The Dark Woods (Winchester, Tn. Book 2)

by Debra Webb

  “A lot of people weren’t satisfied with the conclusions from that one, and frankly, I was one of them.”

  In Branch’s opinion, having the coroner a bit skeptical was saying something. “Looking back, is there anything you would do differently today?”

  He appeared to contemplate the question for a bit. “I would have sent a team through the woods a second time. They did a search that night but I would have done another at daylight. Luther didn’t think it was necessary. He had the case nailed shut already. Personally I think the decision not to do a second search might have been a mistake. I’m convinced ignoring the little girl was one. I don’t know that either issue would have changed anything, but better to be safe than sorry. Especially since the child said she heard voices besides her parents’ in the house that night.”

  Branch frowned. “You certain about that? There are some who believe she never mentioned the voices until about a week later.”

  “You’d have to ask Luther to be certain, but I recall her saying something along those lines that night. Course, I was pretty focused on the bodies, but I’m reasonably sure I didn’t hear wrong. In fact, I told Chief Brannigan the same thing this morning.”

  It appeared Brannigan was on the same track. No real surprise. “Thanks, Burt. I’ll talk to Luther,” Branch assured him.

  The problem was, he already had.

  Chapter Eleven

  City hall looked basically the same as it had when Sasha was a child except for the metal detectors and the bag search. She’d come here with her grandmother once or twice after her parents died. Her grandmother had always gone into the chief’s office while Sasha sat in a chair in the small lobby with the secretary or assistant to the chief.

  She sat in a similar chair now. The upholstered chairs were different from the ones that had been here when she was a child but the polished tile floor was the same. The nondescript tan walls were the same. A couple more framed photos of officers who had lost their lives in the line of duty had been added to the one blue wall.

  Sasha wasn’t anticipating anything new in the chief’s investigation of her parents’ deaths. He’d only decided to reopen the case a few hours ago. Of course, there was the chance they had discovered some piece of evidence at her grandmother’s house related to the break-in. Frankly, she was grateful for any support on the case. She hadn’t expected to garner this much attention.

  “Ms. Lenoir,” the older woman behind the desk said, “the chief is ready to see you now.”

  Sasha stood and the door across the small room opened. The chief stepped out to greet her. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Lenoir.”

  Sasha thanked the secretary and entered the chief’s office.

  “Do you have some news for me, Chief?” She watched as he closed the door behind them.

  “Actually, I have a few questions for you.” He gestured to the pair of chairs in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Sasha settled into one of the chairs and waited for the chief to do the same on the other side of the desk.

  He leaned forward, scanned his notes. “I met with former chief of police Luther Holcomb and the county coroner, Burt Johnston. Both remembered the Lenoir case quite vividly. The trouble is I got conflicting stories about you from the two of them.” Billy’s gaze fixed on hers. “I know it’s been a long time and that memories cloud with time, but this is one of those things that shouldn’t be difficult to recall.”

  “How can I help, Chief?” Strange, Branch had the same two men on his list this morning. She wondered if he and Brannigan had run into each other.

  “There seems to be some question as to when you actually mentioned hearing other voices—besides your parents’—in the house that night.”

  A frown tugged at her brow. She was surprised by this particular question. “Chief Holcomb didn’t include a statement from me in the official case file. He didn’t feel my statement was credible. Are you saying you think that was a mistake?”

  “Before we talk about my thoughts, did Chief Holcomb explain his reasoning for that decision?” Brannigan asked.

  “There was some question as to why I didn’t speak up earlier and the psychiatrist who evaluated me seemed to feel I was making up the whole story.” Hurt and anger twisted inside her. She had been telling the truth. If everyone had listened to her then, maybe the investigation would have been conducted differently. Her grandmother had been so upset by Sasha’s reactions to the sessions that she had refused to take Sasha back to see the man. At the time, Sasha had been glad. The doctor had made her feel strange, as if she were lying, and she had been telling the truth.

  “I’ve tried to contact Dr. Farr, the psychiatrist who evaluated you, but he seems to be unavailable. The dilemma I have is that according to Burt Johnston, the coroner, you were talking about the other voices that very night, which directly conflicts with what Chief Holcomb says. Obviously, someone made a mistake. I just need to figure out which one is correct.”

  Sasha searched her memory of that night, tried to find a moment where she remembered speaking about the voices to someone amid the macabre activities happening around her. She remembered her parents’ motionless bodies...the blood everywhere...the anguished screams of her grandmother...the uniforms of the officers and the men from the ambulance. Sasha had felt as if she was in an odd bubble lingering all around the insanity but not quite inside it.

  “Chief, parts of that night are a complete blur. I was in shock. Traumatized. If I was talking, I’m sure I said something about what I heard. The problem is, I can’t actually remember speaking. If my grandmother was here...”

  But she wasn’t. Viola Simmons was gone. And with her, any information she had possessed about that horrendous night.

  After so many years, how could Sasha hope to ever really know the truth? So many who might have known more were either dead or in bad health or simply no longer remembered.

