I’d taken to calling that night The Event since I couldn’t very well think of it as “the night my son committed patricide during my daughter’s engagement party.” That would never do.
And then, of course, there was the other event.
A few days after The Event, I’d received a note in my mailbox, black marker on a white piece of paper, and it had read,
I have the murder weapon with your fingerprints. Turn over those cows to Farmer Miller or go to jail for the murder of Kip Sylvester.
It had been unsigned, but it didn’t take a genius to know who’d sent it. What the hell was I supposed to do with it other than be terrified? I’d never been blackmailed before. I had no one to talk to, no one to tell.
Jason had been MIA since he’d dropped me off at the lodge and he hadn’t texted or contacted me either. I didn’t know for certain why he’d decided to keep his distance; I wanted to trust he had a good reason; but I missed him. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to hold me. I needed him. I felt like I was going crazy.
The one time I’d tried going into work, people I’d known for decades had looked at me like I was guilty of murder. Or maybe it was my imagination. Or maybe I was off my rocker. Regardless, I’d stopped driving into work since The Event. Just the thought of driving anywhere felt overwhelming.
That first morning after The Event, Jeffrey James brought me in for questioning and Jason’s lawyer had been a life-saver. Afterward, Jennifer and Cletus had picked me up from the sheriff’s station and taken me home. Jennifer knew something was wrong beyond just the circumstances of the situation. How could she not? But what could I say? I saw your brother kill your daddy and now I might go to prison for it. Could you please help me locate the sugar?
There was simply nothing to say other than sticking to my story. I would sit tight until there was a reason not to sit tight, such as Isaac coming under suspicion. Most of my internal deliberations were guilty half-thoughts, incomplete tails of wishful thinking, and remorseful musings about how I should’ve left Kip earlier.
The only complete thought I’d been able to manage since The Event was this: if they suspect Isaac, I will confess.
Sniffling and all cried-out, I wiped under my eyes with the back of my hand and stared unseeingly at nothing in particular. Where could that sugar be? I’d looked everywhere and it wasn’t like it had sprouted legs and strolled out of my house. On the other hand, with the way my luck was going, perhaps my sugar container had gained sentience and fled the pantry, likely taking the vanilla with it since I couldn’t find any of that either.
And speaking of missing essential ingredients, where the hell was Jason?!
I shook my head, inhaling deeply, and wondering if I should take another shower. I’d taken lots of showers since The Event. I was pretty sure I’d taken one earlier in the day . . . unless that was yesterday?
A foreign sound coming from somewhere down the hall sharpened my fuzzy focus and I peered through the kitchen doorway. Is that . . . what is that?
I pushed myself to standing and stared down the dim hall. My mind was slow to work, but the noise had sounded like something sliding against something else, like a window being opened. Or am I imaging things?
“Diane?” came a whispered voice and I flinched, holding my breath.
My Jennifer and her Cletus had been checking in, but they always used the front door, obviously. I couldn’t think who would be coming in through my—
“Jason?” I whispered back just as the answer dawned, gaining a hesitant step forward.
Then he was there, emerging from my bedroom and into the hall. I sucked in air made of pure emotion and—you guessed it—I cried.
He rushed forward into the kitchen and scooped me up in his arms. He held me tightly against the cool leather of his jacket and the warm, familiar, soothing scent of his body.
“Am I awake?” I asked between hiccupping sobs. “Am I dreaming this?” I think I must’ve been clawing at his jacket. Instinct told me to grab on and not let go. If I touched him, then he was real, then he couldn’t run off like my sugar and vanilla had.
I felt him fit a palm against my cheek and tilt my head back, promptly pressing kisses to my forehead, cheeks, and lips. “I’m here, I’m here. I got you.”
I supposed it was a lucky thing I’d cried before he’d arrived because I didn’t have many tears left. Soon we were swaying together in the middle of the kitchen; my ear against his solid chest, listing to the steady rhythm of his heart; him holding me while I caught my breath.
“I came as soon as I could,” he said softly. “You’ve had police and sheriff cars driving by every hour or so. I needed to learn their routine before I could sneak in.”
“Why are they watching me so closely? Do they think I’m going someplace?” I snuggled closer, already feeling better, stronger, less aimless. Suddenly, I had so many questions.
“I don’t know, but I’ll found out.” He placed another kiss on top of my head, and then—without warning—he scooped me up in his arms and we were moving toward the living room.
Jason walked us over to the couch and sat down, arranging me with my legs over his lap, his arm between my back and the end of the sofa. He encouraged me to rest my head on his shoulder, within the nook created by the curve of his neck.
“Before I ask how you’re doing, I have to tell you something.” He stroked the side of my face, his big palm then lowering to continue the movement over my arm, back and forth.
“Wait!” I jumped up from his lap and ran to my bedroom where I’d tucked away the threatening note from Mr. Miller.
When I returned, Jason was already standing near the sofa. He frowned between me and the paper I held in my hands. “What is this?”
I shoved it at him. “Read it.”
He took a moment, read it, scowled, read it again, and then crumpled it. “I’ll kill him.”
“No! Don’t do that. Just . . . just let it be. I didn’t touch any murder weapon.” It felt good to be the one calming someone else down. “I just though you should see it, know about it. Do think he could fake my prints on it? Do you think he could do that?” I couldn’t stop the tremble of worry in my voice any more than I could’ve halted my crying earlier.
“Come here.” Jason tossed the note to the coffee table and reached for me, sitting us back down on the couch and arranging me on his lap again. “Forget about Miller. Let me and Isaac deal with him.”
“Isaac?” I asked breathlessly, my heart jumping to my throat. “Is—are—” I couldn’t think, I could barely breathe.
“I have news.”
“Is it good news?” I asked, bracing for bad.
“I think it is.” He gave me the gentlest of smiles.
On pins and needles, I rested my temple on his shoulder and pressed my forehead to the side of his neck. “I could use some good news.”
“I spoke to your son, the day after—”
My head whipped up. “Let’s just call it The Event. You talked to Isaac?”
“I did. And, Diane, he did not kill your ex. Kip was already dead when he shot into the car.”
I shook my head. What? What in tarnation? Why would—and how—and why was—and—