Some guy who stole cars, switched plates, probably butchered Blanche Johnson and was connected to Shannon?
Travis’s guts twisted and he reminded himself to stay detached, to think like a private investigator, not a father.
What did Shannon know that she wasn’t telling him, either intentionally or just because she didn’t think it significant?
Was she as innocent as she insisted, as lily-white as she and her brothers claimed?
Travis’s eyes narrowed as he thought of her battered yet determined face, the slope of her jaw, the curve of her neck, more visible with her hair scraped away from her face. It killed him, but he saw his daughter in Shannon’s features down to the small dusting of freckles across her nose.
His back teeth gnashed and he finished his beer in one long pull.
He started formulating a strategy.
Maybe he shouldn’t act as if Shannon was the enemy. Maybe he should cool it a bit, temper his anger and try and get close to her, act as if he was interested in her, to find out how she, either by accident or design, was entangled in all this.
He considered the men in Shannon’s life.
Her first lover, Brendan Giles, the biological father of Dani, left the country and never returned.
Ryan Carlyle, her husband, ended up murdered.
One brother, Neville, disappeared.
His twin spent time in the loony bin.
Aaron, the hothead he’d met earlier, had gotten himself thrown out of the fire department…Why? Travis circled his name.
Just last year her father died of a sudden heart attack, a man who, though admittedly in his seventies, had heretofore been robust and healthy.
She’d had a couple of other very short relationships in the years since her husband’s death: Keith Lewellyn and Reggie Maxwell. Both losers.
Lewellyn was a lawyer and went through women like water; his interest in Shannon might have come from her infamy. The other one, Maxwell, had dated Shannon for only a month and it turned out he was married. That relationship had died before it had started. Reportedly, and this was mainly gossip he’d picked up around town, Shannon had abruptly stopped seeing th
e guy after three dates, probably when she’d found out he had a wife. At least that’s what Travis had been led to believe.
Then there was Nate Santana.
The mystery man.
The guy who had been so familiar with her on the night of the fire, touching her so naturally, taking command as if he alone should be in charge of her welfare. A jolt of jealousy again raced through Travis’s bloodstream and he told himself he was being the worst kind of idiot. There was no room for any emotional attachment to anyone right now, least of all Shannon Flannery.
He focused again on the man who lived on Shannon’s property. Santana had a reputation for working with temperamental horses. He’d spent some time in prison, albeit wrongly accused of murder. Ostensibly he was her partner but probably also her lover.
It all didn’t sit well with Travis.
These days, nothing did.
It was late. Her brothers had left a couple of hours earlier and she’d convinced Nate that she would be fine for the rest of the night. He must have believed her because as she placed a cup of water into the microwave she looked out the kitchen window and saw that the lights to his apartment were no longer burning.
The phone rang. She set the timer on the microwave, then plucked the handset from the wall phone. “Hello?”
“Is he there?” a woman demanded. “Shannon? Is Robert at your place?” Mary Beth Flannery’s voice was an octave higher than usual, her words slightly slurred, the rage within her nearly seething through the phone. Obviously Robert hadn’t been able to calm her down earlier.
“Of course not, Mary Beth. The last time I saw him was with you.”
“He left. With the kids.”
“Then…Maybe he’s at his apartment,” Shannon suggested, silently damning her philandering brother. What was the problem with Robert that he couldn’t keep his pants zipped up around other women?