Trace of Doubt

by DiAnn Mills

  She opened the door before I managed to maneuver up the porch steps. How did she always manage to pull off a sweet country girl look?

  “Heard me coming?”

  Her face lit up. “Agent McClure, you can’t sneak up on anyone.”

  “Give me six weeks, and I’ll be back to fighting form.”

  “Six?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe eight.”

  She tilted her head. “Are you supposed to be driving?”

  “I’m sure short jaunts are fine.”

  Joy wiggled between Shelby’s legs, and she snatched up the puppy. “I want to hear about all your adventures.”

  “More like swapping stories.” An unwelcome surge of pain split my senses, and I jerked.

  “Denton, get inside before you fall.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jewelry pieces were in various stages of construction all over the kitchen counter. “You’ve been busy.”

  “It’s therapeutic.” She closed the door and locked it. “Please, sit. I have a freshly brewed pot of coffee. Had a feeling you’d be stopping by.”

  “Oh, so I’m always welcome?”

  “Don’t press your luck.”

  I eased onto the sofa, relieved to rest. A small notebook lay open. Four lines caught my attention.

  The day swirled in black and white.

  The kiss of death and the hope of life.

  Good and evil struggle like sibling strife.

  Who will hold me safe till heaven’s light?

  Shelby picked up the notebook. “I’ve been scribbling.”

  Her creativity moved me. “I’m not a professional, but I hear the emotional turmoil in your words. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  She tucked the notepad into a drawer. “When’s the last time you popped a pain pill?”

  Ah, nice change of subject. She needed to trust me. “Last night. Some Advil earlier this morning. I’m trying to leave the heavy-duty meds alone.”

  “Don’t blame you. Perhaps using one to ease the pain makes sense.” She brought me a mug of coffee with fresh bubbles breaking the top and sat with her own in a nearby chair. “You always have a reason for doing things. And here you are.”

  “Are you ready for news?”

  She whirled to me. Alarm clearly written on her face.

  “It’s positive. At least I think so.”

  “You scared me. You’ve found the guilty person?”

  “Not yet. This is personal . . . In the wee hours of the morning, I became a Christian.”

  Shelby rubbed her palms together reminding me of a little girl’s excitement. I adored so many things about her.

  “What incredible news,” she said. “But at the hospital you indicated noninterest.”

  “Weird, huh? I don’t understand it all myself.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  I shared with her about my mamaw, her influence on my life, and my coming to faith. “Do you think I sound like a kid when I’m a grown man?” Another trait I admired about her—compassion for others.

  “I think we’re supposed to have childlike faith.”

  I widened my grin across my bruised face. “Guess I qualify, and I’m confident about my decision.”

  “Are your parents Christians?”

  “Yes, and I called them earlier. Woke them up.” I paused, remembering. “Mom had given up on me finding faith.”

  “My mom and Marissa spent more time at church than Dad and I combined. We were buds back then. No matter what I’d done, he always found time for me.”

  “Made Friday extra hard.”

  “Yep.”

  I stared into her face, so pretty . . . “Missed not seeing you yesterday.”

  She picked up Joy and avoided my gaze. “I missed you too.”

  I chose not to tell her about Mom’s question of when I planned to get married. Time to get back to business.

  “The men who attacked you, Aaron, and Isaac are known felons and have worked with Eli Chandler off and on for the past ten years. The FBI’s interrogating the man in custody and the dead men’s families and friends. The investigation shows a common denominator—they all worked for the same money-laundering racketeer, a person who remains nameless.”

  “Has my dad been mentioned?”

  I told her about his person-of-interest status.

  She worried her lip. “I’m confused. You and Mike drove to question Dad when you should have been at home recovering from surgery. Have you uncovered additional evidence against him?”

  “Neither for nor against. Another piece of info came to my attention. The truck abandoned by the shooters at my trailer not only didn’t have a front license plate, but it also had the letters DAT on the rear plate.”

  She nodded. “Isaac and I noted from the security camera at the tank that the pickup was missing a front plate.”

  “The tank?” I thought about my run-down trailer. “Guess you’re right.”

  “Fitting, don’t you think? I’ve been thinking. Probably two men followed you on the way back to Valleysburg. They rear-ended you, then got into the firefight at the tank. Then two more men attempted to finish the job at the hotel. Two men are dead, Nick Hanson is in custody, and Eli Chandler is out there somewhere.”

  “You got it.”

  Shelby bored her gaze into an empty wall. “I wish I knew why I had a price on my head.” She hesitated. “I have a theory.”

  “Good because I’m swimming upstream.”

  “What’s been uncovered confirms the threats and attacks are connected to a money-laundering operation. Most likely, the kingpin got started with Marissa and Travis’s money, and as long as I stayed behind bars, he felt safe. He’s targeted me because he thinks I’ll identify him.”

  “We’re on the same page.”

  “But I have the same three questions. Why not get rid of me in prison? Why initially push my suicide? And what happened to escalate the aggression and risk losing two shooters?”

  “The FBI has discussed the same thing.”

