“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said. Burro may have been helping only because he owed me—big time—but I had no reason to take the man for granted. “I’ll be in touch, different number next time, same area code.”
“Wait, one more thing. Isaac Sylvester—Twilight—I think he found out last night, about his father.”
I took another gulp of my coffee and swallowed before asking, “Why’re you telling me? I didn’t ask.”
Isaac Sylvester could go die in a fire for all I cared. Jenn would be broken up about the death of her brother, but the guy was a piece of work. In my book, he was just as bad as his father.
“Well, I thought you should know, you being so close to the family. He’s not a bad kid.”
I grunted. Burro and I had two very different definitions for the word bad.
“Listen, Cletus. He was gone all night, and no one knows where he went.”
“But you do.”
“Of course I do. I checked when the news came over the scanner. He was at the lodge, or the vicinity. You know that slope on the north side through the forest? The dirt road through the trees? That’s where he went. After a while, he left and went to y’all’s place.”
“Jenn’s house?”
“No. The Winston homestead. Or, you know, around there. He parked at the abandoned convenience store, and so I figured he went on foot to your place, at least that’s what his phone’s locator says.”
“Hmm.” Why would he be there? “Where is he now?”
“Last I checked, still there.”
I pondered that. Billy, Roscoe, Jethro, Sienna and baby Ben were all at the homestead. Isaac would have to be an idiot to attempt anything with three of my brothers there. Especially Billy. He’d beat the tar out of any Iron Wraith he found on the property.
Nevertheless, better to be safe than sorry. “But where specifically? How close to the house?”
“You know I can’t be certain, but it looks like he’s still in the forest, to the west.”
“Okay. Thanks for the heads-up.” I’d call Jethro and let him know.
Jethro is tired. Leave Jethro alone.
Right. I’d call Beau and Shelly, let them know to head over and keep an eye out. Shelly was due for some baby-holding time in any case. I knew how much she loved holding babies (almost as much as me).
“Sucks, though. His dad dies and he can’t, you know, be there for his sister, his momma.” Burro, who wasn’t prone to sympathy for anyone for any reason, surprised me.
Unsure what he expected me to say, I settled on, “That’s the life you live. He chose it.”
“Yeah, but . . . it’s his dad.”
“His dad was seagull guano left on a plastic trash island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. No, actually, Kip was the plastic trash island. Guano has purpose.”
Burro chuckled. “Sure. But the kid is gonna grieve.”
“He shouldn’t.”
“Name a person alive who doesn’t have a lot of feelings about their father.”
Hmm. “Good point.”
To my knowledge, there existed no handbook regarding suitable actions when one’s fiancée has learned of their father’s untimely demise on the evening of her engagement party. Nor, I suspected, did a resource exist that summarized appropriate methods for offering comfort when said fiancée’s mother is hauled into the police station the morning after aforementioned father’s untimely demise, to be questioned and without the ability to receive visitors.
This is all to say, Kip was exceedingly dead. Diane was somewhere in the police station being questioned. Jenn wasn’t allowed to see her momma, and that seemed to make her sad.
And I didn’t know what to do, so I made lists. I’d already made several mental lists to pass the time, one of which centered around things that needed to be done straightaway at the lodge. Someone needed to see about the logistics of continuing bakery operations with reduced capacity—Jenn wasn’t going back to work anytime soon—and, given what I knew of Diane’s whereabouts last night, I’d assumed she wouldn’t be going back to work anytime soon either.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jenn's chin wobble and she glanced down at her lap. A new tear fell, trailing down her cheek and upending the mental list I’d been working on. She dabbed at it with a tissue. I shifted in my seat to lean closer but was careful to ensure our hands stayed linked. Sensing someone watching me, I glanced up to the where Flo McClure sat behind her desk at the far side of the police station’s waiting room and met the woman’s dark brown gaze.
She gave me a tight-lipped smile. It did not reach her eyes.
“I don't even know what I'm thinking,” Jenn whispered, drawing my attention back to her.
She hadn’t said much this morning. I’d woken her up after alerting Beau and Shelly about a potential Iron Wraith camping out in the woods behind the house. I told them my sources said the Wraith was Isaac Sylvester but asked them to keep his identity from the folks at the homestead.
When I roused Jenn to tell her Diane had been found and was safe, I’d hoped Jenn would go back to sleep. Instead, she’d insisted on going down to the police station and seeing her mother for herself.
That had been hours ago. There’d been no Saturday waffles. We hadn’t eaten breakfast. I was starting to worry about her blood sugar levels. If Diane didn’t materialize from wherever they held her soon, I was going to call in an order at Daisy’s and bribe Roscoe to pick it up and deliver it.
“I don't know or understand what I'm feeling.” Her stare remained unfocused, forward and down.
I leaned in close, squeezing her hand. “If you need to talk about it, about anything, I hope you know you can talk to me. But I’m not going to push you to talk if you don’t want to.”
“I know.” She nodded, wiping her nose with a tissue. Then, after inhaling a tremendous breath, she turned her head and faced me. “Cletus, I have to tell you something.”
“Anything. Tell me anything.” I cupped her jaw, not caring that Flo McClure might as well have been eating popcorn as she enjoyed the show. I swear, that woman.
“Last night, when we were in the pantry, hiding after the gunshots?” Her voice was so quiet, and I knew she didn’t want anyone to overhear. Posey Lamont, Vanessa Romero, Jedediah Hill, Nikki Becker, and a few others from the party last night were scattered around the waiting room. They’d given us soft looks as we entered but hadn’t approached.
I bent forward so she could talk directly into my ear. “Yes? What about it?”
“And Roger came in?” Her voice was more breath than sound. “I thought maybe my father had shot into the bakery and he was the intruder and I—I—”
“What? What is it?” I leaned away so I could see her face. My brow furrowed because she looked so darn sad. And guilty.
“I said a prayer.” Her face crumpled, more tears leaking out of her eyes.
“That’s okay. Saying prayers isn’t—”
“No. I prayed that God would strike my father dead, and now he is!”
“Oh.” Oh no.