The Butterfly Collector
Page 5
“Oh, I’m sure you did.” He looked around at the other empty houses. “You’ve had a lot of appointments in this neighborhood already.”
“My company has, yes. It’s what we do.”
“You came here to take the man’s house away from him right after he lost his job and his wife left him. You’re doing God’s work, for sure.”
She knew his anger wasn’t directed at her specifically. Greg had been his friend and a reminder of what might have been his fate, had he stayed. Her job sucked. So did his. Seeing Greg like that shook her and she couldn’t stand the man. She could only imagine how Graham felt.
She knew all that and yet his words still stung. “We all have our jobs to do even if we don’t like them.”
He inclined his head toward the house. “Just give me the brief on what happened in there.”
She looked back at the house and the flashing rage Graham had ignited dulled to a simmering roar. The other officers had all gone inside, no doubt so they would have something to tell folks over breakfast tomorrow down at The Do or Dine Diner. She closed her eyes on the images that flashed across her mind of Deidre and Greg lying on the kitchen floor. If only she could scrub it from her memory.
Opening her eyes, she turned to Graham. “I went into the house, looking for Greg—”
“You just waltzed in.”
“No. I found a key in the pot by the door. Kavender owns this house now. I had every right to go in as their agent.”
“Right. So you went in, then what?”
She couldn’t tell him about her vision. She’d been so careful, keeping her ability a secret all these years. Even so, she knew there was something about her that marked her as different, something that set her apart. It was more than her quirky aunt and her motherlessness. She made people uneasy, their gazes connecting briefly, then skittering away. They didn’t stand too close to her or draw her into idle conversations. Maybe it was something inherent like some kind of silent signal, making them wary of her. She didn’t know. She’d spent too long trying to overcome whatever it was, to no avail. Revealing her secret wouldn’t change anything.
“When I walked into the kitchen, Greg was standing over Deidre with a gun in his hand.” Erin exhaled hard. “She was dead.”
“He was alive when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“He was upset. He said he didn’t kill her.”
“They all say that.”
“Yeah, but I really don’t think he did it.”
His posture changed subtlety, shifting toward her. “Go on.”
“He kept saying that the police wouldn’t believe him. I told him that I believed him. He started crying and knelt down… he, ah…” She paused, not knowing where to look, tears brimming her eyes.
Graham moved closer, dropping his voice to where only she could hear him under the umbrella. “You’re doing fine. Go on.” His nearness brought back old memories and the thousands of times she’d wished for him to get this close.
“Greg knelt down beside her, his knees in her…in her blood. And he stroked her hair. It was kind of sweet. He told her he loved her and that she was right to leave him. He apologized.”
“For what?”
“Everything. I guess. He was saying goodbye to his wife. I think he really loved her.”
“What did you do?”
“I called 9-1-1. He didn’t want me to. But we needed help. He kept saying that no one would believe he didn’t kill her. And then he…he…he put the gun to his head.”
Graham made a move to pat her shoulder, but pulled the gesture last minute. There was something in his gaze, something unguarded and searching. “I’m sorry.”
Glancing at the house, she shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t let herself think about how much she wanted his comfort, his arms around her, holding her. Having him back in San Rey after all these years… She shook her head. She couldn’t let those thoughts get any further. They’d never be what she wanted them to be.
A sky blue 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood rolled to a stop at the curb next to Graham’s cruiser. A burl of a man unfolded from the driver’s seat and plunked a gray fedora on his head. Ham Doran still carried himself like the sheriff even though his son had replaced him. He adjusted the collar of his raincoat, nodded at Graham, then turned toward the house. There was a jerk in his stride as his gaze snagged on Erin, but he quickly covered and continued on into the house.
She followed Ham’s movements until he disappeared inside, unable to pull her gaze away from the old sheriff. His dislike for her family ran deeper than her memories. As many times as she questioned her father and aunt about it, the harsher their reaction to her inquiry became until she stopped asking altogether. Whatever had happened between Ham Doran and her family would stay a secret.
“Shit,” Graham grumbled.
“Looks like someone forgot to tell your dad he’s not sheriff anymore,” Erin said.
“He’s not supposed to be straining himself. I’m going to have to take a baseball bat to his damn police radio.”
“Old habits are hard to break.”
“Maybe.” He frowned at her. If he knew how badly the fullness of his lips ruined the expression, he probably wouldn’t bother with it. Drops of rain dotted his beard and Erin tried to remember what he looked like without it. Was it soft? What would it feel like on her skin?
“Look,” he said, breaking into her thoughts and eyeing the new cars driving up the street. Mabel had obviously spread the word. “You’re covered in evidence and you need to come to the station to make a formal statement.”
Erin glanced down at her rain and blood soaked coat. Sparring with Graham had distracted her. Maybe he’d intended that by baiting her about her job, but his words brought back the horror of the situation. She was literally covered in pieces of Greg. Her mouth filled with saliva. She pulled in sharp, cold air through her nose, trying to quell her queasy stomach. He watched her, no doubt taking in the fact that she was barely holding on. She managed a brief nod.
“I’ll need to take your clothes in as evidence. Do you have any others you can change into?”
“Not with me, but I can have my aunt bring me some. You really have to take my clothes?”
More cars arrived and people began to set up tailgate-style, with lawn chairs and Easy-up tents. Ice chests were opened, beers passed and one enterprising voyeur set up a Hibachi grill. Greg and Deidre’s deaths would be the event of the century and no one wanted to miss it. She liked a great many things about the town she grew up in. But sometimes—like now—the smallness of it suffocated her.
Graham looked a little sorry for her and a lot pissed off at their audience. “Let’s get you in the car. I’ve got to get this crime scene secured.” He took the umbrella and held it up as he guided her to his car. He covered her as she climbed into the backseat of the cruiser, then leaned in. “Don’t talk to anyone. No phone calls, nothing. Got it? I’ll be right back.”
She nodded and he closed the door. He didn’t look back at her as he made his way into the house. She leaned against the hard, molded plastic seat and closed her eyes. The shaking started again, this time a combination of cold, fear, and being too damn close to Graham Doran.
* * *
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About the Author
USA Today best selling author and Rita® finalist, Beth Yarnall, writes mysteries, romantic suspense, and the occasional hilarious tweet. A storyteller since her playground days, Beth remembers her friends asking her to make up stories of how the person `died' in the slumber party game Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, so it's little wonder she prefers writing stories in which people meet unfortunate ends.
For a number of years, Beth made her living as a hairstylist and makeup artist and even owned a salon. Somehow hairstylists a
nd salons seem to find their way into her stories. Beth lives in Southern California with her husband, two sons, and their rescue dog where she is hard at work on her next novel. For more information about Beth and her novels please visit her website.
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Beth@BethYarnall.com