Past Sins Cast a Long Shadow

Dallas Phillips refuses to believe her father committed suicide, even though things were tough on his farm and he was deeply in debt. When she hears he’d told a neighbor about an upcoming windfall, she grows suspicious, and her suspicion only deepens when she realizes someone is lurking in the nearby mountains after dark.

For help, she turns to Trey Jakes, local police chief—and her former lover. As they begin to investigate, another mystery comes to light. Trey’s mother is beginning to remember events from thirty years ago, something shadowy that happened in the mountains, and Dallas’s father was there, too. Is what happened that night connected to his “suicide”? As they search for the truth, Trey and Dallas struggle to fight their attraction, but they may not be able to fend off another force—a killer who’s more than willing to kill again to make sure old secrets stay buried.

Praise for the novels of Sharon Sala

“Skillfully balancing suspense and romance, Sala gives readers a nonstop breath-holding adventure.”

—Publishers Weekly on Going Once

“Vivid, gripping…this thriller keeps the pages turning.”

—Library Journal on Torn Apart

“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

“Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist, she is an inspiration for people everywhere who wish to live their dreams.”

—John St. Augustine, host, Power!Talk Radio WDBC-AM, Michigan

“Veteran romance writer Sala lives up to her reputation with this well-crafted thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Remember Me

“[A] well-written, fast-paced ride.”

—Publishers Weekly on Nine Lives

“Perfect entertainment for those looking for a suspense novel with emotional intensity.”

—Publishers Weekly on Out of the Dark

Wild Hearts

Sharon Sala

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Childhood sweethearts are the first and the best, because the love is new and untainted. Even though most of them do not carry through to adulthood and become the life partner you will have, they all hold a special place in our hearts.

I’m dedicating this book to my first love, my Bobby, who reappeared in my life when I needed him most. I had eight of the most wonderful years of my adult life with him before I lost him to cancer. He was my first love, and he will be my last love.

Some things are impossible to replace.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Mystic, West Virginia May 1980

The sky was as dark as a witch’s heart, the smells of whiskey and sex as strong inside the titty-pink Cadillac as the vomit in the floorboard behind the driver. The speedometer was pegged out at a hundred and ten, and still the headlights of the car behind them kept gaining.

Eighteen-year-old Connie Bartlett’s fingers were curled around the steering wheel of her brand-new graduation present, her eyes wide and fixed on the white stripe down the middle of the blacktop, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Her boyfriend, Dick Phillips, was on his knees, leaning over the seat and looking out the back window. Like Connie, he could see the headlights coming closer.

“Faster, Connie, faster! He’s gonna catch us!”

“It won’t go any faster!” she cried.

She swerved toward the right, then swerved back toward the left, tossing her passengers from one side of the car to the other. She was trying to follow the white stripe down the middle of the highway, but she was driving drunk, something her daddy had told her never to do.

In the backseat, Betsy Parr was three beers and most of a fifth of Jack Daniel’s drunk, down on her hands and knees in the floorboard, puking up her guts. She always felt carsick in the backseat. Being drunk and dancing with death only made it worse.

Her boyfriend, Paul Jackson, was passed out above her, drunk from the other three beers from Betsy’s six-pack and the rest of the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, oblivious to the drama and the danger.

Dick was pounding the seat and crying now. “He’s gaining! He’s gaining! He’ll kill us, too. What are we gonna do?”

Betsy groaned as another wave of nausea swept over her, but before she could follow the urge to puke again, the car fishtailed, throwing her against the door at her back. Too scared to look up, she began beating her fists on the back of Connie’s seat.

“Oh, my God...Connie, stop, please stop! You’re going to kill us.”

“We can’t!” Dick yelled. “He saw all of us. We have to get to the cops first or he’ll finger us for what he did!”

“We’re drunk. They’ll blame it on us anyway,” Betsy moaned.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Connie screamed. “You saw what he did! We all saw it!”

Betsy couldn’t believe this was happening. Twelve long years of slogging through an education all the way to their high school graduation, and three hours after getting their diplomas they were going to die. Her only consolation, even though she’d had to get drunk to do it, was that she wouldn’t die a virgin.

All of a sudden the car began to slide sideways.

“Connie! Take your foot off the gas!” Dick screamed.

Instead, Connie jerked the wheel in the other direction, and suddenly they were airborne. Her foot was still on the accelerator, the engine was roaring like the backwash from a jet, but the sensation of flying, if only for a moment, was real.

Paul Jackson woke up just as the wheels left the blacktop to find Betsy’s foot in the middle of his chest.

“What the hell?” he groaned, and then leaned over and vomited all over the both of them just as the pink Cadillac went nose-first into a tree.

Connie went through the windshield, landing facedown on the hood as steam from the broken radiator rose up around her.

Dick’s head slammed against the dash, cutting a gash across his forehead as he slumped down on the floor, pinned between the dash and the seat as it crumpled around him.

Betsy was ejected through the back window onto the trunk and then bounced off onto the ground a short distance away, awash in the exhaust from the tailpipe.

The back door popped open on impact, throwing Paul out against a nearby boulder, breaking his arm and his shoulder, and cracking his skull.

To add insult to injury, a dead limb knocked loose from the impact dropped, landing on Connie’s back, although it was overkill. She was already gone.

A few moments later, headlights swept across the scene of the wreck as the driver of the other car finally caught up. He slowed down only long enough to assess the scene and assume they were dead, then disappeared into the night.

* * *

Betsy Parr woke up to bright lights and heart-stopping pain. She could hear her mother’s voice; the fear in it was palpable. She heard her father, and then the sound of choking and moaning. It took a moment for her to realize she was the one making that noise. She heard her mother cry out, begging them to do something, and then the pain was gone as she sank into unconsciousness.

* * *

By midmorning, news of the accident spread through town like wildfire. One of Mystic High School’s brand-new graduates was dead, and three more critically injured.

Everyone was in shock, including the driver of the second car, who had been so sure they were dead. He thought about running. He thought about coming out with a story to lay blame on them first, and then decided to wait and see what happened. They could still die.

And when all the shock and drama was over, and the rush of gossip had long since cleared, waiting was what saved him.

Connie Bartlett took what she knew to the grave, and the three others had been so drunk, and then suffered such critical head wounds, that later on when they were questioned, none of them remembered anything after receiving their diplomas. The ensuing three hours of their lives had been erased.

His future had been saved by a quirk of fate, which made everything else he’d done worth it.

One

The cackle of hens and the occasional squawk of a pissed-off rooster were the beginning to Dick Phillips’s day as he went about his morning chores. He opened the coop and began scattering chicken feed, laughing at the rush that ensued as he went in to gather the eggs.

A few years back his wife, Marcy, had got an itch to raise chickens, so he’d built a coop and bought her a few hens to make her happy, and then she died. Afterward, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of them, so they stayed. As time passed, the flock grew, and now, with over forty laying hens, he was selling the surplus to regular customers, who came to the farm to pick up eggs for their family use.

He took the fresh eggs down to the barn to what he called the egg room. He was favoring his right shoulder. He’d taken a bad fall last week and was certain he’d torn something vital. He couldn’t lift his arm above his head, and it hurt to carry anything, although there was still work to be done. He stood at the worktable, sorting, cleaning and crating eggs, and then stored them in a small walk-in cooler at the back of the room.

He’d just walked out into the breezeway and was getting ready to feed his cows when he heard a car. He paused in the doorway, absently scratching at the old scar on his forehead, and then raised his hand in greeting when he recognized the driver, then eyed the large sack he was carrying, thinking he was about to make a big sale.

“Hey, how goes it?” he called. “You comin’ after eggs?”

“A couple of dozen, please.”

Dick turned to get the eggs from the cooler, unaware that the man had reached into the sack and taken out a long braided rope with a noose at the end. Dick heard the footsteps behind him, but before he could turn, the noose was around his neck.

The man gave the rope a hard yank, and Dick fell backward, landing hard on the back of his head, and at the same time reinjuring his shoulder and cutting off his air. Dick was in shock, uncertain what was happening. His ears were ringing and he couldn’t think what to do. Unaware of what was happening behind him, he began fumbling with the noose.

The man had tied a weight to the other end of the rope, and when he threw it up, it sailed over the rafter and right back into his hands as if he’d practiced the move for days. Then he took off running toward the loft, and when the rope tightened, Dick was yanked off his feet so hard that he momentarily blacked out.

It was the reprieve the killer needed. He reached the steps leading to the loft and began climbing them hand over fist with the rope in his teeth. He glanced down once, and as he did, his heart skipped a beat. Dick was not only conscious but struggling to get to his feet. With no time to spare, the killer threaded the rope through a step and then jumped.

As he went down, Dick went up, high enough that his feet were dangling almost two feet off the concrete floor below.

Dick was moaning and kicking as the man wrapped the rope once around his waist for added leverage, then pulled Dick even higher as he ran back toward the ladder and tied off the rope.

Now Dick was dangling almost six feet from the ground. His face was turning blue, his eyes were bulging and his arms were flailing as he clawed desperately at the rope, trying to relieve the pressure.

“Die, damn it,” the man muttered. And then, in a fit of impatience, he made a run for Dick’s legs and jumped. As he did, he grabbed hold of Dick’s ankles, and when he came down with all his body weight, Dick’s neck broke with a pop.

It was done.

The killer stepped back, looking all around the area to make sure he’d left nothing of himself behind, then pulled out his pocketknife and cut off the weight, taking it with him as he left.

Long after the sound of his car had faded away, the chickens still clucked, the rooster crowed and the cows were still waiting to be fed.