  Brannigan nodded, his expression filled with concern. “I’ve known Luther and Burt my whole life. They’re both good men and neither would purposely misdirect a case. I would trust either one with my life. That said, one of them is wrong. Is there anyone else who would have been close enough to you and your family to know the details of that night?”

  There was only one person. “Arlene Holloway. My grandmother and she were best friends. She might be able to help.”

  “I’ll drop in on Mrs. Holloway. Thank you for coming by, Ms. Lenoir. Whatever you believe, I want to get to the bottom of this the same as you do.”

  “Thank you, Chief. That means a great deal to me.”

  As Sasha left the building, she noticed Leandra Brennan at the security desk in the lobby. The older woman spotted Sasha at about the same time and their gazes locked. Sasha held her gaze until her mother’s old friend Lenny looked away. What kind of friend withheld potential information that might be able to cast new light on an old tragedy?

  “The chief’s office is directly that way, ma’am.”

  Sasha turned, walking backward and watching the Brennan woman as she strode toward the chief’s office. Funny, there was no statement in the case file from her mother’s best friend. Sasha wasn’t a cop or a private investigator, but she could not see how that was right under any circumstances. Anyone close to her parents should have been interviewed. It simply didn’t make sense. Brennan had insisted that she was out of town and nothing she knew was relevant, and apparently Chief Holcomb had taken her at her word.

  A huge mistake, in Sasha’s opinion. The woman was definitely hiding something.

  Outside, she stood on the sidewalk and stared at the fading afternoon sun. She had been back in Winchester since Thursday evening—mere hours after she received the call about her grandmother. Friday Rey had taken care of all the funeral arrangements and Sasha had gone through photo albums and boxes of her grandmother’s stored treasures. It wasn’t until somet
ime Saturday that the reality sunk in. Her grandmother was dead.

  Sasha climbed into her rental and drove the short distance to the cemetery. She hadn’t been back there since the burial on Sunday. Right now she just needed to go back. To be near her grandmother.

  She drove to the section of the cemetery where the family plot was and parked. The breeze kicked up and she shivered. Growing up, she’d never liked cemeteries. She would never forget watching her parents’ caskets lowered into the cold ground.

  A part of her had vanished that day. She hadn’t seen that little girl since.

  She walked over to the family plot, which was quite large. Simmonses had been buried here for several generations. Sasha sat down on the bench her grandmother had had installed near her parents’ graves. The double headstone sat right next to the double one for her grandparents.

  There was still enough space in the plot right next to her parents’ for another double headstone. Would she need a double? She hadn’t even come close to the altar or even moving in with a significant other.

  It was just she and Brianne.

  Sasha studied the date on the headstone that belonged to her parents. She suspected that her grandmother had only buried them next to each other for Sasha’s benefit. Looking back, what mother who actually believed a man had killed her daughter would want him buried in the family plot for any reason—even to appease her nine-year-old granddaughter?

  Had Viola really believed the official conclusions?

  So many aspects of the tragedy were contradictory. So many pieces didn’t properly fit into place.

  But was she looking for a reason to believe her father was innocent? Had someone else been doing the same thing when they broke into her house and left that note?

  Now she was really grasping at straws. She reminded herself that Branch Holloway and Billy Brannigan would not be poking around in the case unless they suspected something was amiss.

  Several headstones away, she noted a blonde woman wearing a dark sweater. Arms hugged tightly around her slim body, she stood staring down at a wide granite marker. Sasha watched her for a moment, sensing she should recognize her. The breeze pushed the hair back from her cheek and Sasha realized who she was. Rowan DuPont, the undertaker’s daughter. She’d buried her father in this cemetery barely a week ago. Like Sasha, she was alone now—except Sasha had her daughter. But the last of her ancestors were gone. Somehow the realization made the loss all the more difficult.

  She checked her cell. Nothing from Branch yet. She should go back to the house and look around some more. The memories had really been coming inside that old house, and as difficult as it was to be there, this—venture—was about revisiting the past. More often than not the truth was not comfortable.

  Discomfort she was prepared for.

  Sasha called her daughter as she walked back to her car. There were more questions about Branch and more teasing. Deep down it pleased Sasha that her daughter thought he was good-looking. She’d had a great day at school and only had one more test this week. She could leave for Winchester tomorrow afternoon and spend the rest of the week. Sasha managed to talk her out of that one. She promised to text good-night.

  When the call ended Sasha was halfway across town before she remembered to text Branch with her change of plans. She had promised to keep him informed of her whereabouts. Not that she was opposed to doing so; she’d simply forgotten. After her late-night visitor, he was right about keeping in touch. When she made the turn onto the long narrow driveway, she braked long enough to send the text. Then she rolled the quarter of a mile to her childhood home.

  This late in the afternoon it was almost dark on the porch. Sasha unlocked the front door and flipped on a light. She’d spent a lot of time in her mother’s office when she was here before. No need to pilfer around in there today.

