The Dark Woods (Winchester, Tn. Book 2)

by Debra Webb

  “It’s hard to be a parent without finding the right partner first.” He winked at her. “I’m beginning to think I let the only one for me get away a long time ago.”

  The warmth that gushed through her was at once exhilarating and terrifying. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sasha dropped behind the wheel and closed the door before Branch could say anything else.

  He watched as she backed from the drive and drove away.

  Branch Holloway had always been incredibly charming. He hadn’t meant what he said the way it sounded—the way her mind and body took it. Sasha was certain on that one. Being kind was one of his most well-known traits. It was as natural as breathing for him.

  He hadn’t actually meant that she had stolen his heart and ruined him for anyone else. They’d had a one-night stand after years of her pining after him.

  End of story.

  At least, for Branch, it had ended there.

  For Sasha, that night had only been the beginning.

  Chapter Three

  Monday, March 25

  Chief of Police Billy Brannigan was waiting in his office for Branch’s arrival. Billy had personally dropped by the archives and picked up the Lenoir file. He stood and extended his hand across his desk when Branch walked in.

  “Morning, Branch. I thought you were on vacation.”

  Branch clasped his hand and gave it a shake. “I am. Just helping a friend.”

  Billy settled into his chair and tapped the file box on his desk. “This is everything we have. You looking for something in particular with this old case?”

  Though Billy had been a senior when Branch made the team, they’d spent one year on the high school football team together. They’d been friends and colleagues most of the time since. Billy was a good man. He’d spent his life giving back to the community. Branch respected him, trusted him. He saw no reason to beat around the bush on the subject.

  “You’re aware Mrs. Simmons just passed away.” Branch had spotted him at the funeral.

  Billy nodded. “Viola was one of the people who insisted I step into the position of chief of police. She and about a half a dozen descendants from the town founders showed up at my door and practically demanded that I take the mayor up on his offer. Until the end of her life she still attended every single city council meeting.”

  “She’ll be missed,” Branch agreed. “You remember her granddaughter Sasha.”

  It wasn’t really a question. Even those too young or old to remember Sasha Lenoir from when her parents died, most everyone had heard about how she worked with some of the biggest celebrities in the country. Sasha had set the gold standard for turning around a media crisis.

  “I spoke to her for a moment at visitation on Saturday afternoon.”

  “She wants to go over the case, mostly to put that part of her past to bed once and for all. There are a lot of questions in her mind about those days. I’m hoping I can help her clear those up. She mentioned hiring a PI, but since I have some time on my hands I thought I’d save her the trouble, see if we can’t find the answers.”

  Billy nodded. “Understandable. She was just a kid when it happened. I’m sure she has questions she wasn’t mature enough to ask at the time.”

  “From what I gather, her grandmother didn’t want her looking back, so they never talked about what happened. Now that she’s gone, Sasha feels it’s time to open that door.”

  “I’m entrusting the case file to you,” the chief reminded him. “All I ask is that you keep me advised of anything you find contrary to the investigation’s final conclusions and return these files intact to me when you’re finished.”

  As chief, of course he wanted to be kept advised and aware of any red flags. Any contrary conclusions reflected on his department. “Understood.” Branch got to his feet and reached for the box.

  “Look forward to your insights.”

  Branch exited city hall and loaded the box into the back seat of his truck. It was still fairly early, only eight thirty. He imagined Sasha was still operating on Eastern time. Since he didn’t have her number he couldn’t shoot her a text before showing up. He’d just have to take his chances.

  When he reached the Simmons house, Sasha was sitting on the front porch. Like a number of other homes in Winchester’s historic downtown, the Simmons home wasn’t far from anything. On the other hand, the house where Sasha had grown up—where her parents died—was outside Winchester proper, deep in the woods on the family farm. His grandmother had often commented that she didn’t know why they hadn’t sold that place rather than allow it to sit empty and falling into disrepair. Maybe it had been too painful to make a decision.

  He grabbed the case file box and headed for the porch.

  “Good morning. Would you like coffee?” She gestured to a porcelain pot waiting on a tray. “I have blueberry scones. I made them this morning.”

  “You’ve been busy.” He placed the box onto a chair and settled into the one next to it.

  “I’m not the only one.” She poured his coffee and passed the delicate cup to him. She placed a scone on a dessert plate and handed it along next. The china was covered in pink roses and looked far too fragile for a guy like him to handle.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He felt kind of foolish drinking from the fancy little cup but the scone was far tastier than he’d expected. “This is not bad, Sassy.”

  She lifted her eyebrows at him and he winced. “My apologies. I guess I had an awkward flashback.”

  Sasha laughed. “Forgiven. But just this once.”

  “Whew. I was worried,” he teased. “I remember you socking Randy Gaines in the nose. Bled like a stuck hog.”

  Her hand went to her mouth to cover a smile. “I always felt bad about punching him—not at that precise moment. After I’d had time to cool off. Eventually I apologized to him. I think it was like ten years later at our first class reunion.”