* * *

Betsy Jakes had her cookbook out, going down the list of ingredients she needed to make her famous Italian cream cake. Tomorrow was her son Trey’s birthday, and it was his favorite dessert. She glanced down at the recipe, writing needed ingredients onto her grocery list, and made a note to stop by Dick’s house to buy eggs before she went home.

She had known Dick for most of her life, and in her youth had even survived a deadly crash with him the night they graduated from high school. His girlfriend, Connie, who’d been driving that night, died in the wreck, while Dick, Betsy and her boyfriend, Paul, survived. Even though life had taken them down separate paths, they remained bonded by the past.

Betsy checked out her appearance, making a note to pick up some hair color. Her roots were beginning to show. Then she combed her curly shoulder-length hair and fastened it off at the nape of her neck. There were a few more wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth where she smiled, but her brown eyes still danced when she was laughing. Her chin had always been a little too square and with age was beginning to take on a bit of a bulldog look. She frowned, thinking she could lose about ten pounds and get rid of that, and then let the thought go. She was a satisfied widow with no desire to ever marry again. Why bother?

After changing from her work clothes into a clean pair of jeans and a yellow pullover blouse, she made the trip into Mystic in fine fashion. She was listening to her favorite radio station, rockin’ to the oldies, when a Bob Seger song came on the radio. Grinning from the memories it evoked, she turned up the volume and sang along.

When she finally drove into Mystic, she glanced toward the police station to see if Trey’s cruiser was there. He had been chief for over five years, and she was proud of what he’d become. He reminded her so much of her husband, Beau, and she wished daily that Beau had lived to see his children grow up. But the cruiser was gone, which meant he was out and about. Maybe she would see him before she left town.

She shopped quickly, rejecting an invitation to lunch with one of her friends because she was anxious to get home and start the cake. Still, she took time to pull into the drive-through of a local sandwich shop called the French Fry to get a cold drink on the way home. While she was waiting for her drink she finally saw Trey drive by and wondered what interesting stuff was going on in Mystic, and made a mental note to call him later.

“Here’s your Pepsi,” the clerk said, and leaned out the window to hand the cup and straw to Betsy.

“Many thanks,” Betsy said, and waved as she drove away.

She was sipping on the Pepsi and listening to the Rolling Stones when she remembered the eggs and turned right at the next section-line road.

Dick’s farm was small, but it was a beauty, backing up to one of the many mountains that surrounded their little town. She eyed the climbing roses on the trellis against the side of the house, remembering how Dick’s wife, Marcy, had loved her flowers. She missed Marcy Phillips. She’d been a good friend.

She parked on the outside of the yard fence and then knocked on the door. When Dick didn’t answer, she looked around to make sure his pickup was out back in the garage, which it was. The front door was unlocked, so she opened it a bit and leaned in.

“Dick! Hey, Dick, it’s me, Betsy! Are you here?”

With no answer from inside, she looked toward the barn. She could hear the cows bawling and nodded to herself, thinking that was where he would be. Still focused on the long process of making that cake, she ran back down the steps and headed toward the barn with long strides.

The barn had been built over a hundred years earlier, in a style similar to Pennsylvania Dutch. The two-story structure loomed against the landscape with a loft as large as the barn itself. It had a fairly new coat of barn-red paint on the outer walls, while the cross-boards on the old shutters had been painted white. The pasture was fenced off from the house and barnyard and spread out toward the trees ringing the mountain at its back.

“Dick! Dick! It’s me, Betsy! Where are you?” she yelled, but got no answer.

She was looking toward the pasture as she hurried along, thinking he would come walking out of the trees any minute. Then she heard a dog bark and frowned. Dick didn’t have dogs. She wondered if someone was hunting on his property and turned her head to look.

Her gaze moved past the breezeway that ran straight through the middle of the barn, and as it did, she saw something swinging in the air above the ground. She stopped, then began to stare, trying to focus on what it could possibly be. No longer interested in the pasture, she began moving toward the barn, but at a slower gait, her mind unready to accept the truth.

She was about twenty yards away, so close she could see his clothing and his shoes and the awful angle of his neck, when her knees buckled, refusing to carry her another step. She was on the ground, rocking and moaning. Twice she tried to get up, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She kept trying to make what she was seeing turn into something else instead. But it was Dick Phillips’s lifeless body, swinging slowly in the breeze. The sound that came up her throat was more howl than scream, but it was the impetus she needed to get moving.

Trey! She had to call Trey.

She scrambled to her feet and started running back to her car to get her phone, screaming as she went. When she reached the car, she fell into the front seat, grabbing for the cell phone she’d left in the console. Still sobbing and shaking so hard she could barely breathe, she tried to scroll through her contacts and hit three wrong numbers before she finally got through to Trey. The moment she heard his voice, she started screaming again, and this time she couldn’t stop.

* * *

Trey Jakes was not in a good mood. He and the officer on duty, Earl Redd, had gone to serve an arrest warrant on a guy they had grown up with. The man had turned into a replica of the father who’d raised him: stealing instead of working. Only this time the theft he’d pulled was caught on tape, resulting in a warrant for his arrest. He’d been out of town for almost a week, and this morning the police department had received a tip from a neighbor that he was back. At least when they knocked on his door to serve it, he went with them without a fight.

Trey had just finished the paperwork and was getting up to refill his coffee cup when his cell phone rang. When he saw it was from his mom, he forgot about the coffee. The moment they connected, all he could hear was screaming. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he began yelling, trying to get her to calm down enough to talk.

“Mom! Is that you? What’s wrong? Where are you? Mom? Mom! For the love of God, what’s wrong?”

It was Trey’s voice that finally pulled her back.

“I need you. You have to come. Oh, dear Jesus,” Betsy moaned, and then got out of the car and dropped to the ground, putting her head between her knees to keep from passing out.

Earl Redd had already come rushing into the room, alerted to the emergency by what Trey was saying.

“Where are you? Are you hurt? What’s wrong?” Trey asked, heading for the door on the run.

“Dick Phillips! Come to his farm! Oh, my God, hurry.”

“Mom! I need to know what happened so I can dispatch emergency vehicles. Who’s hurt? What happened?”

“Dick. He’s dead. Oh God, oh God, he’s dead.”

Trey slid to a dead stop on the sidewalk, and Earl stopped right along with him.

“He’s dead? Are you sure?” Trey asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. He’s hanging from the rafters in his barn.”

The moment those words came out of her mouth, she dropped the phone and started screaming again.

Trey clenched his jaw as he made a U-turn and headed back into the office with Earl at his heels. He found his day dispatcher, Avery Jones, cleaning dead flies off the windowsill.

“What’s up, Chief?” he asked.

“I need you to get on the phone, not the radio, and tell the county sheriff’s office there’s a death at Dick Phillips’s farm. Give them directions and ask if they want you to notify the coroner or if they’re going to do it. Then I need you to call in Carl and Lonnie and tell them I want them on patrol in town until further notice.”

Avery’s eyes widened, but he didn’t question the orders. “Any details you want me to pass on?” he asked.

“Tell the sheriff a man was hanged. We don’t know if it’s a murder or a suicide and I damn sure don’t want that to get out. Dick has a daughter who deserves to know all this first.”

“Yes, sir,” Avery said, then grabbed the phone and a list of numbers. He began making calls as Trey and Earl left on the run.

“God Almighty,” Earl said. “This is awful.”

Trey nodded. “Follow me,” he said, and jumped into his cruiser and ran hot all the way to the Phillips farm.

His phone was still connected to his mother’s call, and he could still hear her screaming, but as he drove the sound became fainter, and then finally it stopped. Even though he kept yelling in the phone for her to pick up, he got nothing.

He was worse than worried. He’d never heard her like that. And even more upsetting, he was going to have to contact the only woman he’d ever loved and tell her that her father was dead. This day just kept getting worse.

Ten minutes later he arrived at the Phillips farm to find his mother in the fetal position next to her car, her hands over her head as if trying to ward off a blow. He knew what she’d seen was shocking, but this reaction was not like the woman he knew. He got out on the run, then scooped her up into his arms and sat her on the hood of her car.

“Mom! Talk to me. Are you okay?”

She was limp, her eyes wide and fixed, and when he spoke, she didn’t respond. He shook her, then put his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

“Mom, Momma, it’s me, Trey. I’m here. I need you to talk to me now.”

He felt her shudder, then take a slow, deep breath. Relief washed over him when her arms snaked around his neck. She was back.

“Mom?”

She pointed toward the barn.

“He’s in there,” she said. “I saw him. Why would he do that? Oh, my God, why would he do that?”

He could hear Earl’s siren.

“I don’t know, but I need you to wait here. Since you’re the one who found the body, you can’t leave. The sheriff will want to talk to you.”

She blinked. “I need to go home. Tomorrow is your birthday. I wanted to bake—”

“Hey, Momma, you know I love you, right?”

She nodded.

“So don’t worry about a cake, okay?”

She clutched the front of his shirt in panic.

She almost looked like a stranger to him.

“Okay, Mom? You have to stay here, understand?”

“Yes. No cake. Stay here.” Then her face crumpled as a fresh set of tears began to roll. “Poor Dick. My heart hurts for him.”

Trey sighed. “I know, but here’s the deal. No need to hurt for him. He’s past concern. You need to be feeling sorry for Dallas. She’s the one who’s been left to suffer.”

And just like that, the mother in Betsy stepped in.

“Oh, Lord, Dallas. I didn’t even think.”

