I closed the screen and stared, unfocused, at my desk. “Huh.”
Maybe Frank had it wrong.
I picked up a pen for no reason other than to tap it. The steady click, like the sound of my fifth-grade piano teacher’s metronome, grounded my thoughts. It let me block out the noise and just . . . think.
If there had only been a minor scuffle, no actual abuse, then it was unlikely the police would have been notified to arrest him. Or maybe if Briggs’s wife had only told Rain. Maybe she’d kept it secret, fearing for her safety.
I grabbed my phone from my purse and pulled up Griffin’s name, my finger hovering over the screen. But I set it aside.
This was his family. His life.
If he didn’t know about Briggs, this was not how I wanted him to find out. Not from Frank’s gossiping. If he did know, then there was a reason he hadn’t told me about it.
Tonight. We could talk about it tonight.
After I made a visit.
Guilt plagued me as I drove out of town. A knot formed in my belly the closer and closer I got toward the ranch. By the time I turned onto the gravel road that led to Briggs’s cabin, I was sweating, even with the air conditioner blasting.
Griffin had known for a while now that I’d planned on talking to his uncle. I’d told him as much the day he’d brought me Lily Green’s boots. So why did I feel like I was breaking his trust? He couldn’t come along. This was an official visit.
This was me doing my job.
I swallowed my doubts as I parked beside Briggs’s truck. The spot where the fire had been on Sunday was now a circle of black grass. In its center remained a pile of gray ash. The charred limbs had been hauled away. Even days later, I swore I could smell the scent of burning pine.
I walked to the cabin, stepping beneath the overhang. Before I could knock, it flew open and Briggs Eden’s broad frame crowded the threshold. Would Griffin look like him in thirty years? They had the same nose. The same shape to their lips. But Briggs had a rough edge, maybe from living alone for so many years.
“Hi.” I held out a hand. “I’m Winslow Covington. We met the other day. I came up here with Griffin.”
Briggs’s gaze dropped to my outstretched hand, then back to my face. “Who?”
“Winslow Covington. I’m Quincy’s new chief of police.”
There wasn’t a flicker of recognition.
“I was up here the day of the fire.”
“Oh, uh . . . sorry.” He shook his head, then fit his large hand over mine. “I just woke up from a nap and I’m a bit fuzzy. You know how that goes.”
“Sure.”
“Come on in.” He stepped back to wave me inside. “Winslow, was it?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I get you some water?”
“That would be lovely. Thanks.”
He moved to the kitchen and pulled two unmatched glasses from a cabinet.
The cabin smelled of bacon grease and fried eggs. My stomach squeezed—I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.
A cast-iron skillet sat on the range. There was a mason jar on the kitchen counter filled with picked wildflowers. The main room was one wide-open space with the kitchen and a dining table to one side. Opposite was a living room with two couches and a TV angled on a stand in the corner.
The coffee table had two books stacked neatly on the surface. The DVDs below the television were arranged in a perfect line. There was a bookshelf against the wall, but unlike the rest of the house, its shelves were chaos.
That bookshelf looked like it belonged in my home or office, not this tidy cabin. There was a bundle of rolled newspapers. Scattered paperbacks. A hammer that looked new. A jigsaw puzzle. A jar of pens.
The clutter was senseless. Where other people had a junk drawer, Briggs had junk shelves. There was a pile of unopened bills. A pocketknife that had seen better days. And a purse.
Why would he have a purse? And why did it look so familiar? I took a step closer, inspecting the smooth, camel leather with exposed chocolate stitching at the seams.
“This is beautiful.” I lifted it from the shelf, turning to hold it up to Briggs. “Your wife or girlfriend has exquisite taste.”
“I’m not married.” He chuckled, bringing me over a glass of water. “Not anymore. My wife left me ages ago. We, uh . . . we had some problems. Turns out, being a bachelor suited me just fine.”
I smiled and sipped my water. It wasn’t like I could ask him if he’d beat her and that was the reason they’d had problems. Today’s visit wasn’t to confirm or deny Frank’s gossip. Briggs appeared lucid. Today was to feel him out. And maybe find out why he had this purse.
“Did you make this, then? Are you a leather craftsman?”
“Lord, no. I’m too impatient to master a craft. I was built for manual labor.” His face changed as he chuckled. The rough edges softened. The crinkles at his eyes deepened. “I found that on a hike around Indigo Ridge. Thought it was too nice to leave on the trail.”
There wasn’t a smidge of dirt on the bag. Either he’d cleaned it after finding it.
Or . . .
I didn’t want to think of the alternative. I didn’t want to think that this purse hadn’t been found, but kept as a souvenir.
“Would you mind if I looked at the lining and the inside?” I asked.
“Go for it.” A phone chime came from the back of the cabin. “Let me go get that.”
“Of course.” I waited for him to leave, then took a quick video of the purse with my phone, swiveling it around to get a shot at all angles.
The purple silk lining was as clean and flawless as the exterior, and it smelled like new leather. The front flap was monogramed with an H.
The inside was empty except for a wallet, tucked at the bottom. A square, seafoam green wallet with a gold zipper. A wallet as feminine as this cabin was masculine.
I plucked it from the purse. The zipper was open. Inside was a folded twenty-dollar bill and a driver’s license.
Lily Green’s driver’s license.
Chapter Seventeen
Griffin
“Are you decent?” Knox called from the front door.
“No,” I lied.
He came inside anyway. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn. I was hoping to meet the chief. I’m feeling left out.”
“Mateo hasn’t met her either.” I nodded to the plastic container in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Breakfast.” He set it on the counter before heading to the coffeepot. “Remember at Christmas when that baker from California stayed at the hotel? We’ve been emailing, exchanging recipes. I talked her into giving me her cinnamon roll recipe. I made some early this morning, took a batch to Mom and Dad’s. Thought I’d drop some here too.”
“Thanks.” I popped the lid off the container and my mouth watered at the scent of cinnamon and bread and sugar. Each roll was as big as my face.
Knox had brought two, probably thinking Winn was here.
“You look about as tired as I feel,” he said.
“I am.” I yawned.
The coffee I’d been drinking since four hadn’t kicked in yet. I hadn’t slept well last night, mostly tossing and turning. Each time my arm would touch the empty side of the bed, I’d wake, worrying that Winn had left after another nightmare. Then I’d remember that she’d stayed at the hospital, and not long after I’d fall back asleep, it would happen again.