Her Final Words

by Brianna Labuskes

  “In Idaho, there are medical exemptions,” he said. “So, in other states, a kid dies from something like”—he gestured toward her—“pneumonia. Something that could have been prevented by the parents taking them to the hospital, or even to a doctor. They could face criminal charges.”

  A part of her hated that protections like that had to exist, but she knew enough about the realities of the world to know they needed to.

  Lucy followed the logic to its conclusion, Jackson’s shifty behavior when asked about hospital visits all of a sudden making sense. “Since this Church claims it’s their religion that stopped them from seeking medical care, it’s not child abuse. It’s the First Amendment. They’re shielded from any legal consequences.”

  “Completely. My hands are tied.” Hicks’s words dripped bitterness, his fingers curling into fists on the table, a vein pulsing along the line of his neck. The intensity—though it was clearly contained—was still a surprise. Before this display, Lucy would have guessed getting an emotional response out of him would take a crowbar and some strong alcohol.

  A bee in your bonnet now seemed an understatement. This . . . This was more than just a frustrated sheriff upset about running into a brick wall. This spoke of a personal crusade.

  And if Hicks had some kind of vendetta against these people, there was no way he was going to be able to work this case without bias.

  Is that why Eliza hadn’t gone to him to confess?

  As soon as Lucy had the thought, she dismissed it. If Eliza was going to confess anyway, what would the sheriff’s bias against her matter?

  But . . . She asked for me? Lucy quickly ran her old cases in her head, flipping through the details stored there for similarities. There had been a cult case three or four years back, but they had been more caught up in guns and race than religion and medical care.

  “There’s a cemetery out near where Noah was found,” Hicks continued, staring at his hands. Slowly he dropped them flat to the table until they could almost pass as relaxed. Almost. “It’s filled with their dead kids.”

  Lucy licked her lips, still seeing bruises on little-boy arms. Her stomach clenched against the dirty water that tried to pass as coffee. “It’s not just pneumonia, huh? What they die of.”

  Hicks met her eyes. “There’s been no signs of obvious abuse in the community, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Something about the way he’d answered that sat wrong in her chest, but she couldn’t tell why. It was like she’d asked the wrong question.

  What was the right one?

  Brenda swung out of the kitchen, coffeepot in hand. She circled over to them, filled their mugs. “You two want food?”

  Maybe five minutes ago Lucy had been hungry, a dull sort of ache that reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the stale pastry from a truck stop on I-90. Now? Food would probably taste like sawdust.

  Even though both Lucy and Hicks shook their heads, Brenda lingered, her mouth working, twisting, opening, and then snapping shut. With a final disgruntled whine, she finally left them alone.

  “We had a girl die last year,” Hicks said as if they hadn’t been interrupted. His voice was steadier, though, and overall he looked a little less like he was about to start throwing punches. “She got food poisoning. After three days of vomiting, her esophagus ruptured. She bled out.”

  Hicks laughed, though there was no humor to it. “They call it faith healing.” He shook his head. “She was fifteen.”

  The story hurt to hear, of course—a throbbing pain that was always there, a reminder that life was a ruthless and terrible bastard. But the detective in her that had spent years submerged in all the ways people could be awful to each other needed to see how this connected to her case. “So, Darcy . . . Dawson? She’s a member of the”—was cult too strong a word?—“community you’re talking about?”

  “Darcy and Liam Dawson, yes,” Hicks said, all business once more. “Along with Noah they have two other children, both younger, a girl and a boy.”

  “There really haven’t been any reports of abuse against them?”

  Hicks lifted one shoulder. “The kids are homeschooled, don’t go to the pediatrician. The adults in their lives are members of the True Believers Church. I’m not sure who would report anything.”

  Lucy stared blankly at the pig-shaped saltcellar that cozied up to the rooster pepper shaker. “What do you think?”

  “I guess you never know what goes on,” Hicks said, clearly weighing his thoughts before putting voice to them. “But I don’t think that was the case.” He held up a hand before she could say anything else. “I know, I saw the bruises. Could be.”