Trey turned around, wondering what had taken Earl so long, and how much of the crime scene his mother might have disturbed.

“Here comes Earl. We’re going down to the barn, and I need you to stay here, remember?”

“Yes, of course I remember,” she said shortly, and combed her hands through her hair. The hysteria was gone, and she was digging out a tissue to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

“I need to ask you something,” he said.

“Ask.”

“Did you drive your car down to the barn?”

“No. I was heading toward the trees, looking for him, when I passed and saw him. I didn’t even go all the way in.”

“Okay, good,” Trey said, and then added, “Oh, don’t call anyone. I don’t want any locals out here in the middle of this investigation.”

“I won’t. I understand,” she said, and then slid off the hood, stumbled up to the house and sat down on the porch in the shade.

Trey frowned. He should have told her to go wait in the car, but it was too late now.

“Hey, Mom, don’t go in the house, just stay on the porch. I don’t want anything else disturbed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” she said.

“It’s my fault. Just don’t go any farther,” he said.

She nodded.

Earl killed the siren and lights as he parked beside Trey, and then they started toward the barn.

“What took you so long?” Trey asked.

Earl looked embarrassed. “Gas gauge was sitting on empty. Had to stop and fuel up.”

Trey nodded, and then pointed to the area in front of the barn. “Look for fresh tire tracks or anything off,” he said.

Earl’s surprise showed. “I thought this was a suicide?”

“Until the investigation is over, nothing is certain. And when you hear sirens, run back to the house and stop the crew from the sheriff’s department from driving down here, too. They’ll want to see the crime scene intact.”

“Yes, sir,” Earl said, and followed Trey down to the barn.

Two

Trey’s gut knotted as he looked up at Dick Phillips’s body. Because of Dallas, he knew this man almost as well as he knew his own family. As his mother had said earlier, it hurt to see him this way.

He eyed the rope tied to the ladder leading up to the loft, then studied Dick’s clothing. The back of his shirt was very dirty, as was the back of his jeans, while the front of both was noticeably cleaner. It would take an autopsy to make sense of this.

The floor of the breezeway was concrete, so there weren’t going to be any footprints. If more than one person had been in here when this happened, it wouldn’t show up that way.

He walked all the way through the breezeway to the back of the barn and saw no sign of any footprints there, then walked back to the front, looking for signs of fresh tire tracks, but the ground was hard and graveled. Then he went into the egg room off to the right.

The shelves and tables were all in place; nothing appeared to have been moved. There was no sign of a fight or a disturbance of any kind. The deep sink where Dick cleaned the fresh eggs before sorting was clean, and the new cartons yet to be filled were all in place. There were at least a dozen large empty plastic boxes, about the same size as a child’s toy box, stored beneath the shelves, with a stack of lids to fit leaning up against the wall. There was nothing out of the ordinary but the body hanging from the rafter. Nothing made sense. He walked farther back into the cooler where Dick kept the eggs, and turned on the light.

There were shelves lined with cartons of eggs, each marked with the date they’d been gathered.

Earl came walking back from checking the perimeter.

“Find anything?” Trey asked.

“Well, if he killed himself, he fed the chickens before he did it. There’s still some fresh scratch out in the coop, and the eggs have been gathered. However, the cows weren’t fed. There’s no fresh hay or ground feed in the troughs.”

Trey frowned. “That’s weird. If he cared enough to feed the chickens before he took his own life, then he would have fed the cows, too.”

Earl shrugged. “Unless he counted on them grazing. The grass is a little short, but it’s still good.”

They began hearing sirens.

“Sheriff’s on the way,” Earl said, and took off toward the house on the run.

* * *

Betsy watched her son walking down to the barn, then mentally rejected the sight of what she’d seen earlier and looked off toward the mountains for solace. She had always felt a measure of peace in being surrounded by the ancient peaks, but today it wasn’t working. Her head was throbbing, her eyes red and swollen from crying, and she felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. She shoved her fingers through her hair, absently rubbing the five-inch scar on the side of her head. Her hair hid its presence, but when she was upset it throbbed with every beat of her heart, and today was no exception. The shock of seeing Dick’s body had created a feeling of déjà vu, which made no sense. She’d never seen a traumatic death before.

She stood abruptly, unable to sit still any longer, and began to pace the length of the porch and back, anxious for the sheriff to arrive so she could give her statement and move on.

When her phone began to ring, she glanced at the caller ID and then let it go to voice mail. It was her daughter, Trina, and she would never be able to hide anything from her.

She heard a phone begin to ring inside the house and felt like crying all over again. Someone wanted to talk to Dick. Would they weep when they found out, or would they feel nothing more than a passing moment of regret for a good man gone, then forget he’d ever existed?

When she began hearing sirens, she actually breathed a sigh of relief. All she wanted to do was go home and be grateful for what she had.

The sirens grew louder, and she saw the officer come running toward the house. She glanced down at her blouse, and when she saw how dirty she was, she began brushing at the dust and grass on her clothes, then wondered if her hair was just as bad. After she took it down and shook it out, and then combed it back with her fingers, she once again fastened it at the nape of her neck. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

* * *

Sheriff Dewey Osmond arrived on the scene with a knot in his gut. Dick Phillips was a fishing buddy, and he couldn’t believe this had happened. When he saw the police officer waving for him to stop, he braked and rolled down the window.

“What?” he asked.

“Chief Jakes figured you would want to park up around the house so as not to mess up any tracks or stuff you might find on-site.”

Osmond nodded, wheeled up beside the city patrol car and killed the engine. He saw the woman on the porch when he got out.

“Who’s she?” he asked.

“Betsy Jakes, Chief’s mother. She came to buy eggs and found the body in the barn.”

Dewey broke out in a sweat. He was going to have to go down there, and he was dreading it in the worst way. He decided the best way to begin this investigation was to take the witness’s statement.

Unfortunately, as fate would have it, she had next to nothing to say that was going to help them figure this out. He took down her information and said for her to call him if she remembered anything else.

“Am I free to go?” Betsy asked.

“Yes, ma’am, and thank you for your help.”

Betsy shuddered. “I would give anything to have never seen that,” she said. “Will you tell my son I’m leaving now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and headed for the barn as Betsy got in her car and drove back to town for eggs.

* * *

Trey watched the sheriff’s team work the crime scene without comment. It wasn’t his case and he didn’t want to step on toes, but he had a personal request, and as soon as the sheriff stepped outside of the barn to take a call, Trey followed him. He approached after the sheriff disconnected.

“Hey, Dewey, I need a favor,” Trey said.

Dewey turned around, eyeing him curiously. Dick had talked about Trey Jakes like he was family. He wondered if Trey felt as gutted as he did.

“Like what?” Dewey asked.

“Notifying the next of kin. I’d like to do that, if you wouldn’t mind. Dick’s daughter, Dallas, and I go back a long way, and this is going to hit her hard.”

Ah, the daughter. So that’s where the connection came in.

“I don’t mind,” Dewey said. “That’s the worst part of the job, isn’t it?”

Trey nodded. “I know the autopsy and your investigation will all play into the cause of death, but how do you want me to state it to her? Apparent suicide?”

“Yes, that’s how I read it, but make sure she knows the final ruling will depend on the autopsy. The coroner is on the way to claim the body. He should be here shortly.”

“I’ll give her your contact information if she has further questions, okay?”

“Yes, and give her my condolences. Dick and I were good friends. I can’t believe he did this. I don’t want to believe he did this,” he muttered.

“Are your men through inside the house?”

Osmond nodded. “There was no suicide note. The coffeepot was still on, and as usual, the house was spick-and-span.”

“Then it’s okay if I go inside?”

“Yeah, but why?” Osmond asked.

“I need to get a new contact number for Dallas. I haven’t talked to her in several years, not since she moved to Charleston.”

“Okay,” Osmond said, and then wiped sweat off his forehead and headed back into the barn as Trey went to the house.

Trey entered through the back door of the utility room and, out of habit, cleaned his feet on the throw rug at the threshold. The layout was exactly as he remembered, and he headed straight through into the kitchen, then into the living room to the landline by the recliner. He could picture Dick kicked back in that chair and talking on the phone with the television on mute. He’d seen him do it a hundred times. He wondered if Dallas would keep the place. It had been in the Phillips family for over a hundred and fifty years. It would be a shame for that heritage to be lost.

He sat down in the recliner to use Dick’s phone book and turned to the back page where special numbers were listed. Dallas’s number was the first one.

He started to call her from that phone, then added it to his cell phone instead and left the house. It didn’t seem right to call the daughter on her daddy’s phone and then tell her he was dead.

He got in his cruiser, reached for the radio and told Avery he would be back in town shortly, then put in a call to his mom to make sure she was okay. He drove away while waiting for her to answer, and when she did she sounded breathless.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom, I’m just checking in with you. How are you doing?”

“Honey, I’m fine. There’s a big knot in my stomach, and I wish to God I hadn’t been the one to find him, but it happened. It’s over. I’ll be sad for him and life will go on. I’m on my way home now. I went back to town to get eggs.”

“Okay, and don’t feel bad for freaking out. It rattled me, too, and don’t think it didn’t. I thought a lot of Dick, and I’m having a really hard time believing this happened.”

“Me, too,” Betsy said. “It’s unlike the man I thought I knew. Look, I haven’t said a word to anyone, and I’m not going to, but has anyone notified Dallas yet?”

“No, and that’s on me. Sheriff just gave me the green light, and I stopped in at the house to get her number. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’m still making Italian cream cake for your birthday tomorrow,” she said.

