“I need y’alls help.” Now Jackson leaned in, his brow wrinkled in consternation. “I need you and your brothers to look at everyone’s hands. Search the tables for a missing napkin, something someone could use to wipe their hands clean.”
“Hoping to catch someone red-handed?” Billy asked in a very un-Billy-like attempt at pun humor, earning him a squinty look from both Jackson and me.
“Really, Billy?” I shook my head. My steady and cool older brother had a history of being awkward or downright stupid at the weirdest of times, usually during a crisis or when he felt uncertain. I supposed I couldn’t fault him too much. Stress and anxiety were like the stormwater runoff of mental health issues. If ignored over time, they carved away at even the sturdiest and strongest.
I turned to Jackson, stroking my beard again. “Why us? Why do you want our help?”
“Because I know where all of you were before, during, and after the shooting. And I trust your family. And I already checked all y’all’s hands.”
“Fine. We’ll help.” Billy adjusted the cuffs of his suit, a nervous gesture. I wanted to give him the side-eye, but I refrained since Jackson was still with us and watching.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jackson said, walking around us to head back to the barn.
My brother and I followed, shoulder to shoulder, and I tried not to dwell too much on what Billy would have to be nervous about. It wasn’t hard to redirect my thoughts since I already knew—or strongly suspected—who had touched Kip after he’d been shot.
Given what I knew as of now, Diane must’ve washed her hands and ran off with Repo into the woods.
She’d been there.
And that meant she probably knew who’d done it.
Chapter Six
*Cletus*
“The most difficult kind of strength -- restraint.”
Rick Riordan, The Blood of Olympus
I’d resisted the urge to ask Jenn if she was okay last night. Initially, I’d refrained while in the bakery kitchen after Boone broke the news about her father. Then I’d continued resisting the urge at the barn while half-heartedly pretending to inspect folks’ hands for blood I knew I wouldn’t find. Furthermore, I’d persisted in my resistance on the drive home, after everyone had been released by the police around 2:00 AM.
Ignoring this urge felt akin to ignoring a pant leg full of spiders, or a plate of my sausage left uneaten at a family picnic, or a special on blueberries down at the Piggly Wiggly.
I hadn’t been able to sleep. Too much to process, too many unknowns and details that didn’t fit together shoved my eyes open every time they’d drifted shut.
The first rays of sunlight peeked through the blinds in Jenn’s bedroom. Sneaking another peek at her profile as she lay curled against my side, finally sleeping after tossing and turning for hours, I bit the inside of my lip and wrestled with the big question: When should I tell Jenn about seeing her momma in the bakery kitchen?
Jenn looked relaxed, peaceful. I knew her present slumber was neither. Last night, watching her when Boone had relayed the truth of her father’s fate, she’d appeared to be genuinely grief-stricken. Watching her reaction, I suffered an uncanny glimmer of relief that I hadn't yet pulled the final lever to end my own father's existence.
I’d thought a lot about the moments leading up to Darrell’s eventual demise. I’d assumed I would feel nothing but satisfaction after the fact, having rid the world of his evil influence; justice for all the wrongs he'd committed; the righteous gratification of recompense for all the ways he'd hurt my mother, my siblings, even my dog.
However, at no point had I considered the possibility that I would mourn him . . . would I mourn him? I didn't think so. But how could I know for sure? The last thing I wanted was the unintended residue left by emotional upheaval after Darrell’s postmortem.
And yet I might feel something unexpected, something akin to what Jenn was feeling now.
Pushing the notion aside (for now) as likely irrelevant, I gently extracted myself from the bed, replacing my body with my pillow. Urgent matters required my full attention.
First thing I did was walk to the panic room just off the hallway and check the camera facing the driveway. Boone was still out there, sitting in his car, probably cramped, cold, cranky, and hungry. The sheriff had sent him home with us last night with orders to watch the road leading to Jenn’s house. Sheriff James had said it was to keep an eye on Jenn, but I suspected the real reason was to keep an eye out for Diane.
Jenn’s momma had been missing since the gunshots. Some folks claimed Diane had been present when they heard the shots, some folks said she’d slipped out just moments prior. Regardless, last I heard, no one had seen her since. Obviously, I hadn’t shared what I knew with anyone. I needed answers first.
Pulling out one of the burner phones I kept stashed in the hidden safe within the panic room, I powered it on and moseyed to the kitchen. It was a Saturday. I didn’t have work until Monday. Although there were leftover giant cranberry bran muffins on the counter, my mood dictated waffles. Blueberry waffles. Let there be waffles!
Breakfast decided, I texted my contact at the Dragon the following message:
Cletus: Owl to Burro. Call when time permits, this number. Need info on Repo’s current time commitments. Urgent.
I then set about making coffee while contemplating the most pressing of this morning’s questions. Namely, what in hellfire had Diane been doing last night with Repo—the Iron Wraiths’ main money man and career criminal—of all people?
Washing blood off her hands? Okay. Sure. Perhaps she’d decided mid-party to butcher a side of beef. So be it.
Running from the police? Yeah. I could see that. Jackson could be irritating and perhaps the thought of his company struck her as odious. I’d about-faced and power walked in the opposite direction from the deputy more times than I could count.
But . . . Repo?
I couldn’t fathom a scenario where Diane and Repo in each other’s company wasn’t a parallel universe kind of situation.
Coffee made and mixed, I filled a second cup for Boone—but without molasses and apple cider vinegar, ’cause most people just aren’t as enlightened as me about their coffee—and pulled on a pair of pants. Grabbing his cup and one of the leftover muffins, I turned off the alarm and strolled out the front door.
Even though it had been mild last night, some folks might’ve found the spring morning cold, too cold for just a pair of pants and slippers. I was one of those people. It was damn cold, too cold for just a pair of pants and slippers. But my choice of attire had been purposeful. I didn’t want Boone thinking I was available to loiter. Deliver coffee, a muffin, ask a few questions, and then I’d be on my way.
No mentally healthy person would be able to chitchat with a pair of cold, hard man nipples at their eye level.
Boone had already started rolling down his window before I reached the car. “Is that coffee?”
“Yes, sir. Also, this is a muffin, cran and bran.”
“Did Jennifer make it?”
“Yep, yesterday morning.”
He held his hands out to receive the goods, snatching them into the car and immediately taking a drink of coffee. “God bless you, Cletus Winston.”