by Brenda Novak
“Then it’ll give you something to look forward to,” she joked.
She was still smiling after she hung up, went in and packed her bags. She was planning to stay at Mack’s tonight, so she no longer needed the room.
She’d just pulled to the curb in front of the police station when Dylan called her. “Hello?”
“Are you sitting down?” he asked.
She hadn’t gotten out yet, but she wasn’t worried about what he was going to say. She assumed he was calling to tell her what Mack had just told her—that J.T. was now awake. “Yes.”
“We just asked my dad if it was your mother who shot him.”
Her stomach muscles cramped. “And?”
“He can’t speak yet, but he nodded.”
She let her head fall forward until it rested on the steering wheel.
“Tash?”
Shit. “Okay,” she said softly. “Thanks for telling me.”
At least the confusion had been cleared up. At least she could rest assured that her mother deserved what was happening to her, she told herself.
But that didn’t help the way she felt as she started her car and drove away instead of going inside.
* * *
Natasha felt her phone buzz. Mack was trying to call her again. He probably wanted to know if her mother had decided to relent and see her. Or he was going to tell her the same thing Dylan had—that their father had confirmed her mother’s confession.
She didn’t answer. She was reluctant to talk to him right now because she didn’t want him to ask where she was. Since it was her mother who’d shot J.T., she’d decided to go over and clean up J.T.’s house. It wasn’t as if the police needed it for anything they hadn’t already done. Whiskey Creek wasn’t like some of the bigger cities, where they had a forensics team to process crime scenes from shootings and homicides. This was a small town with only a few officers, and Natasha doubted they’d ever had to perform a real murder investigation. If someone was shot or killed, it was generally like this incident, where the culprit was obvious from the beginning.
Anyway, someone had to clean up soon. Otherwise, if there was enough blood on the floor, it could invite flies and, possibly, maggots. She didn’t think it would be fair for Mack and his brothers and/or their wives to have to go through the trauma of dealing with that kind of mess.
Natasha had visited J.T.’s house before, so she knew where he lived. And she was pretty sure there was a key to get in on the same ring as her mother’s car keys. Fortunately, Anya had left her purse behind when she went to turn herself in. The police would’ve taken her personal belongings when they arrested her, anyway. Now it would be much easier for Natasha to return Anya’s car to the Amoses, which seemed the only fair thing to do—after she had a chance to drive it back to Whiskey Creek, of course.
She’d stopped to purchase a bucket and cleaning supplies, as well as knee pads, a mask and rubber gloves, before parking in the driveway behind J.T.’s truck.
The house—a small brown stucco two-bedroom/one bath—wasn’t much to brag about and neither was the yard. Weeds choked the flower beds and large brown spots in the lawn made it apparent that it wasn’t getting enough water. As she walked to the front door, she noticed spiderwebs clinging to the underside of the eaves, too, but she could tell the grass had been mowed within the last couple of weeks. She supposed that proved some small effort toward keeping up the place, although it was probably Mack or one of his brothers who’d come over to do it.
As a doctor, she didn’t get squeamish at the sight of blood, but she’d never had to deal with a scene like this, where there was no human being to help, just the aftermath of senseless violence. Bracing herself for how it might feel to know this was where J.T. had almost lost his life, because of her own mother, she inserted the key into the lock and swung the door wide.
A wall of stale, warm air hit her, and she immediately covered her nose against the scent of rotting food and garbage. How had it come to this? she wondered. J.T. and Anya knew they couldn’t get along and had no business together...
Pausing to put on a mask, she stepped inside, being careful to avoid the blood spatter on the tile entryway as she flipped on the light.
She was confronted with the groceries her mother must’ve dropped when she came in and a large reddish-brown stain on the carpet. She guessed J.T. would have to replace the carpet at some point, but she didn’t want him or anyone else in the Amos family to have to cope with cleaning up the mess, so she put some music on her phone to help distract her and set to work.
Sweat rolled down her back as she carried out the garbage, but that had to be first—anything to help with the smell. Then she threw open the windows and turned on the AC so that she could breathe easier. J.T. had fallen such that the blood flowing from his gunshot wound not only soaked the carpet but also ran onto the linoleum. Her mop turned as pink as cupcake frosting as she cleaned the kitchen floor—ironic, considering the cause wasn’t anything nearly so happy and appealing.
When she finished, she threw the mop away—she never wanted to see it again—and cleaned the dishes stacked in the sink. She even wiped down the counters and cupboards. She wanted to put one room absolutely right before continuing on to the next.
Stepping around the blood on the carpet, she moved into the living room, where she washed the walls to remove the fingerprint dust that seemed to cover everything. Apparently, the police department had done that much—gathered fingerprints and, presumably, taken the gun and her mother’s cell phone, because they weren’t there.
After three hours, she’d grown tired of her playlist and turned off the music as she started on the carpet. Getting down on her knees with a brush and a bucket of hot, soapy water, she was scrubbing hard when she heard someone at the front door. Whoever it was hadn’t knocked; they were trying the knob.
