by Kathy Altman
“Yeah. Means I have a motive.”
The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Good thing you saved that text. I’ll go wake your grandfather. We need to make some calls.”
“Wait.” Drew ran a hand through his hair. “There’s one more thing and it’s...not good. Sarah...she called it quits because she wanted to see someone else.”
“Someone in particular?”
“Yeah.” Drew swallowed. “My father.”
His uncle stared, then blasted out a hard, disbelieving laugh. “Son of a bitch.”
“Uncle Grady? No one except me knows she was already dead when I got there.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, kid.” His uncle gripped the doorknob, so tightly the metal squeaked beneath his fingers. “The killer knows.”
* * *
Charity didn’t have the ugliest car in Becker County, though she figured her fifteen-year-old sedan placed somewhere in the top twenty. Still it was hers, and it was paid for, and she couldn’t bring herself to care much about the faded paint or the punch in the bumper or even the missing wheel covers. Besides, she usually drove the department SUV.
Maybe she didn’t spend a lot of time behind the wheel of her Camry, but she depended on her. Valued her. Loved her.
Which was why, when she staggered out of her house the morning after Sarah’s murder, having spent three long, frustrating, pensive hours flirting with sleep, now intent on divorcing her brain from its Grady-induced fog by going for a run, she took one look at her driveway and yelped.
Or more accurately, she took one look at what was in her driveway, and yelped.
She stumbled down the porch steps and ran to her car, her cross-trainers slipping and sliding over the frosted grass. “Clarabelle,” she breathed.
The Camry waited in the sun-brushed morning, as silent and faithful and patient as ever. With a brand new tilt to the right.
Charity clapped her hands to her cheeks and circled the disaster that used to be her car. Someone had been maliciously thorough. He—or she—or they—had slashed three of the four tires, splashed the hood and all four doors with flamingo-colored paint, and bent both windshield wipers so the arms extended from the car at awkward angles. The anonymous asshole had gouged out sections of the grille, plastered bumper stickers over the back window, and judging from the crumpled bag that lay a few feet from the driveway, subjected Clarabelle’s gas tank to a sugar high. Never mind the sugar would do nothing more than clog up the filter.
Lucas. If not her brother, then that pair of teenage hellions determined to tag every Dumpster, public bench, and fire hydrant in town. Except this was personal. Spiteful. If the teens were responsible, their methods had escalated.
Lucas was a better bet.
Anger swelled in Charity’s throat, and she turned in an agitated circle. What she needed was to kick someone’s ass. What she’d have to settle for was giving Mo a call. Then she’d have to take her own pictures, since Mo probably hadn’t reclaimed his camera.
Suck it up, Deputy. She wrapped her arms around her waist, drew in a breath, and peered closer at the stickers on the back window. MY KID MADE HONOR ROLL AT SAN QUENTIN. SQUIRRELS ARE NATURE’S SPEED BUMPS. And the eternally classy, MY OTHER RIDE IS YOUR MOTHER.
Okay. Maybe not Lucas, after all.
The morning chill seeped through Charity’s sweats and she shivered. She patted Clarabelle’s trunk and headed inside to call Mo, hating that part of her welcomed the excuse for skipping her run. Hating even more that she’d entertained the idea, even for a millisecond, of tracking down Grady instead.
Half an hour later, she was back out in the yard, her confidence bolstered by her uniform, and her determination to secure justice for Clarabelle fueled with fury, two handfuls of chocolate-covered almonds, and a freshly-brewed mug of the coffee she’d banned herself from drinking. She was considering going back inside and putting some of that coffee in a cup to carry with her to work when a car swung into the driveway and jerked to a stop behind the Camry. When Charity recognized the driver, she barely managed to hide her grimace.
Kate Young. Next to Justine Langford, she’d been Sarah Huffman’s closest friend. Even from outside Kate’s car, Charity could hear the whimpering. Double crap. Could this morning get any better?
