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There was a half-empty packet of Zantac next to a stack of files. Dalton had been inside this room too often for his taste in the past few months. Activity down the hall had slowed since the last time he had been here. The temporary room set up for volunteers to take calls about leads in the Mav’s case was still in the conference room at the mouth of the hallway, but there were fewer phone calls now and leads had all but dried up.
Bethany sniffled, clutching a bundle of tissues in a white-knuckle grip.
Dalton kept to the back of the room, near the door.
“I apologize again for asking you to give a statement so soon. Anything you can tell us might help close the investigation.” Dalton noticed that Sawmill didn’t mention the word murder. Was he being careful not to set false expectations that he would treat this as anything other than a suicide?
The detective noticed it, too. She sat up a little straighter and her shoulders tensed. Her gaze was locked on Sawmill like she was a student studying for final exams.
“I’ll help in any way I can.” Bethany’s weak voice barely carried through the room in between sobs. Helping her walk into the coroner’s office to verify what they’d already known at the scene had been right up there with attending Alexandria’s funeral. Too many memories crashed down on Dalton. Memories he’d suppressed for fourteen years. Memories he had every intention of stuffing down deep before they brought him to his knees. His anger wouldn’t help find answers. Finding the truth was all that mattered now.
“Can you confirm the deceased’s name is Clara Robinson?” His voice remained steady.
“Yes.” It seemed to take great effort to get the word out.
“I identified the body at the scene, Sheriff,” Leanne interjected and the tension in Sawmill’s face heightened. It was just a flash before he recovered, but Dalton knew it meant he’d never cooperate willingly with the Dallas detective. That also made her of no use to Dalton.
“And your full name is?” Sawmill continued.
“Bethany Ann Schmidt,” she supplied before looking up.
“Okay. Mrs. Schmidt, can you describe your relationship with your daughter?” the sheriff continued.
“It was all right. I guess. I mean, she’s...was...a teenager. We talked as much as any mother and her seventeen-year-old can.” Bethany shrugged as if anything other than a complicated relationship would require skills no one could possibly have.
Dalton couldn’t speak on authority but he picked up on the tension between the detective and her sister.
“How were the two of you getting along lately?” Sawmill leaned forward.
“Okay, I guess,” she responded with another shrug.
“Had you been in any disagreements recently?” he asked. Dalton couldn’t help but remember a very different line of questioning when he was in the interview room with the sheriff. Another shot of anger burst through his chest, and he had to take a slow deep breath to try to counter the damage. The sheriff had spent too much time focused on the wrong person back then and because of it, Alexandria’s killer still walked the streets. He’d wondered if the man had ended up in jail for another crime or died, considering how quiet life had become until recently in Cattle Barge. If he’d been in jail, the timing of another similar murder could be explained by a release.
“No. Not us. Nothing lately. I mean, we argued over her helping out more around the house yesterday. Her little brother is a handful and she barely lifts a finger,” Bethany said on an exacerbated sigh.
Again, Leanne stiffened but this time it happened when her sister mentioned the boy.
“How old is her brother?” Sawmill continued.
“Hampton will be four years old in two weeks,” Bethany supplied before taking a few gulps of air and then picking back up on the conversation thread. “And we didn’t have a knock-down-drag-out or anything. It was more like me reminding her to help pick up toys and her rolling her eyes for the hundredth time. I swear that girl communicated more with her eyes than her mouth.”
The sheriff nodded like he understood and then waited for her to go on, hands clasped on his desk.
“We got along okay other than that,” Bethany said through sniffles.
Based on Leanne’s reaction so far, she didn’t agree. Questions rolled around in Dalton’s mind. Was Bethany telling the truth about her relationship with her daughter? Why was Leanne so tense? Was she expecting her sister to drop a bomb at any minute? Or was it fear? Was she afraid that her sister would say something wrong?
Leanne had secrets. Dalton intended to find out what they were, because if he could uncover any connection between this and Alexandria’s murder he might be able to bring peace to her family. Only this time, he wouldn’t involve the sheriff. Sawmill had let Dalton down all those years ago, still was with his father’s murder investigation, and he didn’t trust the man to do his job.