Trey smiled. “In case I don’t tell you often enough, I think you’re the best mom ever, and I love you.”

He heard her giggle, which made him smile.

“Thank you, honey. I love you, too,” she said, and disconnected.

Trey topped a hill and drove up on an old man driving an equally old tractor in the middle of the blacktop. He couldn’t pass, so he took this as the opportunity to pull off the road to call Dallas.

* * *

Dallas Phillips left for the television station to begin her day in her favorite black slacks, white blouse and a black-and-white jacket. She enjoyed her work, particularly since she’d become one of WOML Charleston’s hottest on-the-spot reporters.

She was still in traffic when she got a phone call from the station to meet up with the film crew at the site of a twelve-car pileup on the I-90 outside the city.

Change of plans.

She took the next exit, and then drove under the freeway and headed back out of town.

She met up with the film crew a good quarter of a mile away from the pileup and, despite a stiff wind and thick smoke from the burning cars, began gathering information to go on air. When they signaled to her to get ready, she grabbed the mike, inserted her earpiece and took her stance, waiting for her cue. When it came, she shifted from Dallas the woman to the on-air personality she’d become, and began relaying what had happened with an urgent and somber mien.

“To date, fifteen people have been taken to local hospitals. The northbound lanes of I-90 will be closed indefinitely. Authorities are asking travelers to please take alternate routes. This is Dallas Phillips for WOML Charleston.”

“And cut!” her cameraman said. “Great shot with that smoke billowing up behind your head.”

Dallas frowned. “More like a shot of hell. Hard to believe it started with twelve cars and at last count there were twenty-five. This is a nightmare. There are people who will never make it home.”

“You didn’t cause it. You just report,” he said.

What a way to start a day, she thought, her shoulders slumping, and then her phone began to ring as she followed the crew back toward where the news van and her car were parked. She glanced down at the caller ID, but it just registered Out of Area.

“Dallas Phillips,” she said.

“Dallas, this is Trey.”

She closed her eyes, remembering the look on his face when she’d driven away. It was shocking to realize that it hurt just as much now as it had back then. Then she took a deep breath and turned on her on-camera charm.

“Trey! Wow! I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you? How’s Betsy?”

“Honey, are you where you can talk?”

A chill of foreboding swept through her as she remembered he was the chief of police, a person who dealt with death and crimes as she did, but in a different way.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s your dad. Get somewhere so we can talk.”

“I’m alone now, damn it! What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s dead.”

She started crying, weak, helpless sobs of disbelief.

“No! Oh, God, no! What happened? Was there an accident?”

Trey hesitated. This was the part that was going to gut her.

“The sheriff is calling it an apparent suicide, but it will hinge on the autopsy.”

Dallas began to scream. “What? No! You’re wrong! You’re wrong! He would never do that, never! Do you hear me, Trey Jakes? Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that to me again!”

Trey felt like crying with her.

“I’m sorry, Dallas, as sorry as I can be. At first glance, it was pretty obvious.”

“Why? What was obvious? I’m an investigative reporter, remember? What the fuck makes you think it was suicide?”

“Mom found him, Dallas. She stopped off at the farm this morning to buy eggs and found him hanging from a rafter in the barn.”

Breath caught in the back of Dallas’s throat as shock rolled through her.

“I’m coming home,” she said, and disconnected.

Trey ended the call, and then leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling, but she was coming back to Mystic. If only it weren’t under such tragic circumstances.

* * *

Dallas alternated between numbness and uncontrollable sobs for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Charleston to Mystic. Once she left the I-79 and turned west, she was surrounded by mountains and enveloped in a green so lush it made her homesick. It wouldn’t be long before the cold nights of fall would turn the trees to vivid shades of yellows, oranges and reds. Even though she’d left Mystic for the bright lights of the big city, she’d never completely weaned herself away.

She couldn’t believe her father was gone. It was unimaginable. How had this happened? Why had this happened? Over halfway there she stopped for gas and a bathroom break, and had to wipe her face and get her act together before she dared get out of the car. Her eyes were swollen, her nose was red from blowing and wiping, and she was sick to her stomach.

She filled up the car and then went into the truck stop to go to the bathroom. She stood out in her city clothes and her shiny red nails, and when she walked, she moved with a stride born of confidence rather than an awareness of her sex.

More than one man looked in appreciation until they saw the tearstained eyes, and then they looked away in embarrassment, as if they’d accidentally walked in on her while she was undressed. It was the naked pain on her face that said she’d been dealt a hard blow.

When she came out of the bathroom she stopped to get a cold drink and a bag of pretzels. She hadn’t eaten since her Pop-Tarts this morning and wasn’t sure any of this would stay down. Still, she had to try. Being light-headed while driving was not a wise decision, and after the major pileup she’d seen this morning, she didn’t want to become another statistic for the evening news.

When she went up to pay, the woman behind the counter kept staring, even as Dallas swiped her card and signed for her purchases. When the lady saw the name, her eyebrows shot up and she broke into a wide, happy grin.

“I knew you looked familiar! You’re Dallas Phillips, from WOML Charleston, aren’t you? I see you on TV when I go visit my mother. You’re really good.”

“Thank you,” Dallas said.

“Say, can I have your autograph?” the lady asked. “I mean, besides the one you just signed for your credit card.”

“Sure,” Dallas said. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Coralee. I really appreciate this.”

Dallas tried to smile but couldn’t make it happen as she slid the autographed paper back across the counter.

“Thanks again, and have a nice trip,” Coralee said.

Dallas shuddered. “Yeah, thanks,” she said, and then she was gone.

She took a big drink of the cold Dr Pepper, then opened the bag of pretzels and set it in the console so they wouldn’t spill as she took off down the road. She glanced at the clock on the dash and guessed she would be home around five. And the minute the thought went through her head, she cried again.

Home wasn’t there anymore, just the house that had sheltered her. She hated the thought of going into that place tonight worse than anything she had ever had to do. Daddy’s presence would be everywhere, but Daddy was gone.

* * *

The coroner left the crime scene with Dick Phillips’s body just after 1:00 p.m., and by late afternoon nearly everyone in Mystic knew Dick Phillips had hanged himself. The shock wave sparked all kinds of suppositions, none of which made any sense to the people who’d known him, but not a one considered it could be murder.

Trey had nothing to argue the point except his own personal belief that Dick had never struck him as the kind of man who would just quit. The only unexplainable thing he’d seen at the whole crime scene was that Dick’s clothes had dirt all over the back but none on the front. He didn’t know what to make of that. Mostly, though, he just didn’t want to consider that a friend he’d known all his life had become that despondent and no one had seen it coming.

Along about three, his sister, Trina, came running into the police station, bypassing the dispatcher as she burst into his office with her red hair flying and her eyes wide with shock.

“Trey! Is it true? Did Mom find Dick Phillips’s body?”

“Come in and shut the door,” he said.

Trina was shaking as she dropped into a chair on the other side of his desk.

“You want something to drink?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Not unless there’s liquor in it. Is it true? Did Mom find him?”

He nodded.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, and then started to cry. “They were in the same graduating class, remember? Mom and Dick and Paul Jackson were in that wreck together the night they graduated.”

Trey frowned. “I’d almost forgotten about that. One girl died, right?”

Trina nodded. “A girl named Connie Bartlett. Mom had her picture circled in the yearbook with a heart beside it.”

“How do you remember all that?” Trey asked.

“I was the only girl in the family, that’s how. I played with Mom’s makeup and went through all of her stuff while you and Sam were out trailing after Daddy. Is Mom okay? I tried to call her earlier this morning but she didn’t answer.”

“I told her not to tell anyone anything, so she probably just didn’t answer any of her calls. We couldn’t have locals crawling all over the place out of curiosity, and Dallas had the right to be notified first.”

Trina gasped. “Dallas. Oh, my God! I’d completely forgotten about her. This is going to break her heart. I guess she’s on her way home?”

Trey frowned. He already had the same fears but wasn’t going to let on.

“Yes.”

She shuddered. “I can’t imagine staying in that house by myself after what happened.”

“It’s still her home, Trina, and don’t go making it into something bad.”

“But her dad killed himself there.”

“Technically, he died in the barn, but I happen to know that both her paternal grandparents died in that house in their time. In the old days, generations of people lived on in the family home long after the elders were gone. Death doesn’t taint a place. People do.”

Trina slumped. “Yeah, okay, I get it. Sorry. I’m just overwhelmed by Mom’s involvement, however minimal.” She took a tissue, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and then wadded it up in her hands with the bad news as she shifted to a conversation she could handle. “So, I’m on the way home. You’re still coming to supper tomorrow evening, right? It’s our family tradition, coming home on your birthday to all of your favorite things to eat.”

“Yes, I know and I’m coming,” Trey said. “And whatever cake isn’t eaten tomorrow night is going home with me.”

“Hey! Italian cream cake is my favorite, too.”

“So tell Mom to make one on your birthday, too. Stop whining.”

Trina grinned. “Yeah, whatever. Give Dallas my love and condolences when you see her.”

“What makes you think I’ll see her?” he asked.

Trina rolled her eyes. “Puh...leese. Don’t even go there with me, okay?”

Trey changed the subject.

“Are you still dating that Lee guy?”

“Lee Daniels is his name and you know it, and yes, I’m still seeing him, so leave him alone.”

She blew him a kiss and flounced out.

Trey shook his head and then glanced at his watch. He wanted to call Dallas and check on her whereabouts, but she would probably view that as stepping over a line. The relationship they’d once had was over, and she was already angry at him for what he’d told her. He’d heard it in her voice and understood. Until the coroner said the words, he wasn’t fully buying Dick’s suicide, either.