The strawberry blonde pushed out of her Volvo and launched herself at Charity. Charity hugged her back, fighting a natural rush of sympathy tears as Kate’s slim body trembled against hers.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” Kate gasped. “I stopped at Smart Mart for gas, and they told me. Sarah...I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Kate leaned out of the hug and gestured with a balled-up tissue. “I was supposed to sub today, but I called and said I couldn’t make it.” She jammed the tissue against her nose and shook her head. “As if the kids care about cross-pollination anyway. Oh, God. Who would do such a thing? Who would want to hurt Sarah?”
“We don’t know. But we’ll find out.”
“It couldn’t have been Justine. I know you have her in custody, but Justine would never hurt a fly, let alone—” She reached out and gripped Charity’s arm. “Who did it? Do you know who did it? Do you have any leads?” When Charity hesitated, Kate’s hand flexed and dropped away.
Charity barely resisted rubbing her arm where the teacher’s nails had dug in.
“I’m sorry,” Kate choked. “Of course you can’t say anything. And here I am keeping you when you’re obviously on your way to work. Find them, Charity. Find whoever did this terrible thing.” She produced a fresh tissue, blew her nose, and finally noticed Charity’s tortured car. Her red-rimmed eyes went wide. “What happened here?”
“The vandals paid a visit to my side of the county.”
“Your poor car.” Kate stared down at the bag that had once held five pounds of sugar. At least the distraction had stemmed her tears. “Do you need a ride?”
“Thanks, but I’m all set.” Charity realized Kate was still shaking. “How about you? Feel up to driving?”
“I can make it home. Once I get there, I’m going to chug a monster glass of wine and go to bed. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”
Charity’s curiosity must have shown on her face, since Kate offered up a self-conscious shrug. “I was at a sleepover. For two, if you know what I mean.” A pause. “Allison is sixteen, you know. Old enough to be home alone.” The uncertain defiance in Kate’s face made it clear she was second-guessing that decision.
Charity lifted her hands, palms out. “No judgment here.”
Kate wasn’t paying attention. “To think I was...you know…while Sarah was...God.”
Charity was rubbing the distraught woman’s back when Mo pulled up. “I have to go,” she said, probably too quickly.
Mo gave Kate a solemn nod as she backed out of the driveway. He turned and gave Clarabelle the once-over, shook his head, and reached for his notebook.
Ten minutes later, Charity dropped into Mo’s passenger seat and buckled herself in. Mo slid in beside her and started up the shiny black BMW. She used to give him hell for living in Montana and not owning a truck, until he had the nerve to start giving her hell back.
“I talked to Sarah’s family,” he said. “They should be here this afternoon.”
“Let’s hope the ME’s done by the time they arrive.”
“I’ll make sure of it.” Mo rubbed his chin, the rasp of fingers over razor stubble echoing inside the car. “Brenda June called. Dix is looking for us.”
“Does that man never sleep?” Charity turned her head without lifting it from the back of the seat. “Or did his wife lock him out of the house again?”
“You know Dix. Keeps things close to his chest.”
Unlike Charity’s entire family, who preferred to scream their personal business at an unsuspecting public. She turned her head and looked forward again, and winced at the sight of Clarabelle through Mo’s spotless windshield.
/>
“Hey.” Mo shifted in his seat. “What Dix said, about you being objective?”
Charity shrugged. “He was right to bring it up. I have a history with the family.”
“I have a history with the deceased.” He watched her closely as he fastened his seatbelt. “He never questioned me.”
“Dix might not know you dated Sarah. Anyway, it’s not the same. Grady and I were together all through high school.”
“If I were to ask you what happened—”
“I’d threaten you with Big Mike again.” Her gaze roved the pristine, leather-clad interior. “How do you even afford this car?”
“I save my money instead of blowing it all on chocolate.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll get your car fixed up so she’s good as new.”
“Clarabelle was never new. She was better than new.”
Mo made some kind of grunting noise that was probably supposed to be comforting but came out sounding smug. He patted his polished rosewood dash and eased the BMW into gear.