“How did the two siblings respond to each other?” Sawmill asked.
“About the same as any, I guess.” Bethany shrugged again. There was a note of hopelessness in her voice. “Hampton gets into her stuff and she goes crazy. My Clara is—” she shot a glance toward the sheriff “—was particular about all her belongings being right where she left them. She didn’t like anyone getting into her stuff and that caused a lot of friction in the house.”
“Between you and her?” the sheriff asked.
“No. I expected it to some degree. She was used to being the only child for most of her life and then suddenly she was not. She had all my attention before I met Gary.” She flashed her eyes at the sheriff. “My husband. She had a hard time with me being in a relationship and then Hampton came along quicker than we expected.” Bethany blew her nose and then took in a deep breath. “So, we decided to get married. Clara and me weren’t as close after that. I chalked it up to hormones. She was a normal teenager and she was thirteen when Gary and me tied the knot.”
Leanne shifted in her seat as though she couldn’t get comfortable. Her movements were subtle. If Dalton hadn’t been watching, he might’ve missed them. What was she holding back? Something was making her uncomfortable and she seemed a skilled-enough investigator to know to cover her physical reaction as best she could.
“How did your husband get along with your daughter?” Sawmill picked up a packet of Zantac.
“Clara didn’t like him much.” Bethany shrank a little more into her seat, a helpless look wrinkling her forehead. “Like I said, I spoiled her with my attention before we met.”
Leanne’s fingernails might leave marks in that chair if she gripped it any tighter.
“Those two were fire and gasoline from the get-go,” Bethany added.
“Which wasn’t Clara’s fault,” Leanne interjected hotly. “Gary yelled at Clara all the time and for no good reason.”
* * *
LEANNE FUMED. SHE shouldn’t have confirmed that Gary and Clara didn’t get along. Watching her half sister, whom she loved but would never understand, defend Gary over her own daughter lit the wick that caused an explosion she couldn’t contain.
The sheriff’s brow arched. He was looking for evidence that this was a suicide and Leanne might’ve just handed it to him with her outburst. She bit back a curse, wishing she’d inherited more of her mother’s ability to stay calm in a crisis. In times like these, she missed her even more than usual.
Leanne could feel the cowboy’s eyes on her, and there came a flitter of attraction that was out of line. Leanne had no plans to let him out of her sight until she knew what he’d captured with his phone, magnetism or not.
“The reason Clara didn’t get along with Gary is that he treated her more like a servant than a daughter,” Leanne said as calmly as she could. Someone had to stand up for the girl.
“That’s not true.” Indignant shoulders raised on Bethany like shackles on a scared or angry animal.
“A seventeen-year-old girl shouldn’t have more responsibilities around the house than her mother.” There. Leanne had said it. The truth was out.
Bethany gasped in what sounded like complete horror and guilt knifed Leanne. She didn’t want to upset her half sister, but Clara wasn’t around any longer to defend herself. Besides, the sheriff was getting the wrong picture. Clara wasn’t a mixed-up hormonal teenager who fought with her stepfather and then killed herself.
“Is that the real reason you came to pick her up?” Bethany blurted out.
More of the truth was about to come out, so Leanne may as well come clean. She turned her attention to the sheriff, ignoring the glare her sister was giving her. Another pang of guilt hit. Leanne didn’t want to cause her sister any more pain and losing a daughter was up there with the worst anyone could experience. But. And it was a big but. She wouldn’t allow her niece’s murder to be classified as a suicide when it wasn’t.
Or to let a killer walk around scot-free.
Nothing would ever be gained from skirting what had really happened, and a small part of Leanne couldn’t help but wonder if Bethany was somehow relieved that Clara was out of the way. Not necessarily that her daughter was gone, but that she wouldn’t have to fight with Gary anymore over doing the right thing for Clara.
“I came down here to pick my niece up so she could live with me,” Leanne explained.
