If I Didn't Know Better (The Callaways #9)(81)

She didn't respond; she just turned and walked away, anger fueling her quick path into the house. She opened the door and let out a breath. She didn't bother to turn on a light; the darkness matched her mood. She felt angry and sad at the same time.

She didn't want a painting to come between her and Jeremy, but she couldn't take back her doubts about Kent, and he couldn't take back his doubts about her aunt.

Stalemate.

She walked down the hall and into the kitchen, shocked to see a figure standing by the kitchen table, the flashlight in his hand illuminating the painting on the table.

She flipped on the light. "Oh, my God," she said, meeting his gaze. "What the hell are you doing in here?"





Twenty



Jeremy threw his keys down on his kitchen table, opened the refrigerator door, stared at the contents, and then slammed the door shut.

Damn Mia and her stupid accusations.

And damn him for being such a fool.

He'd let a painting ruin what had been a wonderful night.

He'd just seen red when Mia had accused Kent of being a thief. She had no idea what Kent and the rest of them had gone through—the injuries they'd suffered, the horrors they'd seen—and they'd always put their duty first, beyond everything else. Kent wasn't a thief. He was a patriot, a soldier, and an incredible man. But Mia didn't know his world, and he couldn't explain it to her. But he also couldn't let her cast suspicion on his best friend.

He just needed to help her find the truth, he realized. Instead of being pissed off and attacking her, he should have just offered his assistance. The truth would not lead to Kent. Maybe it would lead to her aunt; he didn't know. But he did know that Mia wasn't going to give up until she figured it out.

Going out the side door, he walked down the driveway and through the side gate. There was a light on in her kitchen. So he walked toward the sliding doors that led into the family room.

He'd planned on knocking but he was surprised to see the door open.

As he stepped into the darkened room, he heard a man's voice coming from the kitchen, and he froze at the familiar tone. He couldn't believe what he was hearing…



*



"I thought you were out with Jeremy tonight," Barton said.

"We got back early. What are you doing in here?" Mia asked.

"Taking back what's mine."

"The painting is yours?" she asked, shock in her voice. "You didn't stay in the studio. How could it be yours?"

"I stashed the picture when Kent was there. I covered it up with his really ugly painting. I didn't figure anyone would ever look behind that monstrosity."

"That was a year ago. Why did you leave it here all this time?"

"I was going to sell it like the others, but the trail was getting too hot. I had to stash it away for a while. Then it was mission after mission. I couldn't get back until now."

"You stole the painting from the palace in Bahrain, didn't you?"

"Well, aren't you a clever girl to have figured that out."

"How could you do that?" she asked.

"Don't act like it's such a horrendous thing that I did," Barton said, not a hint of apology in his voice. "The painting didn't belong to anyone there. It had been stolen two or three times by the time I took it."

"It was still wrong."

"You have no idea of what's right and what's wrong, what goes on in the other parts of the world. Jeremy, Kent, and I risked our lives every day for basically nothing. So I took a few things—so I made a little money. What's the big deal?"

"I can't let you take the painting."

"How do you think you're going to stop me? I don't want to hurt you, Mia, but I am taking this painting with me. I have a buyer, and he's ready to make a deal."

Jeremy had heard enough. "She's not going to stop you. I am," he said, walking into the room.

Barton jolted in shock, his gaze flashing with anger and guilt when he saw him.

"What the hell were you thinking, Barton?" he demanded to know. "You were looting during our missions?"

Barton's jaw tightened as he gave Jeremy a defiant gaze. "It was a few times, a few things. And you know that stuff was already hot."

"That doesn't matter."

"Of course it does." Barton stared back at him. "You're not going to turn me in, Jeremy."

Barton was the last person he wanted to turn in, but how could he let him walk away? It went against his conscience, his sense of right and wrong, everything he'd always stood for.

"I'm your best friend, Jeremy," Barton continued. "I've saved your life not once, not twice, but three fucking times. And you're going to try to put me in jail? I've been the biggest patriot the Army ever saw. So I took a painting from a terrorist. That's the crime that should end my life?"

"He doesn’t have to turn you in. I will," Mia said, drawing Barton's attention back to her.

"You don't have any proof I took the painting, Mia," Barton said smoothly.

"You broke into my house."

"It doesn't look like I broke in. The sliding door was open, wasn't it, Jeremy? That's the way you came through."