  “Why don’t you think it was abuse?” Despite her own propensity to believe the worst until proven otherwise, he seemed fairly sure for someone who clearly had a grudge against the people he was defending. For some reason, that made his take on the situation more credible in her book.

  Hicks didn’t answer right away, and Lucy kept her mouth shut, knowing all too well that uncomfortable sensation of trying to shape gut feelings into words that would make sense to someone else.

  “He wasn’t a scared kid,” Hicks finally said with a nod. “Was easy around both parents, for the most part. Didn’t flinch at unexpected touches or sounds. I mean, that’s not proof, either. Kids are good at hiding stuff.”

  “But it didn’t seem like a problem,” Lucy concluded for him. The bruises were a red flag, but her certainty that they were connected to his death was shaken with Hicks’s assessment. She didn’t dismiss the memory of them, those purple-and-green smudges painted on pale skin, but she slotted them further down in importance. Maybe he had been the clumsiest kid on earth. “Were you there when the parents were told about Noah?”

  “Yes,” Hicks said, hesitated, then continued: “They’re not my biggest fans, you could say. None of the Church are. I’m not sure they appreciated me being there.”

  Lucy’s eyes slid over to the kitchen door as she thought about Brenda. For the most part, there hadn’t been much outright antagonism in the way the woman had addressed Hicks. It had been more akin to chastisement. Like how someone would speak to a naughty but beloved child who just wouldn’t listen.

  “You’re vocal about your opposition to that community?” Lucy guessed.

  “To the exemptions, the shield laws,” Hicks corrected. “Folks can pray as they want, I have no objection to that. But when dead kids are involved, it becomes my job.”

  “The rest of the town? The ones not in the Church. How do they feel?” If Brenda was any indication, Lucy could probably predict the answer.

  “Mostly in favor of them,” Hicks said, confirming her unspoken assumption. “A lot of God-fearing folk around here. And you have to understand, the Believers . . . They’re these people’s neighbors, their friends.”

  But they were Hicks’s neighbors, friends, and constituents, too. And yet he was going against them. She wondered what his life was like in a broader sense than through the prism of this case, wondered how well he was able to walk that delicate tightrope. If he was able to at all.

  Hicks rubbed a hand over his mouth, studying her. Then he seemed to make some decision and leaned forward once more. “About a month ago? There was a ruckus at the state capitol in Boise. A bill that would have struck the exemptions. But it failed in committee. A lot of hurt feelings came from that debate.”

  “You’re in the minority, though? Wanting the laws gone, that is,” Lucy asked. “At least in Knox Hollow.”

  “In Knox Hollow? A minority of about one,” Hicks said, holding his hands wide, palms out. Then he dropped his arms, cocked his head. “Or about three, I guess.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “A social worker named Peggy Anderson,” Hicks said, ticking off one of his fingers. “She was raised in the Church. She doesn’t live in town anymore, but she still keeps an eye on those families.”

  “And the second?”

  “My deputy, Zoey Grant. S
he doesn’t like the exemptions, either,” Hicks said, smile bending toward rueful. “But she thinks I’m crazy. That I’m wasting my time fighting them.”

  “At least you’re trying,” Lucy murmured, tapping the edge of her mug against his. There were worse accusations.

  “If that’s the bar these days,” Hicks said, then threw back the rest of his coffee in one go. When he set it down, he met her eyes. There was something closed off about him once again, and she wondered how rare the display of emotions in the past ten minutes had truly been.

  “Eliza’s family is part of the Church, too?” Lucy asked. There wasn’t much information about the girl or her family in any of their databases. That now made sense, but it didn’t make for an easy case.

  Hicks’s expression went curiously blank before he looked away, toward the bar. “Yes, she lives with her aunt and uncle. Rachel and Josiah Cook. Josiah’s the pastor.”

  “Where are her parents?”