  She climbed the stairs, turning on lights, watching the dust motes float through the air. Bypassing her own room, she walked into her parents’ room. This time, rather than look through drawers, she went to the closet and started digging through pockets and bags. Her mother had owned a dozen or more handbags. Sasha fished through each one and found nothing. She ran her hands into each pocket on each pair of pants and blouse or dress. Not one thing. Not a scrap of paper, a business card or even a piece of lint.

  Viola had taken most all her daughter’s jewelry, except the pearls, to her house and put it away for Sasha, so there was nothing in the jewelry box. That left only one unexplored space—the bathroom. Of course, the original investigation had checked for drugs and anything that might be considered contraband.

  Sasha checked each item in the bathroom. Every bottle of makeup, stick of deodorant and jar of liquid soap. There was nothing that should not be there. Nothing unexpected. She turned toward the door, her gaze landing on the tissue box on the back of the toilet. No point leaving a single stone unturned.

  She picked up the box and pulled out tissue after tissue, allowing them to fall onto the closed toilet seat. Obviously she was losing it. Rolling her eyes, she started to put the box back and then she noticed the blue on the white tissues. Sasha picked up the one on top.

  Major structural flaws.

  She dragged another from the box. It, too, was marred with blue ink.

  Material will be stressed beyond its strength.

  Then another. Monumental failure at some point in the future.

  And the next. Don’t know what to do.

  Sasha’s heart was thundering by the time she reached the last tissue in the box.

  Can’t tell Brandon.

  She wasn’t sure what this meant but it had to be important. Why else would her mother hide the notes in the bathroom tissue box?

  Sasha could imagine her mother sitting alone in this bathroom, worried and afraid, and making notes to herself...or to anyone who might find them.

  Cold seeped into Sasha’s bones. The idea of her mother being afraid twisted her heart.

  She pulled her cell from her pocket and checked her screen. Why hadn’t Branch responded to her text?

  A red exclamation answered the question. Message failed to send.

  A scan of the top of the screen explained why. No service.

  She hit Try Again with the same result.

  “Well, damn.” Maybe the service would be better outside. She shoved the tissues back into the box and stowed it under her arm.

  The house was utterly silent. No humming refrigerator sound. No soft purr of the heating or cooling systems. No ticking clock. So when a creak splintered the air Sasha froze in her tracks.

  There was no gun in the house. No weapons that she was aware of... Maybe a knife in the kitchen.

  But she wasn’t in the kitchen.

  Then she remembered the security system. She rushed to her father’s side of the bed and dragged the baseball bat from under the skirt.

  Her heart pounding, Sasha placed the box of tissues on the nightstand and gripped the bat with both hands. Moving slowly in hopes of not hitting a squeaky spot in the floor, she eased out of her parents’ room. She made it to the hall without a sound. Downstairs the intruder wasn’t so careful. He had just entered the kitchen.

  Could it be the same guy from last night?

  She was halfway down the staircase when the tread beneath her right foot creaked.

  Sasha froze.

  Silence seemed to explode all around her and yet there was utter stillness, utter quiet. It was the blood roaring through her veins that sounded like an explosion.

  The crash of the back door banking off the siding jolted her into motion once more. Sasha ran for the kitchen. As she reached the door that stood wide open, she spotted a male in dark clothes and a dark cap disappearing into the woods.

  She hesitated for only a moment. Long enough to hit Try Again and then to send Branch another text.

  Intruder!
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  Sasha shoved her phone into her pocket and ran for the woods, the bat held at the ready. “Stop!” she shouted.

  When she reached the woods she scanned the trees, caught a glimpse of a dark shape fading into the shadows.

  She hurried in that direction. “Hey! What do you want?”

  Her voice reverberated around her, bouncing off the trees.

  She ran until she stopped seeing glimpses of the fleeing man. Then she skidded to a stop.

  Her breath heaving in and out of her lungs, she surveyed the gloom. Nothing. And it was so damned quiet. Frustrated and feeling completely ridiculous, she started to turn around. Branch would be furious when he found out what she’d done. She’d run toward the trouble rather than away.

  Not smart, Sasha. Even if she did have her father’s baseball bat.

  The corner of something rustic and out of place captured her attention.

  Wood and metal.

  The shack. Sasha cut through the dense underbrush, following a now hidden path that she knew by heart.

  Her jaw dropped as she stared at the dilapidated structure. The shack was maybe eight feet by ten and perhaps seven feet tall. Her father had told her it was at least a hundred years old when she was a little girl.

  This had been her playhouse by the time she was seven years old and knew how to sneak through the woods without her mother or her grandmother knowing she’d disappeared. She had come here nearly every day.

  She reached for the old door. It wasn’t a real door. Just a bunch of boards nailed together and hung on hinges. The wood was rotting around the edges of the door and the hinges squeaked when she pulled it open. Wood banged against wood as the door plopped against the exterior of the shack.

  Inside she blinked to hasten the adjustment of her eyes. There were cobwebs and dust. Lots of dust like in the house.

  Against the far wall was a blanket. A discarded soft-drink can and a bit of other food trash. Had someone been staying here?

  No, wait. The layer of dust on everything suggested no one had been here in a very long time.