Three

Dallas always knew the trip home was almost over when she could see the burned-out shell of Herman Wagner’s cabin sitting on the promontory of the cliff outside Mystic. After that, it was a matter of navigating the big S curve and then seeing a small green sign: Mystic, WV—Population 6,788.

Usually it made her heart skip a beat, knowing she was almost home. Today she got physically sick to her stomach. There was a moment when she thought she was going to have to pull over, but a couple of deep breaths helped the nausea pass. This was an ugly, horrifying trip for many reasons, not the least of which were funeral arrangements. But she knew enough about unattended deaths to realize they might not release her father’s body as quickly as she would hope, and there was no way to know when to plan the service until they were through.

It was just after 5:00 p.m., and she began thinking of all the chores that would need to be done out on the farm: checking on the cows, putting up the chickens. But she wasn’t going any farther through town until she found out where they were with the case. She didn’t believe for a minute that her father had killed himself, and it frightened her to think someone would want him dead. Whether she liked it or not, she needed to talk to Trey, so when she got to the first stoplight she took a right and drove straight to the police station.

* * *

Trey was on the phone when he heard her voice up at the front desk.

“Listen, I need to call you back,” he said, and hurried out of the office, only to meet her coming down the hall. “Hey, did you have any trouble on the drive down?”

“Can I talk to you?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, and led her back into his office and then shut the door. “Can I get you anything? Something cold to drink? I have Dr Pepper.”

It was the sympathy on his face, and the fact that he remembered what she liked to drink, that did her in. She had so many questions, but all she could think to do was cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he said, and took her in his arms.

Everything she’d been holding back buckled beneath the weight of her grief. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his chest.

“Oh my God, oh my God, I cannot believe this is happening,” she said, the tears coming faster.

There was nothing to say, nothing to do that would make this better. All Trey could do was be there for her in any way she needed, and right now she just needed to know she wasn’t in this alone.

Dallas cried until her heart was racing and her head felt like it was going to explode. When Trey reached around behind her and grabbed a handful of tissues from his desk, she took them.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, and began wiping away mascara and blowing her nose.

“What can I do? How can I help?” Trey asked.

She looked up. “What can you tell me?”

“Come sit,” he said, and led her to a sofa against the wall. As soon as she settled, he took a notepad from his desk and began writing, then tore off the sheet and handed it to her. “Sheriff Osmond is handling the case. This is his contact info.”

“Thanks,” she said, and dropped it in her pocket. “I don’t suppose you know when they’re doing the autopsy?”

“No, I’m sorry. That’s all being handled at the county level.”

“I guessed as much, and just so you know, I still do not believe he committed suicide.”

“I find it hard to believe myself. When was the last time you talked to him?” Trey asked.

“Three days ago. We talk at least two times a week, sometimes more. We stayed close, Trey. He never sounded upset. He never seemed down or depressed. I know my father, damn it!”

He reached for her hand, but she yanked it back.

“I want to see his body.”

Suddenly Trey was all business.

“No. No, you don’t. You do not want that to be your last memory of him. Do you hear me?”

She shuddered, vulnerable all over again.

“Was it that bad?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, my God, this feels like a horrible nightmare. I...I should be going. I need to get the chores done before it gets dark. Sundown comes early in the mountains this time of year. Not that I need to tell you that.”

“I can do them for you,” he offered.

“No, but thank you. I do them all the time when I’m home. I know where everything is.”

He didn’t push the issue. And then it hit him.

“Are you going to be all right at the house by yourself?”

Her eyes narrowed sharply.

“Why would you ask that? Do you think I’m in danger? Do you think whoever killed Dad wants to harm me, too?”

“I didn’t ask because I think there’s a killer on the loose. I asked because you suffered a horrific shock today and you’re going to be on your own there.”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Damn it, Dallas. I’m not trying to pick a fight with you. I’m offering help in any way you need, whether it’s doing chores or sleeping on your couch so you’ll feel easy in the night.”

“I know I’m being defensive, but I feel like I’m in this corner all by myself. Everyone thinks Dad committed suicide but me. Did he have a run-in with someone recently? Did anything happen out at the farm, like a theft? Was he being threatened?”

“I haven’t heard about anything like that, and he didn’t report trouble of any kind.”

“I’ll get answers,” she said, and then slipped the strap of her purse across her shoulder. “If you hear anything, I would appreciate a call.”

Trey resented the brush-off.

“I’ll be calling whether there’s anything new or not. You’re not going through this by yourself. I’ve known you my whole life, and regardless of how we parted company, that history gives me the right to say this. Understand?”

Her vision blurred all over again, but she refused to cry.

“I hear you. I’m going home.”

He frowned. “I’ll call you before I go to bed tonight, so if you don’t answer the damn phone, you can expect me on your doorstep to find out why.”

She left the office without looking back.

He shut the door behind her without watching her leave.

Even in the midst of sadness, the spark between them was still there, and it sucked.

* * *

Dallas drove home with a knot in her belly, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was completely to do with her father’s death. Seeing Trey again... Damn that man. She’d been in love with him for so long that when they’d finally broken up, it had taken her over a year to realize it was final. He wanted nothing to do with city life, and she couldn’t put farm life behind her fast enough. Every time she’d come home to visit, she’d made a point of avoiding him. Most times she’d been successful. But this time it wasn’t going to work that way.

By the time she turned off the blacktop and headed toward the house, she was shaking. This was going to be a nightmare. All she had to do was remember that nightmares eventually come to an end.

Rocks crunched beneath the tires as she drove through the tunnel of trees, and when she drove out, she was home. As luck would have it, the first thing she saw was yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the wind down at the barn.

“God help me,” she whispered, as she parked in her usual spot by the front gate.

It was habit that made her look up toward the porch. She half expected to see her father coming out the front door with that big smile on his face. When she got out, the utter silence made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She could see the chickens, but they weren’t making a sound, and the cows were nowhere in sight. It was as if they, too, knew he was gone.

“One thing at a time,” she muttered, then took a deep breath, got her suitcase out of the trunk and headed for the house.

She had her key out, ready to go inside, but when she realized the place was unlocked, her heart skipped a beat. She pushed the door inward and then stood on the threshold, looking and listening for something out of place.

The hall clock was still ticking, and the living room looked like her dad had just stepped away and would be back any second.

The way she figured it, she had two choices. She could stomp her way in and maybe be okay, or she could call Trey and ask him if the door was unlocked when they left. It was too soon to subject herself to his presence again, so she opted for stomping.

She slammed the door behind her as she entered and began tromping loudly through the house, checking every room, under every bed and in every closet, then made a quick check of the basement before she was satisfied she was alone.

She locked the front and back doors, and then paused in the central hallway, trying to think if there was something she’d missed, but the house was so quiet it was unnerving.

“Daddy, if you can hear me, I need an answer. You know me. I’m not leaving this place until I get it.”

When the hall clock began to strike the hour, she jumped. It was already six o’clock, past time to do chores. She hurried into her bedroom and dug out work clothes from the stash she kept there, and then changed. On the way through the kitchen she noticed the cold coffee still in the pot, poured it out and started a fresh pot brewing before she went through the utility room and out the back door.

The wind was moving the cane-back rockers. If she was of a mind to go there, she could imagine her parents sitting on the porch, watching the storm she could see was approaching. But she’d already told Trey she didn’t believe in ghosts, and the chairs were as empty as she felt. However, the chickens had heard the squeaky hinges on the back door, and were fussing and clucking and looking toward the house.

“I see you, and I’m coming,” she said, and jumped off the back porch.

The quickest way to get the chickens to go in was to feed and water them in the coop. While they were eating, she gathered the eggs and shut the hens up safely for the night. She sat the egg basket down to fasten the gate and then paused outside the chicken house, staring toward the barn. The yellow tape was still flapping in the breeze, reminding her of the horror that had happened beyond it. There was no getting out of taking that walk. She picked up the eggs and started down the path as she had countless times before.

The wind was rising, making the tape pop.

Flap, flap, flap.

She looked up at the gathering clouds. It was going to rain. She hastened her steps, anxious to finish this and get back inside before the storm hit, but the tape was like a guard dog, warning her, blocking her path.

A big gray heron suddenly lifted off from the pond out behind the barn. It knew the storm was coming, too.

Flap, flap, flap.

Now the tape was telling her, Hurry, hurry, hurry.

She couldn’t run with a basket full of eggs.

Flap, flap, flap.

This is the place. Come see, come see.

“Shut up,” Dallas said aloud, wondering what her dad had been thinking this morning when he’d walked this way. What had he been planning to do? Who was lurking in the shadows when he’d walked into the barn?

Flap, flap, flap.

“I said I’m not afraid of ghosts.”

Flap, flap, flap.

“I’m not afraid of you!” she screamed, but her vision was blurring, and the smell of imminent rain was in the air.

She stared at the tape for a few seconds more, then set the basket down and started running. She broke through the tape like the winner at the finish line, then turned on one heel and began gathering it up hand over fist, crying and cursing at the top of her voice until it was in her arms and spilling down around her ankles. She carried it to the burn barrel where they burned the household trash, and threw it inside. Considering her blurred vision and the state of her emotions, it was like looking into a pit of yellow snakes. She wanted to burn it—to watch it melt and take the pain of her loss with it, but she didn’t have anything to start the fire, and it was too windy to be burning anything anyway. She dropped her head and went back for the eggs.