* * *
Dix was pacing in front of Brenda June’s window when Charity and Mo walked in. The lead detective was a tall, lithe man with skin the color of peanut brittle and gleaming black hair he kept a little too long to be regulation. Charity fought a wince when he turned toward them. The stains of sleeplessness under his eyes were worse than ever.
She thought she had crap to deal with. At least she didn’t live with someone who nagged her daily to quit the force, move to the city, and sell condos.
Dix drained his coffee mug. “About time you two got here. We had someone come in first thing. A witness.”
Mo perked up. “What kind of witness?”
“The kind who can place Drew Langford at the vet’s before eleven last night.”
Charity’s insides clutched, as if tensing for a punch. Oh, no. She swallowed. “That’s almost an hour before Justine called nine-one-one.”
So she had been protecting someone.
Her son.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
There had to be another explanation. Drew Langford was just a kid. What possible reason could he have for hurting Sarah Huffman? Then she remembered the leather necklace they’d found beneath Sarah’s body. The kind of necklace a man would wear.
She resisted the urge to sag against the wall. “We need that coroner’s report,” she ground out.
Mo’s baby blues had gone lethal. “Want me to bring him in?”
Before she could answer, they were interrupted by an approaching cluster of footsteps. They turned to see a pale-faced Drew Langford and his father Scott walking toward them, followed by Grady and Owen Quinn, the family lawyer. The four men looked like pall bearers on their way to a funeral.
An ache crept into Charity’s throat.
Quinn offered the deputies a neutral smile. “That won’t be necessary.”
* * *
Chest tight, jaw locked, Grady watched Charity thank Drew for coming in. For giving himself up, is what she meant. The attorney had made it clear that at the very least, Drew faced charges of failure to report a death, and interference in the investigation of a murder.
The lingering taste of a hastily gulped glass of orange juice went sour in Grady’s mouth. This was all so damned unreal. What the hell was happening with his family? His nephew was just a kid. When they’d visited after Christmas, Drew had practically danced a jig when he’d unwrapped the dive watch Grady had bought him.
Except he wasn’t a kid. Not anymore. His eighteenth birthday had come and gone. Legally, Drew was an adult.
Grady swallowed against a sudden rise of bile.
Montana was fighting to abolish the death penalty, but Drew could still get life without parole.
Chapter Four
The now-familiar buzzing sounded again. Both male deputies escorted Drew, Scott, and Owen Quinn into the back. Grady started forward, but Charity stopped him with an outstretched arm.
“We’ll need to get the okay from Drew before any friends or family members can sit in on the interview.”
Interview? You mean interrogation. Grady gritted his teeth, grinding the words into nothingness. It wouldn’t do any good to take his frustration out on her. She was only doing her job. Still it annoyed the hell out of him that she could be so matter-of-fact with two members of his family in custody.
“You’re welcome to wait,” she continued. “It might be a while. I have a feeling Drew’s father will be right out to keep you company.”
“What about Justine?”
“We’ll let you know something when we can.”
“Not good enough.” He stabbed a finger at the door. “Inside one of those rundown straitjacket rooms back there, my nephew is about to describe how he discovered the body of Sarah Huffman. His version of events proves Justine wasn’t on the scene until later. When Drew called her from the parking lot, he interrupted some sob story she was giving the bartender at Sweeney’s. Doesn’t that add up to letting her go?”
“So Drew found Sarah’s body, panicked, and called Justine. How do you know she was at Sweeney’s?”
“My father has been on the phone all night, scaring up alibis.”
“Perfect,” Charity muttered. She turned and rapped on the glass, signaling she wanted in. “I get it. You’re worried, and I can’t imagine what Peyton’s going through. But we have your sister’s confession.”
“Which she provided under duress in an attempt to protect her son.”
“Did she have a reason to?”
“Hell, no. Talk to Drew. You’ll see.”