Assuming Mack had found her, or one of his brothers was stopping by to get clothes or something else for J.T., she dropped her brush into the bucket and stood as the door swung open.
A tall, thin woman, who, at first glance, looked much younger than she really was—mostly because she was darkly tanned and wearing a spaghetti-strap top with a pair of very short cutoffs—walked in. Tattoos covered both arms and an ink snake climbed her throat. That also made her seem younger. But the gray streaks that ran through her long dark hair, which fell freely around her shoulders, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made it apparent that she wasn’t young. She had to be in her fifties.
“Oh!” She’d been so busy looking behind her, as if she was afraid someone might be watching the house, that when she nearly bumped into Natasha, she startled.
“Hello.” Natasha stripped off her gloves. “What can I do for you?”
The woman glanced back at her car, which was parked on the street at the end of the walkway, as though she regretted coming to the door and wished for a quick escape. “N-nothing,” she said, her voice a raspy smoker’s voice. “I—Never mind.”
She turned to go but Natasha pressed the door closed before she could get back out. “Who are you?”
Long, fake red nails flashed as she pressed a hand to her chest. “Me?” She gave the impression that she didn’t want to identify herself, but it would’ve been too awkward to refuse, so she added, “I’m... My name’s...Stephanie.”
Stephanie? Anya had mentioned a Stephanie. Was this the other woman? That Stephanie? “Vogler?” Natasha asked, recalling the last name she’d been given.
The strap on her shirt had fallen. She slid it back onto her bony shoulder as she said, “Yes. How’d you know?”
“I’m Anya’s daughter. She’s mentioned you to me.”
Her pale blue eyes darted furtively around the apartment as if she expected Anya to appear, and Natasha suspected her of being a user, too. It made sense. Her mother had indicated that they ran in the same circles.
“Where is your mother?”
She couldn’t guess? Yesterday’s article named Anya as a person of interest, saying police suspected this could be a domestic situation. But the local paper only came out once a week, so there’d been no follow-up to report her mother’s confession. Not yet. “Why? Is that who you’re looking for?”
“Hell no. She hates my guts,” she stated frankly. “I just... I saw the car and was hoping that...that J.T. was back. That he was out of the hospital.”
If she cared about J.T., why hadn’t she been to see him? “So you know he’s been shot.”
“I shouldn’t have come.” Once again, she tried to get out, but Natasha kept her hand on the door.
“Why did you?” Natasha asked.
“I want to go. Let me out.”
“Of course. Just tell me why you’re here.”
“Because I was worried about J.T.! I was afraid that—that Stan had killed him!” Tears suddenly filled her eyes and she covered her mouth to hold back sobs.
As hard and world-wise as this woman looked, Natasha was taken aback by the emotion. “Who’s Stan?”
She blinked several times, seemingly confused. “My husband.”
Natasha felt her jaw go slack. This was not the answer she’d been expecting. “You’re married?”
Stephanie forced the door open. “I’m getting out of here.”
Natasha followed her out. “Can you...give me another second? I mean, why not? If Stan shot J.T., he has to face the consequences, right?”
“Leave me alone,” she said as she scurried to her car. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I never dreamed he cared that much.”
Once they reached her small, battered sedan, Natasha leaned on the passenger side as Stephanie power walked around it. “How do you know Stan shot J.T.?” she asked, watching J.T.’s latest love interest over the top of the vehicle.
“What do you mean?” She was too intent on escape to even look up. “He told me your mother saw him as he ran out. Surely she’s told the police by now.”
Natasha’s heart began to pound, and her feet felt anchored to the cement. Anya must not have recognized Stan. Or because of crystal meth, she couldn’t recall seeing him. “Where’s your husband now?”
Stephanie yanked open the driver’s door. “I don’t know. He took off right after it happened.”
So why had J.T. fingered Anya? “How did Stan get hold of J.T.’s gun?”
She didn’t answer. She just slammed her door, started the car and peeled off without even checking to be sure Natasha wouldn’t be hurt in the process.
* * *
“She’s where?”
Dylan looked understandably surprised when Mack confronted him, Cheyenne and Kellan in the hospital cafeteria. “At Dad’s house.”
“What’s she doing there?”
Mack wished he knew. The message he’d received from Natasha was a cryptic one: I’ve found something important. Please come to your father’s house. And bring your brothers. “She didn’t say.”
“But...why would she be at J.T.’s house?” Cheyenne seemed equally perplexed.
“Don’t tell me she’s investigating the shooting in an attempt to prove her mother innocent,” Dylan said. “Anya’s already confessed.”
“Grandpa even said it was her,” Kellan chimed in.
J.T. hadn’t actually said anything. The doctor wouldn’t allow the police to question him quite yet, said he wasn’t strong enough. But he’d nodded when Dylan had asked. What more of a confirmation was required? “I don’t know.” Mack scratched his neck. “I’ve texted her and tried to call. She’s not picking up.”
Dylan scowled. “Grady is just now starting to act normal. I don’t want to set him off again.”
“Neither do I.”
“So are you going to include him in this?”
“He was sitting with me in Dad’s hospital room when the text came in, so I already have. I’ve also texted Rod and Aaron, but I’m not sure either of them will be able to make it.”