Stepping into the barn moments later gave her a momentary feeling of shelter, and then she hurried into the egg room, where she set the eggs in the cooler. She would clean and sort them tomorrow, when there was more time.

The wind was rattling something on the outside of the barn as she walked back out into the breezeway. She paused, giving all the familiar objects a careful inspection. Nothing seemed to be missing—except her dad.

Don’t look up. Don’t look up.

She heard the voices, but she had to face the fear to get past it, so she tilted her head back, distraught but defiant.

Immediately her eye was drawn to the raw place on the fourth rafter down, where the rope had cleaned the grime of a hundred plus years from the wood, and in that moment the weight of grief was too much. Trey had told her she didn’t need to see the body, but in her mind’s eye she already had.

She threw back her head and screamed until she ran out of breath, and then dropped to her knees and wept until she was choking.

The rain hit hard, splattering the first drops onto the hard dry ground, but the dust soon turned to mud. It wasn’t until the wind began to blow rain in where she was kneeling that she came to herself enough to get up. If nothing else, she had to get back to the house to take Trey’s call or he would come looking for her. She couldn’t be vulnerable around him. It was too dangerous for her sanity.

The moment she walked out of the breezeway, she doubled up her fists and shook them at the sky, screaming her every word.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts! Do you hear me, goddamn it? I am not afraid of ghosts!”

With her head up and her shoulders back, she started walking toward the house with a long, steady stride while the rain poured down around her.

* * *

Betsy Jakes had just finished Trey’s cake when the storm finally hit. She dropped the spatula back into the icing bowl and began walking through the house, closing windows as she went.

“Trina! Shut the windows upstairs!” she yelled.

“I already did,” Trina said, as she came hurrying down the stairs, then followed her mother into the kitchen. “Gosh, that cake looks good. Is there any icing left?”

Betsy started to answer, and then grinned when she saw Trina already licking the spatula and scraping bits from the sides of the bowl.

Betsy covered the cake and then carried it to the extra refrigerator in the attached garage.

Lightning flashed, making the house lights flicker just as she came back inside. Trina had abandoned the spatula for her finger and was licking off icing as Betsy walked in. She smiled and shook her head. Some things never changed.

“Hey, honey, what do you want for supper...besides icing?” Betsy asked.

Trina shrugged. “Scrambled eggs and toast?”

Suddenly her smile felt weird, as if she had just laughed at a funeral, but she managed to hide the jolt. Eggs. For a few minutes she’d almost forgotten. “And maybe some sausage links?” she added.

“Sure, sounds good,” Trina said, and then carried the icing bowl to the sink, rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ll clean up the cake mess if you do supper, okay?”

“Deal,” Betsy said, and both women were soon involved in preparations for their evening meal.

* * *

Trey picked up an order of sliced brisket and French fries from Jonny’s Ribs to take back to his place. The smell of the food was so good he grabbed a couple of fries from the sack and ate them as he drove.

The rain hit just as he entered his apartment. If he was really lucky, he wouldn’t be called out tonight, but just in case, he’d learned not to waste time when it came to hot food. He washed up, then transferred the food to a plate and began to eat. A cold beer would have been good, but he was on call, so no dice.

He thought about Dallas, wondering how she was doing. One thing about her hadn’t changed. She was still as headstrong as ever. It probably served her well as an investigative reporter. Him, not so much.

He turned on the television as he ate, waiting for the weather report to see if this storm front was going to move through or hang around. Still fidgeting, he glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. He would give Dallas two more hours and then he was calling.

* * *

Freshly showered and in clean, dry clothes, Dallas went to the kitchen for the coffee she’d made. The thought of food made her sick, but she felt light-headed, almost weak. She hadn’t had anything but junk or fast food since noon the day before and knew she couldn’t do what she needed to do if she were sick. Finally she settled for an omelet, an old standby for supper, and had it ready in minutes. She added buttered toast to the plate and carried it and her coffee into the living room to eat.

It was almost dark, so she went around the room drawing shades and pulling curtains until she felt safe, then sat down, turned on the television and ate.

Even though it was virtually tasteless, she felt better when the food was in her stomach. Settling in to finish her coffee, she pulled her feet up beneath her, and as she did, her gaze went straight to the recliner where her dad would have been sitting. A wave of loss washed through her so fast it left her shaking. She blinked away tears and turned up the volume. Trey would be calling, and she didn’t want him to hear the tears in her voice.

* * *

Trina’s boyfriend, Lee, had come by to take her to a movie, leaving Betsy with the house to herself. The thought of a long soak in the tub seemed like a good idea, and she headed for her room, ready to put this day to bed.

The tub was nearly full as she poured bath salts into the water and turned off the faucet. She stepped out of her robe and into the tub, easing down into the steamy heat. Water lapped against her breasts and up the back of her neck as she tucked the bath pillow beneath her neck and closed her eyes.

The buoyancy and heat were so soothing that she soon lost track of time. The sound of rainfall on the roof made her feel sleepy. The heat always soothed the ache in her lower back, a remnant from the wreck that had nearly killed her in her teens. The moment she thought of the wreck, she saw Dick Phillips hanging from the rafter. Before she could look away, his face morphed into someone else, someone covered in blood. She sat up with a gasp, splashing water onto the bathroom floor.

“What the hell?” she muttered, chalking it up to the horrendous day.

She wondered if Dallas was back in town yet. She should call, but since she’d also discovered the body, it made things awkward. She reached down and pulled the plug to let the tub drain.

* * *

As school superintendent, one of Will Porter’s duties, and there were many, was to attend the monthly school board meetings, and tonight was no exception.

Tonight the school board members, the school principals, the high school secretary and a few interested parents were present as they went through the agenda.

Porter went through the motions, saying all the right things in the right places, but tonight his mind was not on the business at hand. He did what he had to do for his job and his goals in life, but he had bigger problems at home that he didn’t know how to handle.

His wife, Rita, was already three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk off her ass when he got home after the meeting, which was really nothing new. But this time she’d used the excuse of grieving for their old classmate Dick Phillips as the reason for her condition, although she no longer needed an excuse to imbibe. All pretense of hiding her addiction was in the past.

Years and added weight had changed his appearance greatly. He looked more like a used-up prizefighter than a school superintendent, but what he wanted didn’t require good looks. He had aspirations of greater grandeur than being superintendent of minuscule Mystic and could have cared less if Dick Phillips was dead. Rita had spent a good portion of their married life referring to Dick as the one who got away. It made no sense to Will. Dick had never left the farm, while he had gone on to graduate school and had a successful professional career. Then one night, in a drunken stupor, she’d taunted him, claiming Dick’s cock was bigger and he was better at sex.

That night he’d done an unforgivable thing. That night he’d physically raped his wife. The fortunate part was that she’d been too drunk to remember it. The downside was remembering how much he’d liked it. He’d never thought of himself as a violent man, but he’d learned the hard way that there were times when no other avenue would suffice.

And right now Will Porter’s dream of running for State Superintendent of Education was imminent, and the only thing holding him back was the drunk in his bed. Now Rita could whine all she wanted about how she’d let Dick Phillips get away, because he was dead, and Will wasn’t a damn bit sorry.

* * *

Dallas was sitting in the dark, the television on mute, as she listened to the storm rage on. It fit how she felt, all torn and shattered inside. The thunderstorm hit its zenith just before nine o’clock, rattling windows and pelting the roof with raindrops that sounded more like bullets. Dallas had grown up in this house. She knew every creak and pop the structure could make, but when it thundered, followed by a crack of lightning so close that it lit up the room where she was sitting, she screamed and jumped off the sofa.

“Did that hit the house? I think it hit the house,” she gasped, and then realized there was no one to answer.

She bolted through the hall into the kitchen, but the power was still on and she didn’t smell smoke. She opened the back door and ran out into the rain to see if the roof was on fire.

From what she could tell, it looked fine. She took shelter again on the back porch, waiting for the next lightning strike to light up the area so she could see if the other structures were okay.

When it came, she saw enough to feel confident her question had been answered. The chicken house was intact. The barn was still there. The security light had been temporarily knocked out, but it was slowly coming back on and from what she could see, she didn’t think lightning had struck the pole.

Wind was blowing rain up on her bare feet and legs as she turned around to go inside. Then she heard her phone and locked the door and ran, dripping water as she went.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Is everything okay? You sound like you’ve been running.”

Trey.

“Lightning struck something close by. I was out on the back porch looking the place over when the phone began to ring. I’m fine. Thank you for calling.”

“I have a question,” he said.

She frowned. “Okay, ask.”

“Did your dad feed the cattle every day?”

“There are four cows with calves still nursing. He fed the cows ground feed so they wouldn’t lose weight until the calves were weaned. Why?”

“He fed the chickens this morning, but he didn’t feed the cows.”

Dallas’s mind was spinning, trying to see where Trey was going with this, and then it hit her.

“You’re wondering why, if he was going to kill himself, would he take time to feed the chickens but not the cows?”

“It crossed my mind.”

Her voice began to shake. “You don’t think he hanged himself, do you?”

“What I think and what the evidence will show could be two different things.”

She started to cry, but softly now, no longer alone in her quest for the truth. “Thank you, Trey.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“For not taking the easy way out of this.”

“You forget, honey. It’s not my case. Sheriff Osmond is running the show. He’s the man you have to convince to dig deeper. In the meantime, you could go through the house, specifically your father’s business records, and see if there’s anything there that would help explain what happened.”

“I will. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said.

Trey hated to hang up, but there was nothing else he could say.

“If you have a question, or if you need help in any way, call me. Will you do that? Will you let me help you that much?”