The fact that they were having this conversation made Grady feel…outside of himself. Like he’d stepped into a movie. Without a script. And his role called for an actor who could speak Swahili. With an Australian accent.
Charity peered up at him, head tilted, seeming to try to read him. Once upon a time they’d never had to second guess each other—they’d been unfailingly honest for the sole, searing reason that no one else in their lives had ever considered not lying.
Coolly Grady returned her stare, doing his best to ignore the familiar shape of her lips, the tips of her hair curving against her neck, the damned fine fit of her butt-ugly uniform. Still, the image would serve him well when he finally managed to swing that hand job he’d been aching for since the moment he’d seen her again.
Shit. What had happened to family first? His lips twisted as he wrenched his brain out of primal mode.
The way she held herself made it clear she didn’t trust him. Well, guess what? He wasn’t sure he trusted her, either. Though he did have to give her credit for being civil.
No, not civil. Professional. Was it weird, that it made him proud?
The door opened behind her. Charity didn’t turn, didn’t seem to realize they had company.
“Justine will be here a while,” she said, voice as crisp as the creases in her pants. She gestured at the tote he’d placed in a chair. “Is that for her?”
Grady retrieved the bag. Charity held out her hand.
“I want to see her,” he said.
“We’ll need to talk to her again, once we’ve interviewed Drew. I’ll try to set up a visit in the meantime.” She took the bag, curling her fingers around the handle. “But just because you decided to play knight in shining armor last night does not mean I’ll bend any rules for you.”
Dammit, had he asked her to bend any rules? Never mind he would have, if she’d given him the chance.
“Last night? What happened last night?” The skinny woman who liked to eavesdrop poked her head over Charity’s shoulder. He blinked. Hadn’t her hair been blond the day before? Now her buzz cut was a vibrant orange, and she wore purple dangly earrings that bookended a wicked smile. “Do share.”
Charity rolled her eyes. “None of your business, Dispatch.”
But the older woman darted out into the waiting room, leaving Charity to hold the door. She looked Grady up and down. “Spill it, handsome.
Your goods for mine. A bit of intel for a slab of the best cheesecake this side of—”
“Brenda June.” Charity’s voice sliced into the older woman’s words. “This is not the time.”
Brenda June pursed her lips and marched back through the door, chin held high.
Charity offered him an expressionless nod. “We’ll get back to you.” She turned to follow Brenda June.
Before she could let go of the door, a deep, chiding voice rolled down the hallway. “Since when do we conduct our interviews in the waiting room?” A sixtyish bald man with a linebacker’s shoulders and a stern expression strode into the room. Thick hands rose to his hips as he transferred his scowl from Charity to Grady and back again. “Don’t you have something better to do, Deputy? Like investigate a homicide?”
Charity disappeared.
Sheriff Clarkson Pratt thrust out a hand. “Grady West. Been a hell of a long time.”
“How are you, Sheriff?”
“About as tired as you look.” Pratt snatched off the black-framed glasses that suggested nerd while the rest of him shouted badass. He massaged the bridge of his nose, then slid his glasses back into place. “I’m sorry for your trouble, son.”
Grady’s automatic “thanks” lodged in his throat. Yeah, he was on edge, but Justine and Drew were both alive. No doubt Sarah Huffman’s family would give anything to be in his shoes right now. And no way would he let himself believe Drew would end up anywhere else but right back at home with his mother and his sister, where he belonged.
Tension hijacked the space between his shoulder blades. Dammit, he missed his son. He’d tried to catch Matt before he left for school, but no one had answered the phone. Grady needed to hear his kid’s voice.
Sheriff Pratt had always had a lot more savvy than he liked to let on. “How’s your boy?”
“Inherited the soccer gene.” Grady couldn’t help a grin. “Considering the state of his bed every morning, he’s even playing in his sleep.” He stopped smiling. “The divorce was hard on him.”
“Acting out?” Pratt stroked a wiry goatee peppered with gray, understanding in his eyes.