“What do you mean live? I thought she was just going to stay with you a couple of weeks until I could smooth things over with Gary during Christmas break. Give the two of them some breathing room.” The hurt in Bethany’s tone wounded Leanne.
She turned to her sister. “I’m sorry you have to find out like this. But I know for a fact that Clara wouldn’t have done this to herself, and if we aren’t honest with the sheriff, none of us will ever know the truth about what happened.”
“What good would that do now?” Bethany shot back with the most fire Leanne had ever seen in her sister’s eyes. At least there was some spark there when all too often her sister looked dead since marrying Gary. “It won’t bring her back.” Her voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch. “Who cares why she’s gone. She’s gone.”
Bethany slumped forward in her seat and Leanne reached over to comfort her. Her sister drew away from her as though she was a rattlesnake ready to strike.
The sheriff’s gaze narrowed in on her. He didn’t seem to like the fact that Leanne had been withholding information. She’d been on the other side of that desk and could appreciate his position. She couldn’t, however, allow this farce to go on. Clara had been murdered.
“What really happened, Detective West?” The sheriff’s dark tone said he wasn’t impressed.
“She and Gary, her stepfather, had had a huge argument and Clara couldn’t take living with them anymore.” It dawned on Leanne that Bethany might not want that information getting out because it wouldn’t cast Gary in the best light. Leanne further knew that he’d just topped the suspect list. So be it. If that man was involved in any way, she’d...
Bethany bristled and Leanne shot her half sister an apologetic look.
“She said you needed help with Mila,” Bethany countered, talking about Leanne’s six-month-old daughter.
Leanne hated the deception, but her back had been against the wall and Clara had sounded desperate. Leanne had planned to sit Clara down and explain all the reasons the two of them needed to tell Bethany the truth.
“I know she did.” Leanne turned to her half sister and her shoulders softened. “I’m sorry we lied to you, but Clara insisted you’d never let her come otherwise and she was desperate to get out of the house.”
“So that made it okay to deceive me?” More hurt spilled out of Bethany.
“I’m sorry for that. But I also know that my niece wouldn’t end her own life. She has a boyfriend she cares about and only one year left at home. Something happened, and if we don’t impress the sheriff with that knowledge, her killer will go free,” Leanne implored.
“What’s her boyfriend’s name?” Sawmill asked.
“Christian Woods.” Leanne turned to her sister.
Deep grooves lined Bethany’s forehead and dark circles cradled her eyes. Leanne could see that she was getting through, and she prayed the woman would do the right thing by her daughter in death even if she hadn’t in life.
Then it seemed to dawn on her that Gary could be investigated when her pupils dilated and her lips thinned.
“How do you know she didn’t feel guilty for lying to her mother? Or maybe she and her boyfriend had a fight? Kids do all kinds of crazy things in the name of love,” Bethany countered. She perched on the edge of her chair as she focused on Sawmill. “My daughter was mentally unstable. She said that kids were bullying her at the new school. She didn’t fit in. I can’t remember how many times she threatened to harm herself. I didn’t take any of it seriously at the time, figuring she was just blowing off steam. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Can you provide a list of names?” Sawmill took notes. Leanne saw that as the first positive sign. “How long ago did you move to Cattle Barge?”
“We’ve been here around seven months. Gary thought it would be best to move the family before the end of the last school year, so Clara could make friends before summer.” The fear in Bethany’s voice gave Leanne pause.
Was she afraid of Gary being investigated? Afraid of the possibility of bringing up another child alone? Or, looking closer, just plain afraid of Gary?
Leanne scanned her half sister’s arms for bruises. She had on sweatpants and a sweater with the sleeves rolled up. Bethany had had problems with substance abuse when she was younger. Leanne learned after locating her half sister that Bethany had been in and out of rehab twice during high school. Then she’d had Clara instead of her senior year and, by all accounts, turned her life around. Without a high school diploma or job skills to fall back on, it had been a tough life. She’d worked hourly wage jobs. Bethany had struggled to make ends meet until she’d met Gary five years ago. An almost immediate pregnancy was quickly followed by marriage performed at city hall. Gary had driven a wedge between Bethany and Leanne.