She sighed. “Yes. I’ll do that. And, Trey, really...thanks for calling.”

“Yeah, sure. Try and get some rest.”

He disconnected before she could say goodbye, and she told herself it didn’t matter, then had to make herself move. All of a sudden the day had caught up with her. She stumbled into the living room, turned off the television and then headed for her room.

She had the bed turned back and was ready to get in when she stopped. She thought about how far it was from here to her nearest neighbor, then about the person who’d killed her dad, and went across the hall to his bedroom to get his shotgun. She checked to see if it was loaded, then put it just under the edge of her bed.

She might not sleep a wink, but it wouldn’t be because she was scared. And she didn’t believe in ghosts.

Four

Dallas’s sleep was fitful, and she was awake before daybreak, sad but determined to find out the truth. Still in her pajamas, she thought even going into the kitchen to make coffee seemed too much to face, but two cups of coffee and a piece of toast later, she got dressed and began to tackle the morning chores.

She walked out on the back porch to a world that appeared to be weeping. Water was dripping from the eaves of the house, from the leaves of the trees, from the crepe myrtle bushes on either side of the back steps. Instead of quiet, she heard the soft patter of the droplets with its own brand of rhythm as she walked away from the house.

The chickens were fussing, ready to be let out of the coop. The cows were bawling inside the corral, waiting to be fed. The normalcy of the morning was somehow comforting, a reminder that some things never changed.

She entered the lean-to against the chicken house, filled a big bucket with feed and a smaller one with what her dad always called “scratch,” part of what chickens ate to help their craw break down and digest their food, and carried them into the pen. She scattered a little bit out on the ground before she opened the coop, and when all the hens raced out to get the feed, she carried the rest of it inside and refilled the troughs. If it rained again, at least they could come in to eat and stay dry. Then she refilled their water, gathered the eggs and headed for the barn.

Remembering the lightning strike, she began looking for signs of what had been hit, hoping none of the cattle had been close. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d lost a cow to lightning, but there were no signs of that. She was almost at the barn when she noticed the burn barrel lying on its side. As she drew closer, she soon realized the entire bottom of it was gone.

That had to be what was hit. She remembered the crime-scene tape and began to look around for where it could have blown. It wasn’t until she started to set the barrel back up that she saw the bottom of it was still there, along with a small wad of what looked like blackened and melted plastic. If it hadn’t been for a tiny tinge of yellow she would never have recognized it as the tape.

“Yes, Lord, I did want that yellow tape burned, and thank you for doing it, but you didn’t have to scare the crap out of me in the process.”

She went back to get the egg basket, knowing she had last night’s and this morning’s eggs to clean and put in cartons. The cows were still bawling, so she left the eggs in the cooler and fed them before she went back.

By the time she made it back to the house it was late enough to call the county sheriff’s office. She got a cup of coffee, then picked up a pen and notepad and sat down at the kitchen table. As she did, she noticed she’d missed a call from Trey. She would call him back after this, she thought, as she punched in the numbers.

“County sheriff’s office.”

“This is Dallas Phillips. I need to speak to Sheriff Osmond regarding the death of my father, Dick Phillips.”

“One moment, please.”

Already the knot in Dallas’s stomach was getting tighter. She interviewed law enforcement regarding death and crime on a daily basis, but this was in regard to her own father’s death, and she felt as if she were insulting her father’s name.

“Hello. Miss Phillips? This is Sheriff Osmond. Your father and I were good fishing buddies. I’m really going to miss him.”

“Oh! You’re Dewey, aren’t you? I didn’t get the connection. Please call me Dallas, and thank you for taking my call.”

“Of course, and I really am sorry for your loss. How can I help you?”

“As you can imagine, I want to know where you are on the case. Trey Jakes told me all he knew, and now I want to know what you can tell me.”

“Then you probably know as much as I do at the moment. We gathered evidence yesterday as we worked the scene. We found nothing obvious that would lead us to believe his death was anything but a suicide, so I’m waiting on the coroner’s findings from the autopsy.”

“I want you to know that I will never believe he killed himself. I spoke to him two to three times a week. I came home at least once, sometimes twice, a month to visit. I never saw a hint of trouble or felt as if he had a worry in the world. I knew my father well. I would have known if something was bothering him.”

She heard Osmond sigh and resented it, but said nothing.

“I understand and appreciate your feelings, Dallas, and I will make note of this conversation in the file, okay? I’m not the kind of man who takes the easy way out to close a case. Okay?”

Now she sighed, and when she did she recognized the action for what it was and understood where he was coming from. Neither one of them had any knowledge that would make this go away. Nothing could do that.

“Yes, I hear you,” she said. “Can you tell me when you expect the autopsy to be done?”

“The coroner told me he would have the initial findings within a week, but if there was a need for more extensive tests, the final results would take longer. However, I promise to let you know when the body will be released.”

“Thank you,” Dallas said, and gave him the number to her cell phone, then disconnected.

She hadn’t learned anything new, but she’d made the first contact to let them know she was here, to make sure they understood someone was paying attention on her father’s behalf.

She took a sip of coffee and then finally called Trey.

He answered on the first ring.

“Hello. Are you okay?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she said. “I’m as good as I can be, considering.”

“I guessed you were outside when I called.”

“Yes. I just got off the phone with Sheriff Osmond. The coroner will do the initial autopsy within a week, so I’ve made the decision to just hold a memorial service for Dad and bury him privately when everything’s done.”

Trey thought about the condition the body had been in when he’d seen it and knew that she was making a wise decision.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he said.

“Can you do me a favor as you go about your day?”

“Absolutely. What do you need?”

“Tell people there are still eggs for sale. I can’t stop the hens from laying, and I don’t want the eggs to go to waste.”

“Oh. Right. Life still goes on, doesn’t it, honey?”

She laughed, but there was not an ounce of humor in it.

“It damn sure does, whether we like it or not.”

“What are you going to do today?”

She glanced up at the calendar on the wall, and as she did, suddenly remembered the significance of the date.

“I’m going to follow your suggestion and go through Dad’s things, see if I can find anything that would help explain what happened.”

“Let me know if you do,” he said.

“I will, and, Trey...”

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday.”

He hurt for the sadness in her voice.

“Thanks. I’m the guest of honor at Mom’s for supper tonight. She’s going all out on my favorite foods.”

“She’s the best when it comes to mothering, isn’t she?”

“Yes. The whole family will be there...except Sam. I would ask you to join us, but...”

“Oh, no, although thank you for thinking of me. I wouldn’t be good company, you know?”

“I figured as much, but would you mind if I came by later tonight and brought you a piece of my birthday cake?”

“Is it going to be Italian cream cake?”

“That’s what she said.”

“I might let you in the door,” she said, and closed her eyes against sudden tears, remembering other birthdays and making out while feeding each other bites of cake.

“That’s great. Then I’ll see you later tonight, and if I get called back to the office, I’ll let you know so you won’t stay up waiting on me to show.”

“Okay, and have a happy birthday, Trey.”

“Thank you, and remember, call if you need me.”

And then he was gone. She wished she’d had something else to talk about just to hear his voice a little longer.

She sat at the table while her coffee got cold, thinking about what to do next. She had been in college when her mother died, and by the time she got home, her dad had already made all the decisions and arrangements. It was hard, this business of dying, and when the question of how it happened was unanswered, it was even harder. It was time to call the preacher.

* * *

It was almost 11:00 a.m. when Betsy took the chicken potpie out of the oven and set it aside to cool as she finished mixing a marinated salad. When Trey called asking her to spread the word that the Phillips family still had eggs to sell, she’d made a couple of calls to start the ball rolling and took it as the opening she needed to pay Dallas a visit, but she wasn’t going empty-handed.

* * *

The fact that Dallas was even in her father’s room was sad all on its own. It smelled like his aftershave, and the toes of his house shoes were poking out from beneath the side of the bed. Her mother’s picture was still hanging on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, the last thing Dick saw at night before he closed his eyes and the first thing he saw when he opened them the next morning.

Salt on an open wound, she thought, and then went to work. Hours later she was still there, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, surrounded by the past six months of bills and correspondence that he’d kept in a shoe box in the closet. There were no unpaid bills and no letters of any kind that could be construed as troublesome or threatening. The only thing left to go through was her grandfather’s desk, but it was in the living room.

She began putting everything away and was almost done when she thought she heard a car coming up the driveway. She got up quickly, wiping her hands on her jeans as she went down the hall and into the living room. She didn’t recognize the car, but she knew the woman getting out. When she saw that she was carrying food, she felt a moment of panic. There had been a death in the family, precipitating an influx of visitors and the bringing of food. She combed her fingers through her hair and hoped she didn’t look like she’d been crying.

* * *

Betsy’s hands were full as she came up the steps, but she didn’t have to knock. Dallas was standing in the doorway.

Betsy hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind that I came without calling.”

Dallas shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I’m glad to see you. Come in.”

Betsy stepped across the threshold. “Okay if I put this stuff in the kitchen for you?”

“Of course,” Dallas said. “Follow me.”

“This is chicken potpie, and it’s still hot,” Betsy said, as she walked over to the stove and put the covered pie plate onto an unlit burner. “This is marinated salad. You’ll need to refrigerate it.”

Dallas peeked in at the potpie as Betsy set the salad on the counter.

“It looks wonderful. Thank you for thinking of me,” Dallas said, and when she looked up, Betsy was crying.

“I’m so sorry,” Betsy said, as she put her arms around Dallas and gave her a hug. “I would give anything for this not to have happened.”