“Aaron’s in Reno. He won’t get here until later. But why can’t Rod come?”
“Said he can’t get away from the shop.”
Dylan sat taller. “Really? Why? We’re closed for the night. It looked like he was packing up when I left.”
“He wants to finish a couple cars he’s been working on, doesn’t like being behind.”
“Too bad Grady wasn’t at the shop, too, when Natasha’s text came in.”
“I think he’ll be okay. He’s riding over with me.”
Dylan’s chest lifted as he drew a deep breath, and he shot a glance at Cheyenne. “Well? Should we drive over and see what’s going on?”
Twenty-Seven
Natasha had just finished cleaning the carpet when Dylan, Cheyenne, Kellan, Grady and Mack arrived. She’d been so relieved and excited by what she’d learned from Stephanie Vogler that she’d almost rushed over to the hospital to tell the Amos brothers everything she’d learned. But she was so far along in the cleaning process she’d decided to finish and simply have them come to her. It would be more private and easier to explain what’d happened if they were here instead of at the hospital, anyway.
Hearing the engines of their vehicles out front as she emptied her bucket and put it in the garbage in the scrubby, overgrown backyard, she wiped the sweat beading on her upper lip and hurried back in to greet them. Although she’d turned the air-conditioning way up, her shirt was sticking to her from scrubbing so hard to make quick work of what remained to be done.
“Wow! Is this what you wanted to show us?” Dylan ducked into the kitchen to survey the cleaning she’d done. “It looks great. Better than it ever has.”
“That’s so nice of you, Tash,” Mack said. “Thank you, babe.”
“Cheyenne was just talking about how we needed to get this place cleaned up,” Dylan added, “but none of us were looking forward to it.”
“I feel terrible,” Cheyenne added, giving her a sheepish look. “While I was talking about it, you were over here actually doing it.”
Finishing something that was so difficult gave Natasha a sense of pride and accomplishment. She loved that she’d been able to perform this service for the family who’d been so good to her. “I knew you were all busy trying to keep the shop and your families going while you supported J.T. I felt it was the least I could do, especially because we all believed my mother was the one who shot J.T.”
Mack and Dylan exchanged a dubious glance. “Tash—” Mack’s expression was sympathetic, but she cut him off.
“She didn’t do it, Mack. I know that now.”
Grady sighed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “We aren’t going back to this, are we? You know she did. We all do. Who else could it be?”
Natasha’s peace with Grady was tentative at best. And this wasn’t going to help strengthen their truce. But she couldn’t let her mother go to prison, not if Anya didn’t deserve it. Pulling the letter she’d found in her mother’s car out of her purse, she handed it to him.
He lowered his head and scanned it. “This letter is from my dad.”
“Yes.”
“He’s telling your mother to move out, that he’s seeing someone else.”
“Yes.” Natasha remembered how eager Stephanie had been to get inside the house without confronting any of the neighbors. “And that someone else is a woman named Stephanie Vogler. Do you know her?”
Dylan looked doubtful of where this was leading. “Never heard of her. But—” he took the letter and glanced over it “—this only provides motive, Tash.”
His voice was overly patient, the way she talked to Lucas when she was trying to convince him of a reality he didn’t want to accept. “If you didn’t know the rest of the story, that would be true,” she said.
“The rest of the sto
ry?” Mack echoed.
She lifted her chin. “It also provides motive for someone else.”
“Who?” Kellan asked, obviously intrigued by all the drama involving his derelict grandfather.
“Stephanie Vogler’s husband,” she announced.
Mack tilted his head as he looked at her. “Dad was seeing a married woman?”
“He was, and her jealous husband didn’t take kindly to it.”
The others gaped at her as Mack moved closer. “You’re saying he shot Dad. How do you know?”
“Stephanie Vogler told me.”
Dylan spread out his hands. “When? How?”
“She showed up here while I was cleaning. She thought maybe J.T. was home, but she got me instead, and had that not happened, I might never have learned the truth, and the police might never have looked any further than my mother.” She couldn’t believe that the stakes were that high and yet the truth had come down to such a coincidence.
“Whoa. Wait a second.” Mack pulled her down on the couch beside him and the others perched on chairs around the coffee table she’d just cleaned, along with the ashtray that was now empty in the center of it. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?”
Natasha told them about Stephanie letting herself in, how surprised Stephanie had been to find Natasha instead of J.T. and how she’d blurted out things she assumed were already known but weren’t. “If she hadn’t believed my mother had already told the police about her husband being the one to shoot J.T., I don’t think she ever would’ve come forward. I believe she would’ve taken that information to her grave, let him get away with it.”
Grady didn’t look entirely convinced. “But how did her husband get hold of my dad’s gun?”
“Maybe she knew where it was and told him,” Cheyenne volunteered.
Natasha appreciated that Dylan’s wife was trying to be open-minded, but she shook her head. “I don’t think so. She acted as though she hadn’t known ahead of time what her husband was going to do, as though she was extremely upset by what’d happened and blamed herself for getting involved with J.T. in the first place.”