  “I hate to suspect Dad, but he could have reservations about eliminating his own daughter, where suicide . . . doesn’t affect him.” She shook her head. “Makes me sick to say it, and hearing my own words seems very wrong.”

  “Uncovering a crime means sifting through dirt. No one wants to think a family member has betrayed her for money.”

  “The not knowing is unbearable.”

  I plunged into deeper waters. “Clay and Isaac told me you had an aversion to guns.”

  “I do. I hate weapons of all kinds. Always have.” She hesitated. “I know. It doesn’t make sense . . . considering.”

  “Let’s talk about something else. What makes you happy?”

  She closed her eyes. “You first.”

  “Living at the cabin, riding Big Red, taking pictures, enjoying a quiet life.” I watched a squirrel outside scamper across the driveway. “I hope when I’m back in Houston, I can return here when life gets overwhelming. Your turn.”

  “Not yet. Hobbies other than photography?”

  “I like high school kids. I volunteer at a youth center.” I grinned. “Now, let me hear about you.”

  “Okay. Creating things and helping others.”

  “You design jewelry, bake, write poetry, and sing. What am I missing?”

  She laughed. “Back in high school, I wanted to be an interior designer in New York City. I dreamed of having an apartment overlooking the busy city.”

  “You’re one talented lady.”

  “And you’re an enigma.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I said.

  “I’ll let you know when I decide.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “What are your goals for the future?”

  She stared out the window where the squirrel still played. “Same. Help others, possibly work for a prison ministry. It’s a nudging in my spirit, but I haven’t talked to Pastor Emory for his thoughts. Build my jewelry business. How about yours?”

  I
chuckled. “My future changed before six this morning. In your words, ‘I haven’t processed them all yet.’ Back to you. What about marriage and a family?”

  “An impossibility.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “No decent man with an ounce of sense would want me.”

  “You’re wrong. When this is over, I’d like to talk about us.”

  She startled. “Have you lost your mind? Everything about ‘us’ spells trouble.” Her narrow shoulders lifted and fell. “In your processing for the future, ask yourself how to reconcile the fact I murdered a man.”

  She’d hit me with reality, but the woman before me was not that irrational seventeen-year-old.

  Shelby’s eyes showed profound sadness. “You’ve known me two weeks.”

  “I’ve known you a total of fifteen and a half years.”

  “Denton, for nearly fifteen and a half years you’ve despised me.”

  “They’re similar emotions . . . love and hate.”

  She sighed. “You’ve found Jesus, but you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Good one, but not the truth. The agent in me hasn’t detected your denial of ‘us.’”

  Shelby’s blue-gray eyes watered, and she blinked. “‘Us’ has too many negatives. Reality is key here. How would you ever explain me? And what about your family? How would they introduce me? And what if they broke contact with you because of me?” She held up a finger. “I’m living the broken family relationship scenario, and it’s a miserable existence.”

  “My family is forgiving.”

  “You have no guarantee of their reaction. And if we . . . became a permanent thing, what about our kids? Do you think they’d have respect for either of us?” She tilted her head. “Your features have hardened. What are you holding back in our come-to-Jesus meeting?”

  Dare I talk about the mess in my own family? “I already told you about my ex-fiancée marrying my middle brother, Andy. What I didn’t tell you is my entering the FBI was only one of the problems between us. I put my career above everything else, including her. When she wanted to discuss the wedding, our honeymoon, or even where we’d live, I didn’t have time. In short, she accused me of putting my work ahead of her.” I shrugged. “Truth is, I did. She turned to my brother for understanding, and he gave her the time of day.”

  “Another reason to blame me?”

  “At the time I needed to blame someone. You and God made sense. Over the years, Andy and I made our peace, but I held on to my resentment. And my younger brother Brice can be an annoying pain.” I paused. “He recently called and apologized, so with God’s help, we’ll mend our relationship.”

  “Denton, all the more reason for you to think again about us being together. You’re wasting brain cells when you have a beautiful life ahead of you with Jesus. Please.”

  Her pleading stopped me. I hadn’t shown up at her doorstep to upset her with my attraction. “Shelby, I’m sorry. We can table this conversation for another time.”

  “No point, Denton. There can’t be a relationship between us. I have too much respect for you and how I could damage your future.”

  I grabbed my crutches and stood. “My past is over, and my future is forever changed. I’m falling in love with you, Shelby. Deal with it.”

  48

  SHELBY

  How wonderful Denton had given his life to Jesus, but how tragic for him to believe he loved me after he’d warred against me all those years. I watched him hobble to a rental car and drive off. He’d hinted at an attraction on occasion, and I’d done a poor job of discouraging him. I should have stressed more how we could never work. My sacrifice for Marissa touched every area of my life.

  In a corner of my heart where no one but God could ever enter, I longed for more than friendship with Denton. His words had added a soft blue to my life’s kaleidoscope. I treasured his company, his wisdom, his laughter, the intensity of his brown eyes, and the magnificence of his thick, mostly white hair. Reality hovered over me—with a love-filled dream came the gray. Always the gray.

  Avoiding him seemed like the best solution, yet it was impossible until this ended. The only man who’d ever loved me was Dad. I’d ruined his life, and I refused to ruin Denton’s. I’d read about his brother marrying his fiancée, but the online article wasn’t a trusted source.

