1
SARAH McAVOY
Iwas staring into the eyes of a predator. Of that, I had no doubt. But the menacing gleam in Reese Fitzpatrick’s stunning green eyes wasn’t directed at me this time. Or at Joe Turnbull, the older man sitting on the couch behind me in Reese’s office. Every muscle in Reese’s body was clearly bent on vengeance—vengeance against the man responsible for his father’s death. And I held the key to who that might be.
“Tell me again,” Reese said, rising from behind his desk.
He was wearing jeans and a forest green Henley that looked amazing with his dark hair and beard. At full height, he was six-and-a-half feet of pure lean muscle and right now, the mountain lion that lived beneath his skin seemed dangerously close to the surface.
Reese had told me I was the only human who knew his secret, which meant Joe Turnbull—the man sitting just eight feet away—was in the dark, even though he’d been Reese’s father’s closest friend.
Was Reese aware that his secret was starting to show in his eyes? Their clear green color was beginning to glow. Things like this seemed to be happening more frequently lately, and I had a terrible feeling it had something to do with me.
“Calm down,” I whispered. The last thing he needed was to shift right in front of Joe.
Reese blinked, seeming to understand my concern, then raked a hand through his hair before saying, “Tell me again. This time slower.”
Before I began, I glanced warily at Joe Turnbull. I hadn’t planned on having an audience when I’d come in to share my news.
Joe was in his mid-sixties but still very fit, with a shaved head and stylish clothes. I’d met him once before, but only briefly. His piercing blue eyes watched me with interest.
I cleared my throat. “I…um…used to work IT for a patent attorney.”
For good reason, I’d refrained from sharing my backstory with Reese. When it came to being in the federal witness protection program, the U.S. Marshals encouraged a “less is more” approach in regard to personal details.
But I didn’t think this little reveal could hurt, and I saw the spark of awareness in Reese’s eyes when he realized I was giving him a peek behind the curtain.
“Go on,” he said.
“When I was there, I got some familiarity with the United States Trademark Office—how to do online searches and such.”
“What’s she talking about?” Joe rose from the couch and came to stand beside me in front of Reese’s desk.
“I found a torn scrap of a patch near Dad’s body,” Reese explained. “It’s probably an emblem off a jacket or possibly a bag. It might be nothing, but—”
“But it might be a clue to who shot him,” I said as another surge of pride shot through me. I’d been working on the clue for weeks, behind the scenes, here and there, whenever I’d had a break from my job as the Evergreen Resort & Retreat Center’s events coordinator.
“Or it could be a wild goose chase,” Joe cautioned.
Okay, Debbie Downer.But I had to admit, that was true too.
“Can I see it?” Joe asked. “The patch?”
Reese opened his desk drawer and showed him the fabric remnant. It was about three inches long, and only one inch wide. It had a slight curve to the finished edge, with a white background outlined in black. Purple, red, and black threads suggested a partial image. The only thing preserved in absolute clarity were the letters C-K.
“This isn’t much to go on,” Joe said.
“No,” I agreed. I’d been striking out for weeks. “But I had a thought. That curved edge. Assuming the original patch was symmetrical, it might mean that the emblem is shaped like a shield—straight across the top with the left and right sides curving down to a single point.”
“And how does it help to know that?” Reese asked. “Assuming you’re right.”
“Logos can be trademarked, and they’re registered according to words, fonts, colors, and shapes.”
“You can search shield-shaped logos?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, and I did. I came up with the names of about two dozen companies that also had the letter C-K in their names, plus purple and red color combinations.”
I held up the paper with my search results with an air of triumph.