Sorrow.

      Okay, her view on the justice system got a rise out of him, but could he be a bigger idiot? He’d basically insulted her dead brother, whom she loved. What a jerk. He owed her an apology for his insensitivity.

      “Look—”

      Her cell rang. She held up an index finger and snagged it from the table by the couch. She studied the screen and frowned.

      Someone she didn’t want to talk to? Beckett ought to go. He could apologize later. It was freezing out here. He should have moved to Florida. “I’m gonna—” The rest of his sentence nose-dived when Aurora’s cheeks blanched. She hadn’t said anything after her hello.

      “Who is this?” Her voice trembled.

      “What’s going on?” Beckett whispered.

      “Hello? Hello...” Aurora hit the end button and stared at Beckett, eyes wide.

      Beckett reentered the house and shut the door behind him. “Who was that?”

      “Same gritty voice from this morning. In the crowd.” Her tone was too quiet, hollow.

      Beckett’s neck muscles wound even tighter and he ground his jaw. “What did he say?”

      Aurora clutched her throat. “Death is coming for me.”

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