According to Clara, the man was an iceberg when it came to emotion. Leanne wondered how well her sister really knew her husband.
“I apologize for the questions,” Sawmill said. “Can you tell me more about your husband and daughter’s recent fight?”
“Yes, it happened the other day, but Gary was only reacting to Clara’s moodiness,” Bethany admitted. It galled Leanne that her half sister would defend his actions. She neglected to mention the times Gary had forced Clara to get up off the couch for no good reason, saying that she had to ask permission before she sat down. Or when he’d made her kneel for hours on end because she’d worn what he considered too short of a skirt. Gary’s father had been an evangelist. Gary used the same punishments he’d received as a child on Clara.
Clara was a normal teenage girl who wanted a little freedom.
“What about alcohol or drugs?” the sheriff asked and it was Leanne’s turn to bristle. She already knew the answer to that question.
“I found an empty bottle of beer in her room last weekend,” Bethany answered truthfully.
“What did Mr. Schmidt think about that?” Sawmill asked, and Leanne could tell by his line of questioning that he wasn’t taking her murder claim seriously.
“He never knew. I hid it because Clara begged me to,” Bethany said.
“What would’ve happened if he’d known?” Sawmill continued.
Bethany blew out a breath. “Another fight.”
“He’d been threatening to send Clara to a super strict all-girls school,” Leanne interjected. “And that beer belonged to Renee, not Clara.”
Renee was the daughter of one of Gary’s friends. Clara didn’t care for the girl but couldn’t turn her back on her because Gary would shame her.
Bethany turned sideways to look at Leanne. The woman shot a look that could’ve melted ice during an Alaskan winter.
“And you believed her?” Bethany asked.
Chapter Three
“Of course, I did. Clara never lied to me,” Leanne responded with a little more heat than she’d intended. So much for keeping things cool in front of the sheriff.
Bethany made a harrumph sound and pushed to her feet. “I’d like to speak with the sheriff alone.”
Leanne started to protest but the sheriff cut her off.
“There’s coffee at the end of the hall and everything said here will go into my report,” he said, motioning toward the door.
It was his witness, his investigation. With no other viable choice, Leanne stood and walked out the door. She’d been too harsh with her fragile half sister and this was going to be the price. Everything had balance, a yin and yang, she thought, except for her personal life, which had been turned upside down since having a baby six months ago. She wouldn’t change a thing about her life with her baby girl, except maybe more sleep. Definitely more sleep. And if she could turn back time, she would make sure that Mila’s father wouldn’t have died on her watch.
Dalton followed her out the door and she could feel his strong presence behind her.
“Coffee’s this way,” his low rumble of a voice said, and the sound penetrated a place deep down, stirring emotions she had no desire to acknowledge as existing anymore. Her traitorous body wanted to gravitate toward the feeling and bask in it. A little reality and a strong cup of coffee was all she needed to quash those unproductive thoughts.
She stepped aside, allowing the man with the strong muscled back to lead her down the unfamiliar hallway. He made a left before what she figured was an interview room. She closed up her coat, shivering against the cold temperature in the building.
A dark thought struck that the sheriff might be hauling her sister to the interview room any minute. Bethany had no idea how much her actions were about to impact her life, and a mix of protectiveness and frustration swirled in Leanne’s chest. Bethany might be clueless but she’d had a rough start, had cleaned up her act, and Leanne knew deep down that her sister was trying her best. Was it good enough? Before having Mila, Leanne might’ve judged her sister more harshly. After having a baby, she realized the job wasn’t easy and didn’t come with instructions.
“The coffee here doesn’t taste like much, but it’s strong,” Dalton said, pouring two cups and handing one to her.
She took the offering, wondering why he knew so much about the quality of the coffee at the sheriff’s office. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage here. You already know my name and more about my personal life than I share with even my closest friends, but I don’t have the first clue who you are.” The part about having close friends was almost laughable. Happy hours after work and shopping with the girls had never been high on her list of priorities. She’d worked hard to make detective by thirty and there hadn’t been room for much else in her life.