  She looked away and silence expanded between them for the next minute or so. It didn’t take a crystal ball to comprehend that she was thinking the same thing he was. They’d had sex in his truck the night of her five-year reunion. Heat boiled up around his collar. He hadn’t exactly shown a lot of finesse. Since that night he had wished a hundred times for a do-over. His gut clenched at the thought. Memories of how she’d felt in his arms, the soft sounds she’d made, the way her skin had smelled, echoed through him and his body tightened with lust.

  “So, have you had a look yet?” She nodded toward the box, careful to avoid eye contact.

  He polished off the last bite of his scone. “No, ma’am. I waited so we could do it together.”

  Their gazes locked and that same lust he’d experienced a moment ago flared again. She looked away. He reached for the box. He should get his act together. She’d just lost her grandmother and she was vulnerable. The last thing he wanted was her picking up on his crazy needs.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  While he removed the stacks from the box, she gathered their dishes and set them on the tray. Then she disappeared into the house. By the time she returned with glasses of ice water, he’d arranged the files in chronological and workable stacks.

  “So what we have here—” he opened the first folder “—are the investigator’s reports, the coroner’s report, crime scene photos and the medical examiner’s report.” He studied Sasha for a moment. He wondered if she realized how difficult this was going to be. She had the prettiest green eyes and he loved all those soft curls that fell over her face and shoulders. She was a beautiful woman. He blinked, reminded himself to stay focused. “Are you sure you want to see all the grisly details?”

  She stared at him, her eyes hot with determination. “I was there, Branch. I saw everything that night. Heard my mother’s screams and my father’s pleas.”

  He nodded. “All right, then.” He opened the folder and spre
ad the photos across the table. “Your mother was lying on the living room floor. She’d been shot twice in the chest.” He read the description of her father’s injuries. “Your father took—”

  “One shot to the head. He was dead before he fell onto the sofa. Blood was everywhere.” Her voice was hollow, distant. “I had to stand on the fireplace hearth to avoid the blood.”

  His chest ached at the image of her as a little girl, the pigtails he recalled so vividly and those big green eyes, standing alone and surrounded by a sea of red pouring from her mother’s lifeless body. “There was no indication of forced entry. The responding officers had to break down the door to get inside.”

  Sasha stared at the photos. “I tried to wake them up, but I couldn’t. Then I called 911. But I was afraid to unlock the door when they pounded and called out to me. I’m sure I was in shock.”

  Her voice had gone small, like the child she had been when the tragedy happened. The urge to take her hand and remind her that she was safe now tugged at his gut.

  “How about we go over the reports and you tell me if you recall anything differently than the way it was documented.”

  She nodded and took the pages he offered. While she read over the reports, he studied the ME’s report to see if either victim showed any indication whatsoever of a struggle. The ME noted wisps of Alexandra’s hair having been torn out. So he—presumably her husband—held her by the hair rather than by the wrist or arm. No scratches or bruises on either victim. No alcohol or drugs found in her mother; her father had been drinking fairly heavily. The evidence reports showed a number of unidentified fingerprints found in the house. Not unusual. People had visitors. Visitors left prints. That alone didn’t mean anyone besides the family or close friends had been in the house that night or any other.

  Sasha laid the investigator’s final report aside and took a breath.

  “Thoughts?” He waited, gave her time to collect herself. This was hard. This was exactly, he imagined, why or at least part of the reason her grandmother had never wanted to take this journey.

  “That night and then again about a week after...that night, I told my grandmother I’d heard another voice, maybe two in the house besides my parents’. She took me to see Chief Holcomb but there’s nothing in the report about my statement.”

  “It’s possible—” Branch hoped to convey this without being too blunt “—the chief didn’t feel your statement was reliable enough to enter into evidence, particularly if it was days later.”

  She made a face that spoke of her frustration and no small amount of anger. “I suspected that was the case. I remember Chief Holcomb suggesting that I’d dreamed about that night and my imagination had added the voices in an attempt to divert guilt from my father. He urged my grandmother to take me for counseling and she did, but those sessions didn’t change what I remembered.”

  Branch could see how Holcomb might have come to that conclusion. For an officer of the law, logic had to be first and foremost when looking at an emotional situation. Anyone could imagine the horror and pain involved with an event like murder, but that empathy could not dictate how an investigator tackled a case.

  “Denial is a powerful emotion. It’s possible what Chief Holcomb suggested was exactly what happened.”

  She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “That’s not what happened. I know what I heard. I was simply too traumatized at first to explain my impressions. I’ve lived with this for a long time, Branch. I know what I heard. Those voices have played in my thoughts and in my dreams for twenty-seven years.”

  “All right, then. Let’s talk about the voices.” Was it possible someone else was involved? Absolutely, and if he found even a speck of evidence to support that theory, he was going the distance with it. He shuffled the crime scene photos together and placed them back into the folder. There was no need to leave those gruesome images lying in front of her. “Let’s talk about the voice or voices. What exactly did you hear?”