It was the sympathy that got to her. Dallas dissolved into a fresh set of tears.

“Oh Lord, me, too. I can’t believe he’s gone,” Dallas said. “I’m sorry you were the one who found him.”

Betsy shuddered, despite her intent not to go there with Dallas.

“Come sit down with me,” Betsy said, as she took a seat at the kitchen table.

Dallas pulled out a chair and joined her.

“Is there anything I can do?” Betsy asked.

“Not unless you know something about Dad that I don’t. I’ve been going through his things all morning looking for answers, trying to find something that will explain this madness, but so far, nothing.”

“How are you going to handle the funeral services? Will you wait for—”

“No waiting,” Dallas said. “I’ve scheduled a memorial service for the day after tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. When they finally release his body, he’ll be buried beside Mom without further ceremony.”

Betsy nodded. “I think that’s a good decision. So, if you’re having a morning service, you’ll have the family meal here at the house afterward, right?”

“I guess,” Dallas said, wiping tears and blowing her nose. “I can’t get from one decision to the next without coming undone.”

Betsy reached across the table and took her hand.

“Will you let me help? You can just be present. Let me deal with the food and the people. Consider me your hostess for the day, okay?”

Dallas squeezed Betsy’s hand. “I accept, and gladly. Dad has an elderly aunt in Michigan who won’t be attending, but I have to call and let her know. I have a few cousins scattered about the country, but have no idea how many, if any, will come. Mom has two sisters still living. I’ll call them and let them notify the rest of the family, but I really don’t expect many to show. They’re all so far away.”

“You could have the service at a later date, so people can plan ahead,” Betsy suggested.

Dallas looked away.

“What?” Betsy asked. “What aren’t you saying?”

“That I dread seeing them come in the door believing Dad killed himself, because I know the family, and that’s exactly what they’ll think—especially Mom’s side. They always thought she could have done better for herself than marrying a hillbilly farmer.”

Betsy frowned. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Dallas shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t bring him back to life, and I can’t change the public assumption that Dad committed suicide until I find out why he was killed and who did it.”

Betsy was at a loss as to how to respond to that and went immediately to something else. “In the meantime, we have a memorial service to plan, and you don’t want to have some piddly event that says you’re not going all out because you believe he killed himself. You’re having the ‘he was the best man ever’ ceremony. Now, have you spoken to the preacher?”

“Yes. I have to write Dad’s eulogy, but everything else has been settled. What would you think if, instead of a sermon, the preacher invites anyone who’d like to, to come up to the pulpit and speak about knowing him, or tell a funny story about him, if they want?”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. I wish I could be there, but I think I’d better stay here at the house during the service to receive the food that will be coming. Now, that’s enough for today. It’s time I get home. I know you probably don’t have much appetite, but promise me you’ll eat a little. You have to keep up your strength.”

“I promise,” Dallas said, and gave Betsy a big hug as she stood up to leave.

She walked with her out of the house, and just as Betsy was about to leave, the delivery van from the local flower shop drove up.

Dallas swallowed past the lump in her throat. First the food. Now the flowers.

She waved at Betsy as she drove away, then opened the door for the lady who came carrying bouquets.

“Thank you, dear. Where do you want me to put these?”

“You can put one on that end table and the other on the coffee table,” Dallas said.

“Oh, this isn’t all. I have a bunch more. How about I bring them in and you put them where you want them?”

“All right,” Dallas said, and began looking at the cards as the woman hurried out.

One was from their church, the second from Paul Jackson, one of her dad’s oldest friends. When the woman finally left, she had delivered a total of six.

Dallas went to get the notepad and started writing down names of the people who’d sent flowers, then started another list of people who’d brought food, with Betsy Jakes at the top.

The scent of the chicken potpie actually made her feel hungry, and it was almost noon. Maybe it was time to take a break. Even though she was anxious to resume her search, she had to start calling the family. After that, a little food.

* * *

She’d only managed to make a few calls before the preacher’s secretary called to let her know she’d posted a notice of Dick Phillips’s memorial service in the local paper.

Betsy was at home making calls to all of Dick’s egg customers about available eggs.

Dallas was getting more help than she could have imagined. One neighbor stopped by with a pie and condolences. Two egg customers came without knowing of the death and were properly horrified. The elderly woman cried, which made Dallas cry with her. The young man with two little kids was saddened by the news, and then embarrassed because his kids wouldn’t stop asking where Mr. Phillips was because he always let them pet the hens. Everyone wanted details and then was shocked by her terse answers. Dallas was in tears again by the time the last one left.

It was two hours later before she got a chance to resume her search, and the next place she wanted to look was the old desk. As a child, she’d learned where the secret compartments were and had been fascinated by the idea of finding hidden treasures. Now all she wanted were answers.

She sat down and opened the rolltop. Usually there was a faint layer of dust on the surface because he never used it anymore, but to her surprise it was not only clean, but she could smell the faint scent of furniture polish.

“Weird,” she muttered.

In her whole life, she had never known her dad to clean that thoroughly. Then she shrugged it off. Once in a while he did have someone come out and clean for him. That was probably what had happened here.

She sat for a moment, looking at all the drawers and slots, and then began opening them one by one. The drawers were empty. All the slots where things could have been filed were squeaky-clean. When she looked in the first hidden drawer she found a penny and then leaned back, her hand shaking as she took it out. The date on it was 1943. She distinctly remembered finding this penny beneath an old brick when she was just a kid. Certain it was worth millions because it was so old, she’d run to the house to show her mother, only to be told it wasn’t all that old and it was still only worth a penny. Not to be deterred, Dallas had cleaned it up, then hidden it in the secret drawer to let it get older. She dropped it back into the drawer and pushed it shut with a click.

Only one secret drawer left, and it was at the back of the long drawer. She pulled the drawer out and set it aside, then got down on her knees and pushed. When a second door gave way, she thrust her hand inside, and when she felt a folded piece of paper, her heart actually skipped. She pulled it out, then sat down with her back against the desk to read it.

It took her a few moments to realize what she was looking at, and then she read it again in disbelief.

“What the hell? Why would you do this?” she mumbled, and then noticed the date.

It was the same year that she’d started college. Surely this was no longer valid? But what if it was? And that was when she panicked.

She scrambled to her feet and ran for the phone book, found the number she needed and called it with her fingers shaking so hard she kept misdialing. Finally the call went through.

“First State Bank. How may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to Mr. Standish. Tell him Dallas Phillips is calling.”

“One moment, please.”

Dallas groaned. God, but she hated hearing music when she’d been put on hold. The longer she waited, the worse it became, until the tension was making her sick to her stomach. Unable to sit still, she began to pace. When Gregory Standish finally answered, his voice was so forceful it made Dallas flinch.

“Hello, this is Standish.”

Dallas opened her mouth and then had to pinch her nose to keep from screaming.

“Mr. Standish, this is Dallas Phillips.”

“Dallas, my dear, I was so sorry to hear of your father’s passing. You have my sympathy, of course. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I just found the paperwork on an old loan my Dad took out at your bank some years back. I knew nothing about this and wonder if you can tell me when it was paid off.”

Standish frowned and then cleared his throat. He had been dreading this conversation, although he hadn’t expected it to happen for a few weeks, which was when the balance of the loan, in its entirety, would come due.

“Let me check our records. The computers are slow today, so give me a few moments.” She heard the clicking of keys as he checked the computer. “Ah, yes, here we are. Your father did indeed take out a loan some years back. He’d been paying on it regularly until two years back, but I’m afraid he’s been in arrears ever since. I believe he and I discussed this briefly earlier in the spring, but I hadn’t heard from him since.”

“How much does he still owe?” she asked.

Standish cleared his throat again.

“A little over fifty thousand dollars. Interest accrued rather rapidly with the missed payments.”

The room was beginning to spin. Dallas dropped down on her knees to keep from falling.

“What did you tell him when you...when you talked in the spring?”

Standish cleared his throat one more time.

“I believe he understood that if the money wasn’t paid in full, he would lose the collateral, which was his farm.”

Dallas gasped. “The farm? The one that’s been in our family for over a hundred and fifty years?”

“Yes.”

“What date would that take place?”

“Twenty-seven days from today.”

“I’m listed on his checking account. Can you please verify the amount in that account?”

More clicking of keys.

“Seven thousand, five hundred and twelve dollars, and thirty cents.”

“And his savings account?” she asked.

“He doesn’t have one.”

“What? I don’t understand. Dad always had—”

“Actually, the amount in his checking account is from a transfer from savings made about six months ago. I’m afraid that’s all that’s left.”

“So my Dad was about to lose the farm?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry to be the one to give you this news.”

Stunned, Dallas disconnected without even saying goodbye, then stood and stared out the window at the scene before her. She’d seen it a thousand times before and never thought it remarkable in any way. It was the same pasture, with the same mountain looming behind it. She looked at the barn, built before the house in which she was standing, and then thought of all the people who’d lived here, and the years of toil and hardship they had suffered to keep themselves afloat. Generation after generation had lived and died beneath this roof, and now she was going to lose it because she’d wanted to go to college, and her parents hadn’t told her no. They hadn’t told her they couldn’t afford it. They’d never said, “You need to work your way through if you want to go.” They’d just sent her on her merry way, and she’d never thought twice about how they’d made it work, because she’d been so wrapped up in losing Trey and, at the same time, realizing she was about to live her dream.

All of a sudden bile was burning the back of her throat and she was racing to the bathroom. She threw up until her sides were aching and her throat was raw, and then she staggered to her bedroom and collapsed from the weight of her guilt.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.