all times.”
“That’s hard.”
“I was a verifiable bag lady.” She laughed humorlessly. “I grew up more or less homeless, not because my mom couldn’t work, but because she refused to. She did odd jobs here and there, but there were times when we lived in a place, usually with a group of people. She also had a scam going from county to county claiming to be a victim of domestic violence, so we could get a place for a couple weeks, she’d get a temporary job, and when she had enough money to split, we were off again on the next ‘adventure’ as she called it. Mostly she stole what she wanted and never felt a moment of guilt. I hated it.”
She put down the second half of her sandwich, her face flushed. “I can’t believe I told you all that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Nora was angry with herself. She had sounded bitter, but she wasn’t. She’d come to terms with her past, and maybe that’s why she could speak of it to a virtual stranger. No, she was deceiving herself. While she’d accepted her past, it wasn’t something she discussed with anyone … just Duke. She felt comfortable with him, and she wanted him to know, to understand who she was. But here? Now? It wasn’t the place or the time.
“That was highly inappropriate.” She started the car. “I’ll attribute it to hunger.”
Duke took her hand and squeezed until she looked at him.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She smiled.
Yeah, she was glad she’d told him.
Duke watched Nora as they headed back toward Sacramento. Even as she expertly maneuvered the vehicle, he saw that she was lost in thought. Thinking about the past? About her cases? About this case? Maybe everything.
Up until their parents were killed, the Rogans had led a charmed life. They hadn’t been wealthy their entire life, but right before the twins were born, Duke’s parents, Paul and Sheila, ended up with a patent for law enforcement and military gear that went big.
Still, even before that change of fate, the Rogans always had a home. Duke was born and raised in the same house he still lived in. When they had the money, they remodeled the hundred-year-old farm-style house in Rancho Cordova. The area was known for tract homes and lower-income families, but the Rogans had a five-acre parcel that butted against the American River. He hadn’t wanted to move after the plane crash to avoid uprooting Sean when he desperately needed stability. And now? It was comfortable. It wouldn’t occur to him to move anywhere else.
The house had long been a gathering spot. J.T. and Jax Caruso had practically lived there, since their parents were divorced and neither cared much about what their kids did. The kids from the neighborhood had always come by after school; Sheila had always said it was better to come to her house than to get in trouble on the streets. She had fed the neighborhood, monitored potential problems, and always listened.
That was what Duke missed the most about his mom.
She’d always had time for him and his brothers and sister. Even when she was working, even when she had outside commitments, she listened. She rarely offered advice unless directly asked, but she’d always ask one or two questions that guided you to the right answer. His dad was more cut-and-dried, right-and-wrong, but he, too, believed that family was everything, and as long as the Rogans were together, they could handle anything.
Their deaths left such a gaping void that the family split apart. Duke never understood how it had happened. Duke had been back from his months fighting Kane’s wars in Central America for less than a year when their parents died. Kane returned and tried to be the patriarch, but it was not in his blood. He handled grief differently from most people, Duke supposed. So the responsibilities fell to Duke, and too soon the twins left the country to run their own security business and Kane turned over the business he started with J.T. Caruso to Duke, and returned to Central America. And Duke and Sean kept the house up, though it was far too big for the two of them.
But through it all, if Duke needed anything, Kane was there. Home base was always … home. And having the foundation that his parents gave him was irreplaceable.
He stared at Nora. She was now aware he was looking at her; he could tell by the way she drove, keeping her eyes on the road, her focus on the other drivers. Everywhere but on him. He made her nervous, and he didn’t know why. He was the one in awe of what she’d accomplished in her life. To have grown up in that situation and to turn out not only smart and sharp, but to be a cop. A fed. It couldn’t have been easy, but at the same time she was well-suited for the job. She believed in what she was doing, understood the people she fought against, and had incredible compassion for all concerned. A rare, rare trait, and perhaps that, more than her own conflicts about her childhood, was what made her so tense. To be able to see all sides of an issue, to understand the predators as well as the victims, was not easy. Duke had known a lot of cops, local and federal, who burned out far too fast because they couldn’t tame their emotions. Nora’s grim steadfastness was an act, and Duke saw right through it. She had a shield that kept her sane, but that’s all it was-a shield to protect her.
He wanted to get under that shield and see Nora English for the woman she was. The Nora English that kissed him last night, the Nora English who was inside.
And he would. Duke got everything he set his mind on.
When the car started down the mountain on the California side of the Sierra Nevadas, Duke’s phone vibrated. He had a voice mail.
He listened, his face falling.
“That was Sean,” he said. “He left a message.”
“Your brother?”
Confession time. “I’ve had him snooping around Rose College the last couple days.”
She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she wasn’t happy about being kept in the dark.
“Three students were found this morning, dead, apparent suicides. And they left a note claiming they killed Jonah Payne.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rose College was in mourning.
Nora walked through the campus amid a sea of shocked faces. The media had been held at bay by the sheriff’s department, and Sheriff Sanger was speaking to the dean of students in the lobby of the dormitory where three students had apparently killed themselves.
Nora herself was stunned. For the forty minutes it took from when Duke got his brother’s call until they arrived she tried to reconcile political activism with serial murder. It didn’t make sense.
“Sheriff,” she said as she approached.
“Agent English,” Sanger said formally. “That was fast.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I just talked to your office ten minutes ago.”
“Funny. I heard about the suicides forty-five minutes ago, and even then the information was old. I should have been contacted as soon as the suicide note was found.”
Sanger’s jaw tightened. He introduced the dean. “Greg Holbrook, Special Agent Nora English. And Duke Rogan.”
“We’re all in shock,” Holbrook said. “All three of them exemplary students. All seniors with promising futures. Suicide-”
“I need to see the letter,” Nora said.
“Excuse us, Dean Holbrook,” Sanger said, moving away. Nora and Duke followed.
Once they were out of earshot, Nora said, “Why did you wait so long to contact me?”
“First, the letter isn’t a full-out confession, and it took responding officers time to put it together. By the time they did and I came on scene, I called your office.”
Nora released her pent-up anger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat, Lance, but we just came from the scene of another homicide; Russell Larkin, the head of Butcher-Payne’s I.T. department, had his throat slit.”
