If I begged, would she take Briggs to the main house? Could we have this conversation at Mom and Dad’s kitchen table, where he’d feel more comfortable?
I shifted and dug my phone from my back pocket, bringing up her name. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Shit.” I drove faster.
The pit in my stomach doubled in size.
Maybe the reason I was so pissed wasn’t because Winn was going to talk to Briggs. It was because I was fucking terrified that maybe there was a reason why.
She wouldn’t haul him to the station if there wasn’t something wrong. Right?
What had been in that purse? Why hadn’t Briggs turned it in after Harmony Hardt’s death? Why had he kept Lily Green’s wallet? He knew where those girls had died.
Fuck. If he’d had something to do with those deaths . . .
No. Those poor girls had killed themselves. The former chief had investigated. Harmony Hardt had been depressed. She’d been struggling with mood swings according to her closest friends.
Her death had nothing to do with my uncle. My kind, gentle uncle who was losing his clear mind.
Mom was in the yard on her knees, pulling weeds from a flower bed, as I skidded to a stop beside Dad’s Silverado. She must have realized something was wrong because she stood, tearing off her garden gloves and tossing them on the lawn as she met me by the porch. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s watching the news. You’re scaring me, Griffin. Is it your brothers or sisters?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s Briggs.”
“Oh no,” she breathed. “Come in.”
I followed her inside. Dad was in his recliner in the living room with the news on the TV, his glasses on and the newspaper in his lap.
“Hi, son.” His forehead furrowed as he looked between me and Mom. He kicked the footrest of the chair closed and sat straight. “What’s going on?”
I planted my hands on my hips. “We’ve got trouble.”
Chapter Eighteen
Winslow
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or water?” I asked Briggs.
“No. But thanks.” He shook his head, glancing around my office. His large frame consumed the chair across from my desk. It had looked just as tiny the day Griffin had sat there too.
“I appreciate you coming down here with me today.” The smile I sent him was infused with as much warmth as I could muster.
Briggs motioned to the purse and wallet on my desk. “So you want to talk about these?”
“Yes.”
Both articles were sealed in evidence bags. When I’d arrived at Briggs’s cabin an hour ago, I’d simply asked if I could have them for an investigation. He’d agreed, saving me the trouble of requesting a warrant. Then I’d asked if he’d come to the station with me to discuss how he’d come upon them. Again, he’d agreed.
He was focused and sharp today. Like yesterday. When I’d knocked on his door this morning, he’d joked about having more police visits in the past week than he’d had his entire life.
It was easy to see why Griffin loved his uncle so much. Even riding in my unmarked Explorer—in the front passenger seat, because while I had concerns, I wasn’t going to stuff him in the back—he’d talked to me the entire drive to town, asking me questions about how I was liking Quincy and telling me stories about his life spent on the ranch.
He seemed like a gentle man. A person who lived alone because he was content with his own company. A brother and a proud uncle—most of the stories he’d told had included one or more of his nieces or nephews.
It felt wrong to have him here, to be discussing ugly things. Or maybe it felt that way because of Griffin’s reaction.
“Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?” I asked, reaching for the handheld recorder beside my phone.
“Not at all.”
“Thank you.” I put the recorder between us, then hit the red button. After a quick introduction, stating our names and the date, I described the purse and wallet for the record. “You said that you found both of these articles while hiking, correct?”
Briggs nodded. “I did.”
“Where were you hiking?”
“Indigo Ridge. I’ve hiked around that area my whole life. It’s a favorite spot. The views from the top are magnificent.”
“I bet they are. Maybe one day I’ll make it to the top myself.”
“I’ll take you.” A genuine offer.
“I’d like that.” A genuine reply.
If Briggs took me hiking, I doubted he’d push me off the cliff.
Wouldn’t there be a twist in my belly if I feared this man was a murderer? Wouldn’t there be a nervous zing through my veins? There was nothing. My instincts said that something about Lily Green’s death wasn’t right. Yet as I sat across from a man who shouldn’t have had her wallet, a man who lived the closest to the place where she’d died, not a single cell in my body warned that he was dangerous.
Yet I wasn’t paid to rely solely on instincts. I was here because we followed the evidence. The trail had led me here. I’d keep going until I reached a road block.
“Briggs, I’m sure you know this, but there have been three women found at the base of Indigo Ridge.”
“Yes. It’s awful. These kids . . . they’re just kids.” Heartfelt sympathy filled his voice.
“It is awful.”
A crease formed between his graying eyebrows. “You don’t think I had something to do with it, do you? I never even knew those girls.”
“Tell me more about how you found the purse.”
He cocked his head, staring at the object in question. “I thought you wanted the purse because it was stolen or something. Same with the wallet. Figured you’d tell me when we got here. I get it now. You think I had something to do with those girls, don’t you?”
Instead of answering, I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the edge of the desk. “When did you find the purse?”
“I’m no killer.” He gritted his teeth, not answering my question. “I’m losing my mind. I’m losing myself. That’s a humbling realization for a man. To know that there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it. I’m facing my own mortality, Ms. Covington. Not murdering innocent girls.” The color in his cheeks turned pink. His shoulders stiffened.
“Let’s just talk about the purse.”
“Whose was it?”
“Harmony Hardt.”
He dropped his gaze. “Was that the woman Harrison found? Or Griffin?”
“Griffin,” I answered. “When did you find this purse?”
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Sunday.”
That was the day of the fire. “You’re sure? This past Sunday?”
“Yes. I went for a hike early that morning. Came home. Put them on my bookshelf to sort out later. Went outside to do some yard work, and well . . . you were there.”
Then he’d had an episode.
“Was the wallet inside when you found it?”
“No.”