“Dalton Butler. And I’m pleased to meet you.” He switched hands with the mug and offered a handshake.
She took his hand—his was so much larger and rougher than hers—and realized making physical contact had not been a good choice. Electricity exploded through her, bringing to life places she didn’t want awakened. She reasoned that it had been a long time since she’d had sex and her body was reacting to the first hot man she touched, but there was so much more to it, to him, than that.
From the callouses on his skin, she deduced that he must work outside, which in these parts most likely meant on a ranch. His outfit of jeans, boots and a denim jacket had already given the same impression.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” She examined him, his clear blue eyes that seemed to hold so many secrets. She was beginning to hate secrets.
“My father owned a famous ranch in the area,” he conceded as the contents of his mug suddenly became very interesting.
“Maverick Mike Butler of the Hereford Ranch?” That explained why the man seemed to know the layout of the sheriff’s office so well. At first, she’d feared he might have been previously on the wrong side of the interview table, especially with the way he related to the sheriff. Now, she realized he’d been there because of his father’s murder. The fact that the case still wasn’t solved would explain his chilly response to Sawmill.
But what did he want with this investigation?
“What’s on your camera?” she asked, figuring she could ask at another time why the son of a famous rancher—and one of, if not the, richest men in Texas—would have so many callouses on his hands. There were other things she didn’t want to notice about him, like the half-inch scar above his left brow at the point where it arched. And the crystal clearness of his blue eyes.
He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it out on his palm between them. Leanne stepped closer to get a better look at the screen and that was another mistake because she inhaled his scent, a mix of outdoors and warm spices. A trill of awareness shot through her. She blinked up, trying to reset her body and thought she caught the same reaction from him as his pupils dilated.
Chalking the whole scene up to overwrought emotions, she studied the picture he brought up on his phone.
“Why is this important?” She shot him her best don’t-feed-me-a-line look.
“It’s the type of knot used.” He enlarged the hangman’s rope and her heart squeezed, looking at the device that had killed her niece.
“Which is?”
“The trucker’s knot,” he supplied.
“Why is this significant other than I’m guessing that only a Boy Scout would know how to tie it?” Examining the knot shot pain through her. She had to set aside her personal feelings, block out emotion and focus on finding the jerk who’d done this to Clara. “Justice for Clara” was Leanne’s new marching orders.
“Right. A Boy Scout would know this and that has to be taken into consideration in finding the killer, but the person who did this gave them an out.” His inflection changed and she could sense his relief at talking about this... But relief from what?
“You said killer. How do you know this wasn’t a suicide?” She latched on to the first piece of good news in hours. Hours that felt more like days.
“Was your niece ever a Brownie? Girl Scout?” he asked, ignoring her question.
Leanne shook her head and his lack of surprise made something dawn on her.
She blinked up at him, searching his eyes.
“I know it wasn’t suicide.” His tone was finite and his jaw muscle ticked.
“How can you be so sure?” She wanted to hear those words so badly.
“The knot. One tug in the right place and they could’ve been free,” he supplied.
There was more to the story based on how much he seemed to care. There was something else present behind his eyes, too. Hesitation? Lack of trust? Her investigative experience had taught her when to press and when to back off. This was time for the former.
“Can I ask a question?”
Dalton nodded.
“Why do you care about what happened to my niece?” And then she thought about what else her police training had taught her. Actions were selfish. People were motivated by their own needs and rarely put anyone else’s first. She’d seen it time and time again through her work as a detective in a major city. The only reason he’d care about Clara was if her death was connected to something important to him.
He glanced at her and that one look spoke volumes.
And then she realized that he’d said the word they and not her.
“How many others have there been?”
* * *
DALTON STOOD IN front of the beautiful detective trying to decide how much of his hand he should show. It sounded a little far-fetched even to him that the same murderer would strike fourteen years later. But he knew without a doubt this was the work of one person. And the odds increased when he considered the event had happened on the exact same day at the same spot. “As far as I know, one. But there could be others in different locations.”