  “Died when Eliza was young,” Hicks said, and the walls were firmly back up. Once again he was the distant cowboy she’d seen in the rain that morning. “She’s been with Josiah and Rachel most of her life.”

  “How’s their relationship with her?” Lucy asked.

  Hicks scratched his nose. “She’s a teenage girl, they’re not her parents. It’s not always the smoothest. But they do their best, from what I can tell.”

  Lucy nodded. They were her next stop after dropping off her bags. She’d be able to see them in action soon enough.

  Hicks cocked his head, studying her just as much as she was him. “Tell me something.”

  “What?” she asked, nervous for a reason she couldn’t actually identify. Still her finger twitched toward her holster like it always did when she was unsettled.

  “You have a confession out of Eliza Cook,” he said, and she knew where he was going with this. It was the same loop her thoughts kept riding. “She gave you the location of the goddamn murder weapon.”

  Lucy nodded. Waited.

  “What more could you want?”

  What more could you want? What more could she want? Was there really an answer that would make sense to anyone but her?

  “I don’t know,” Lucy finally said, almost reluctant, hanging on to the words as if they would give something about her away. Something important. “A motive would be nice.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHERIFF WYATT HICKS

  Three weeks earlier

  It didn’t take much to get into Senator Teresa Hodge’s office on the morning of the hearing for the shield laws.

  Hicks had been prepared to try his hand at charming anyone guarding the door, but the clearly overworked and underpaid assistant had barely spared him a glance as she waved him through.

  It had been early when he’d arrived, the rest of the building still quiet. The security guard manning the metal detector had blinked bleary, early-morning eyes at Hicks’s identification and then waved him through with an unnecessary salute. Beyond that, Hicks hadn’t encountered anyone, for which he was thankful. He had no interest in trying to find a reason for why he was lurking near Senator Hodge’s office.

  Now, he lounged in the chair across from the polished mahogany desk, his boots stretched out in front of him, leaving dust on the senator’s pristine carpet. A petty part of him took satisfaction in the sight of it.

  Although Hicks was prepared to settle in for a wait, he didn’t expect it to be long. Senator Hodge was known for being the first one to arrive and the last to leave. And on a day when there were certain to be news cameras following her every move, Hicks doubted she’d break that pattern now.

  Senator Hodge loved nothing more than her upstanding image.

  As he stared at the nearly wall-size oil painting of a bald eagle, Hicks kept careful control of his thoughts, not letting them wander to the day ahead. It was going to be tough, no matter that he knew the likely outcome, and he’d worried through every worst-case scenario on his drive into Boise the night before.

  It took only another five minutes for the door to open behind him.

  “Sheriff Hicks,” Teresa Hodge said, and only through years of watching her in action could Hicks hear the surprise, the strain. Hodge hated being caught off guard.

  Hicks had been counting on that.

  He didn’t straighten up as she crossed the room because he knew the sign of disrespect would needle at her. There were few victories he could count these days, but being able to get a rise out of Teresa Hodge was one of them.

  Hodge had pasted on her politician smile by the time she came into view. It was brittle at the edges, but he guessed most people wouldn’t notice beyond the sleek hair and expensive pantsuit. “What can I do for you on this fine morning?”

  Finally, he sat up and leaned his forearms against his thighs, studying her. This probably wasn’t even necessary. But right now, when everything was spinning out from beneath his feet, it felt like the only thing he had power to act on.

  He shot her a lazy smile in greeting. “Senator.”

  Her eyes narrowed at his tone, as he knew they would. “You’re not going to change my mind on the exemption laws, Sheriff. I’m voting against Peggy’s bill.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Senator,” he said, keeping his voice down despite the fact that he’d heard her close the door behind her. “I’m not here to change your mind. I’m here to make sure you don’t.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  LUCY THORNE

  Friday, 1:00 p.m.

  There was a perfectly serviceable hotel situated just outside town limits, but Lucy chose to stay at the Butterfly Bed & Breakfast cozied up with a few other houses at the end of one of Knox Hollow’s side streets. It was a quirk of hers, to stay in B and Bs or inns during out-of-town investigations. Usually there was no better source of gossip than their owners.