  The phone rang—Sheriff Wendall. I dreaded bad news from any front. Maybe this time was different.

  “Shelby, are you free to talk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your mother passed yesterday afternoon.”

  I slid onto the sofa with a mix of sadness, nausea, and yet peace that Mom no longer suffered. “I knew she didn’t have long, but the news is still devastating. Has my dad changed his mind about my attending her funeral?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Mom and I shared closure when I saw her. Guess that’s the best way to remember her. I appreciate your call.”

  Alone in my home, I shed tears for losing my mother, for the heartache I’d caused her. For the love and nurturing she’d given me while I was growing up.

  Contemplating a walk in the woods, among the sweetness of nature drew me outside. I carried Joy into the canopied shade. Like a child who refused to be comforted, I cried into her silky coat. Talking to Edie tempted me, but the idea of her hearing me sob didn’t sit well. I missed Amy-Jo too and her no-nonsense approach to life.

  Marissa texted me about Mom’s passing and canceling tomorrow’s meetup. The idea of Aria and her in danger tore at my protective nature.

  The funeral is Friday morning. I’ll check in before the weekend is over to reschedule.

  Be safe.

  I will. Dad’s in bad shape. Losing Mom was hard for all of us.

  Do you need to talk?

  Thanks. Aria is upset and needs me. She and Mom were close.

  The idea of Dad requesting to take Aria on a vacation after Mom passed tormented me. I once believed my dad held more integrity in the palm of his hand than most people ever acquired in a lifetime, and I couldn’t shake it loose now.

  49

  Edie had become more than a good friend—she was my sister-friend. Thursday morning, her condolences about Mom’s entrance into heaven touched me like the love I shared with Marissa.

  “I know the funeral’s tomorrow,” she said. “Sheriff Wendall stopped by my office with the news. I can only imagine how badly you want to be there. The sheriff said you learned about it yesterday. He’d have called me sooner, but he had to be in Houston for a trial.”

  “Thanks.” The lump in my throat thickened.

  “Wish I could see you. But we can still talk, and I’m a good listener.”

  We shared mom memories from her life and mine. We exchanged a few tears and laughter in the process. Loved my sister-friend.

  “You’ve been down,” she said. “Anything I can do to help? Life’s hit you with too many obstacles.”

  More like bullets. “It will get better. Is Amy-Jo still staying with you?”

  “Yes. She’s a character. Offered to teach me how to shoot. I think I’ll take her up on it.”

  “Good idea.” I put away laundry while we talked. “What else is going on with you?”

  “My kids thought a real-life nightmare was funny.”

  “Nightmares are never funny. What happened?”

  “Laugh, and I’ll be knocking on your door. Last night I walked into my bedroom, ready for my pajamas. A bat flew over my head and I screamed. It flew past me again. Trust me, I hit the hysterical level. Timothy came running. All I could do was point to the ceiling fan, where the bat perched on a blade.”

  “Timothy took care of it?”

  “No! He started listing the good things bats do—like eating mosquitoes. I told him bats were rats with wings, and rats carried the bubonic plague. Who knew what the winged demons could do? There is a reason why bats are in horror movies. They belong with the destination of all other fiends of the world.” Edie sucked in
air. “I’m still upset. Anyway, I escaped under the bed like a two-year-old, not a mother who’s supposed to defend her children. Timothy chased it with a broom and hollered for Livy to open the front and back doors. Between them, they chased the varmint out of the house. Me? I was too scared to crawl out from under the bed for a long time.”

  An image of Edie paralyzed over a bat hit me as incredibly funny, and laughter rolled over me. The best prescription for sadness.

  “I figured you’d view my nightmare as comic relief. Goodness, I’ve probably scarred my kids for life, requiring perpetual counseling.”

  “Bats are scary. My first experience with a bat happened—” A car door slammed, and I peeked through the window to check on the visitor. Randy Hughes stumbled out of his truck and wobbled up the stony path to my front door. “Edie, your brother’s here. He appears to be drunk.”

  “I’ll call Sheriff Wendall. Stay inside. He can be dangerous when he’s this way. Hang on while I click over.”

  I stayed on the line while Randy clomped up a porch step. A second step, then a third.

  “Are you there?” Edie said.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  Randy pounded on the door.

  “I heard that. Is he armed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shelby, open the door. This is Randy Hughes.” He slurred his words. “We need to talk.”

  While I’d been at the wrong end of angry people before and faced the brunt of their hatred, I knew better than to face him. Irrational behavior shook me to the core. Where was the officer who watched my house? I texted him for help. My only recourse was to talk Randy down until officers arrived.

  “Gotta go.” I pressed End before Edie could protest. “What do you want to discuss?”

  “You caused me to get fired.”

  Anger fueled my mouth and restraint slipped away. “Randy, I had nothing to do with your losing—”

  “You owe me.”

  The distant whine of a law enforcement siren sounded. “Officers are on their way. Why not sit on the porch? Once they’re here, I’ll brew coffee to sober you up.”