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"Oh? Why?"
His smile was wide but lacked its usual depth. Even when they first met, and Jewell hadn't gotten through his abrasive exterior yet, she saw more animation and personality behind his eyes than she did now. The walls that Benjamin had built in the few short hours since learning of his sister's shooting were now high and thick. Jewell wondered what it would take to get them down.
"I want to go to the hospital this afternoon."
Jewell nodded, her throat squeezing at the thought of seeing Victoria. If she felt it this deep, it must be nearly smothering for Benjamin. "All right. I'll go take a small nap. Where can I find you later?"
He kissed her again. "I'll find you."
* * *
Dillon sat across from Benjamin without speaking. His fingers laced behind his neck, his forehead resting on the green metal table in the tiny interrogation room. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and body odor. Benjamin wrinkled his nose at the stench and drummed his fingertips on the cold steel. Dillon's shoulders rose and fell.
"Talk to me, Dillon," Benjamin said.
Dillon slowly raised his head, his bloodshot gaze meeting Benjamin's. His upper lip was pulled tight over his teeth, but his chin quivered as tears ran unabated down his cheeks. His hands curled and opened in tight fists.
"Why are you here, Ben?" he asked. "Do you want me to confess? To say I shot her? Your father's lawyer has already been here, and I wouldn't admit it to him. Why should I to you?"
Benjamin shook his head. "I'm here because George asked me to come. He wants you to tell me what happened."
Dillon slammed his fist on the table, the shock vibrating through Benjamin's hands, and he jumped to his feet. "I didn't shoot her. God, she's my life!" The force of his shouting reverberated in the air.
Benjamin fought fiercely against the hard, unforgiving lump in his throat. There was no way he would let the raw ferociousness of his emotions get to him here. Not now. Not until he knew Dillon's version of the truth.
"Dillon, you know me well enough to know that I would not be here on my father's behalf. I need to know what happened."
Dillon shoved his fingers through his hair before sitting down again. Perspiration glistened on his forehead and he wrung his hands together as if trying to remove a smudge or stain.
"Victoria called me Friday morning from the road. She told me she'd decided to leave your father's house for good. She wanted to be with me, no matter what, and prayed your father would eventually accept it. She told me to come to the house and pick her up.
"But when I got there, your father was in a rage. I heard him screaming from his den, then I heard Victoria's voice. I ran in and they were arguing. He had her arm and she was fighting to get away from him. I jumped in."
"Had he been drinking?" Benjamin asked.
Dillon nodded. "I would say yes. There was a broken bottle of scotch on the rug, so the room reeked of it. His speech was slurred and his eyes were bloodshot."
"What was he saying?"
"That he wouldn't let her leave. Wouldn't let her destroy her life by marrying me."
Benjamin ran his palm over his face. He could almost see the scene play out in his mind. It all sounded so typical of Jon Roth. Memories of his adolescence and teen years flashed in his mind.
"I stepped in—fought him to release her. He let go and we started to leave. Then your father yelled out and I heard the click of a gun."
Dillon pressed his eyes closed, tears pressing out. His face twisted with anguish. Benjamin's chest squeezed tight and it was hard to take in a deep breath. His throat burned.
"Did you fight him with the gun? Is that how it went off?"
Dillon slowly nodded his head. The pained expression that twisted his face made it hard for Benjamin to read his lips. He had to ask Dillon to say it again. The man who could have been his brother-in-law wiped his hand over his face, attempting to dry his cheeks. He took a deep breath and shoved his fingers through his hair.
"I shoved Victoria behind me and told her to get out. Jon was waving the gun around. I don't remember most of what he said, but I tried to reason with him. The gun went off once and hit the wall behind our heads.
"Jon was crazy," he continued to explain, his head moving slowly side to side and his eyes distant. "I had seen him angry before. Like the day he found out about us. But I never imagined anything like this."
Dillon took a moment to sip at the cup of coffee Benjamin had brought him. It had to be only lukewarm at best and was from the stained pot in the officer's bullpen, so Benjamin imagined it was bitter and tasted like something akin to tar. The grimace on Dillon's face confirmed it.
"My father can be a violent man. But Dillon?—"