  Annie Tate was no exception. She was inching toward her forties—maybe five or six years older than Lucy’s thirty-three—had a plain, round face and a hair color that fell into that indistinct category between blonde and brunette. The thinning strands were pulled back in a neat chignon, complementing the staid-cardigan-and-button-up-shirt combo Annie was wearing.

  “Leave your bags here, I’ll show you around,” Annie said, stepping out from behind the imposing desk that took up three-quarters of the entryway.

  As Annie led Lucy into the main sitting room, she chattered about the weather, the children’s school play, the businessman who had stayed there last week after getting lost on his way to Las Vegas. “Can you imagine being that turned around?”

  The story stretched credulity, but Lucy smiled and shook her head to get Annie to continue. Lucy never understood agents who cut themselves off from the locals, as though nothing could be gleaned from the ebb and flow of the town’s daily life. There had been plenty of cases that had been solved off information that had been dropped in casual small talk, and Lucy soaked it up. The nonsense, the inanities, the foibles of the locals, they painted a picture, each tidbit adding a new layer of color.

  The sitting room was a testament to the Butterfly B & B’s name, the walls papered floor to ceiling in a busy spectacle of a summer garden. Little porcelain cat figurines perched on the corners of most available surfaces, ready to pounce into the bowls of potpourri placed liberally enough that the too-sweet perfume had Lucy longing for the coroner’s mint gel.

  Annie continued the steady stream of conversation, and Lucy made note of some of the families’ names, the mention of children who might be Eliza’s age, who might be Noah’s.

  Josiah Cook came up often. Eliza’s uncle, though Lucy wasn’t sure if it was by marriage or blood.

  His name was peppered liberally into Annie’s stories. He’d led a charity drive for the coffee shop after its kitchen had sustained damage from a fire. He’d given Liam Dawson work when Old Man Porter’s general store had been bought out by a big chain from Boise. He petitioned for the state to fix the bridge that was all but falling apart out n
ear the highway.

  A local hero, Josiah Cook. A shining example of everything a pastor should be, according to Annie, at least.

  Considering the sway he seemed to have, it would have made sense for Eliza to stay in Knox Hollow when she’d confessed. If she cared about what kind of treatment she’d be receiving after she was taken into custody, that was.

  Maybe she hadn’t considered the possibility that Josiah’s influence could affect the outcome of her case. Or maybe she had and decided against taking advantage of it.

  She asked for me? That little tidbit niggled at the edges of Lucy’s mind once more. She’d mostly written it off before, distracted by more important things. But maybe . . . Why would Eliza have traveled the five hours? Had it been because of Lucy?

  As they swung back through the lobby, Lucy grabbed her bag and followed Annie up the narrow, creaky staircase.

  “Have to get Frank Thomas out here to fix that,” Annie said, her lips pinched in irritation, staring at the offending step that had wobbled beneath her foot. “Though he has enough on his plate right now, dear heart.”

  Lucy skipped the weak board. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

  Annie turned back to Lucy, blinking too fast, a hand resting at the base of her throat.

  “His daughter, she ran away,” Annie said without any hesitation, as if it wasn’t inappropriate to give such personal information to a stranger who didn’t even know who Frank Thomas was. God, Lucy loved small towns.

  “Ran away?”

  “Molly.” Annie said the name as if it told a story all by itself. Maybe in Knox Hollow it did. “She was a troubled girl. But that doesn’t make it any easier for those poor parents.”

  “When was this?” Lucy asked as they continued down the hallway, only to stop in front of a door numbered—for no particular reason that Lucy could see—thirty-four. “That she ran away.”

  “Oh, let me see now.” Annie pulled the thick, heavy key ring from where she wore it on her belt, like an old-fashioned housekeeper. “About . . . three weeks ago.”

  So fairly recent. “How old was she?”