  “I heard a voice and it wasn’t my father’s.”

  “And it wasn’t your mother?”

  “No. It was a male voice. Deep, really deep—and mean. I remember shaking when I heard it even though I didn’t understand the words. Then I heard my mother crying and my dad pleading with someone to let her go. He kept saying Please don’t do this. Just let her go.”

  Her voice trembled with the last. “At what point did you hear the second unidentified voice?”

  “When my mother started to scream, I heard another male voice. This one wasn’t as deep. It sounded like he said There’s another way we can do this. It’s possible, I guess, that it was the same man, but I believe it was someone different from the first voice I heard.”

  Branch braced his arms on the table and considered her recounting. “Where exactly were you in the house?”

  This was the point in the conversation when she shrank down in her chair, her shoulders visibly slumped, her eyes reflecting the remembered horror. “I was hiding under the stairs. When Mom and Dad argued I always hid in the closet under the stairs.”

  This would explain why she hadn’t actually witnessed what happened. “After the gunshots, how long did you stay under the stairs?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Minutes. An hour. Until it had been quiet for a really long time. I was too afraid to move.”

  Branch hesitated but then asked, “So there were sounds after the gunshots?”

  She blinked. “Yes.” She paused as if she’d only just considered that idea. “There were sounds. Footsteps.” Her brow furrowed in concentration. “A door opened and then closed.”

  Branch found himself leaning forward. Every instinct he possessed told him she was telling the truth or at least what she believed to be the truth. “Were the footsteps heavy or light, a shuffle or more like a march or big steps?”

  “Heavy, like the person walking was big.”

  “What about the door? Did he use the front door or did he exit through the back of the house?” If he remembered correctly, the staircase in the old Lenoir house was very near the front door.

  “Not the front door. Farther away.” She cocked her head as if trying to remember. “It must have been the back door.” She suddenly nodded, the movement adamant. “Definitely the back door because I heard the squeak of the screen door, too. There was no screen door on the front.”

  “What happened after that?” It was important that he didn’t lead her in a particular direction. Just a nudge from time to time to keep her going.

  “I opened the closet door a little to try to see.” She moistened her lips.

  He watched, wished he hadn’t. More of that foolish lust had his fingers tightening into fists.

  “I didn’t hear any more sounds and I couldn’t see anyone, so I crawled out of the closet. I called for my mom and dad.” She shook her head. “They didn’t answer. So I got up and started to look for them. That’s when I saw the blood.” Her eyes grew bright with emotion. “I tried to wake her up. Got blood on my dress and shoes.” She shuddered. “I ran to the sofa—to my dad—but there was a sizable chunk of his skull missing. I don’t know how I remembered to grab the phone from the end table, but I did. I ran to the hearth and that’s where I stayed until help came.”

  “Let’s talk about what was happening in the days prior to that night.” He needed to pull her away from that ugly scene. He would be talking to Holcomb about her statement. Her recounting certainly seemed credible to him. But she was an adult now. She’d had years to refine her memory. “Your parents were arguing, you said. Was the argument any more serious than usual?”

  “My father had lost his job. Mother accused him of drinking too much. I think that’s why he was fired. She was tired and angry. And under a lot of pressure at her job.”

  “Your mother worked at the municipal office.”

  “She was a superviso
r at building inspections. The job came with a lot of stress.”

  He knew most of this because he’d grown up right here in Winchester with Sasha. The more they talked, the more he remembered. Looking at those photos of Sasha as a kid, a terrified, emotionally traumatized kid, tore him apart.

  “I’ll speak to Luther Holcomb. See if they had any leads relating to any other scenarios. Anyone who had it in for your dad or your mom.”

  She sat up straighter then. “Does that mean you believe me? You don’t think I imagined the voices and the...?” She waved her hand in the air. “The other stuff?”

  “I believe—” he chose his words carefully “—there was more to what happened than what we’re finding in the reports.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Now we start at the beginning of when any trouble began and we work our way up to that night. We put together the pieces we find until we discover the parts no one else has found before. We turn over every rock, we shake every tree and then we do it again until we unearth anything we didn’t know before.”

  “But it’s been so long.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Do you think we can find the truth? Will anyone else remember?”

  If Sasha’s father did not murder his wife and then shoot himself, that meant someone else did. Branch could guarantee that person remembered what happened, and if Sasha’s recall of the voices was accurate, at least one other person would remember, too.

  “I don’t know how successful we’ll be but we can try.”

  She nodded, stood abruptly. “Thank you for agreeing to help me. You said you have a meeting in Nashville. I don’t want to keep you.”

  Branch pushed to his feet, picked up his hat. “I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

  “I’ll keep digging through all those reports and see what I can find.”

  He gave her a nod and she walked him down the steps, then waved as he crossed the yard to his truck. Whatever truth there was to find, he would help her find it.