“I’m sorry,” she said.
I shrugged. “Water under the bridge.”
“I lost my mother a couple of years ago,” she said, then made a face. “Drugs. She’d lived her entire life clean, so nobody would have guessed she’d surrender herself to meth in her late forties. Men and alcohol had been her vices of choice.”
“I’m so sorry, Ruth.”
She bit her lower lip and studied the metal trailer in front of us. A soft light glowed through the curtain-covered front windows. “Just like you said, water under the bridge.”
She turned off the ignition and opened the car door. Something about the way she did it suggested the water under her bridge hadn’t traveled very far downstream.
I put my all into opening my own door, pleased when it unlatched on the first try. After I shut it, I followed Ruth up the rickety stairs to the front door.
She opened it without using a key and stepped to the side so I could walk in.
The interior furnishings were in better shape than the outside. The tan sofa looked worn but clean, and while the dark brown faux leather recliner was covered in cracks, the afghan draped over it made it look homey.
“It ain’t much,” she said as she shut the door and set her purse on a small oak kitchen table with white legs.
“I haven’t felt so at home in weeks,” I confessed before I thought better of it.
She gave me a look of surprise.
“I’m in the middle of moving,” I said. “All my stuff’s in storage until I figure out where I’m going to end up.” Only then did I remember I’d told the deputy I was on vacation. Crap.
“You’re movin’ and you don’t know where you’re goin’?” she asked in surprise, slipping off her coat.
“No,” I said. “I just decided I needed a change, and I’m figuring out where to land.”
A huge smile spread across her face. “Maybe you’ll stick around Drum.” The horror on my face must have shown, because she laughed. “I’m teasing. No one willingly sticks around Drum except for the Drummonds themselves. Seems like the rest of us are stuck here.” She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Well, on that happy note, let me show you to your room.”
She led me down the hall to the first room on the right, a small bedroom with a full-sized bed and a wrought iron headboard. A silver metal lamp sat on the blue-painted nightstand. “This is your room. The bathroom’s across the hall. Franklin’s gotta go to work early, so you might hear him clomping around at six or so. I apologize in advance.”
“No need. I’m just grateful to be here.”
“If we’re gonna get to Greeneville for you to see Mr. Hank and back in time to get you to your lunch shift, we should probably leave here around eight.”
“Sounds good.” She left the room and shut the door behind her, leaving me alone with my memories and my fear.
Since I was still in my pajamas, I just climbed under the covers and pulled them up to my chin. I lay there for a long time, staring up at the dark ceiling and wondering if my life would ever be normal again.
Chapter Eight
I woke up to the sound of running water, and it took me a few seconds to orient myself.
Seth.
A spike of pain stabbed my heart as I remembered holding his hand and soaking up his blood with my shirt while I watched him die. No one should die like that, but especially not a seventeen-year-old kid. Had I gotten him killed by setting off my car alarm? There was no way of knowing, and the guilt was excruciating. I jerked upright in bed, trying to dislodge the claws that had sunk into my back.
I hoped Hank Chalmers would help me decide what to do about the sheriff’s department. Perhaps go above their heads? I could always go to the state police if the sheriff’s department was corrupt. And even if the deputy who’d reported to the scene last night wasn’t involved, someone clearly was—Seth had been adamant that a sheriff’s deputy had shot him.
I tried to turn over and get more sleep, but the smell of coffee eventually lured me out of my room.
When I walked into the kitchen, Franklin was making a sandwich at the counter. Thankfully, he didn’t look too surprised to see me. I could understand why Ruth was attracted to him. Franklin was a solid man—good-looking but not enough to get him into trouble. Tanned skin from working outside and a toned body to go with it. He looked to be a couple of years shy of forty, even though he had crow’s-feet around his eyes, also likely from working outside.
“We didn’t get properly introduced last night,” I said. “I’m Carly Moore.”
He gave me a warm smile. “Franklin Tate. Ruth calls me Franklin, but just about everyone else calls me Tater.”
I fought a grin. “So you want me to call you Tater?”
He shrugged, still grinning, “Sure. Why not?”
“I guess Ruth filled you in on what happened,” I said, still standing in the entrance to the kitchen.
He shook his head as he slapped a generous helping of deli turkey from a hard-plastic container onto a slice of white bread. “Ain’t right that a boy was murdered like that, and it definitely ain’t right that you had to see ’im.” He turned his gaze to me as he picked up a mustard bottle from the counter. “But Ruth said you stayed with him until the end.” He gave a sharp nod, his eyes glassy. “That was good of you.”
“No one should die alone,” I said, overwhelmed with an onslaught of sorrow.
He nodded again, then turned back to his lunch, squirting a generous amount of mustard on his turkey. “Ruth also said you needed a place to stay.”
“I hope this was okay. I suspect they’ll let me back into my room in the motel tonight, and if not, I’ll ask Max to give me another one.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” he said, slapping a piece of bread on the mess and slipping the sandwich into a plastic baggie. “You stay as long as you need to. Everyone knows that motel ain’t fit for flea-bitten dogs, which was why I was more than happy to bring the sheets.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s really kind of you and Ruth to take in a stranger.”
“Ruth says you’re good people,” Franklin said, tossing his sandwich, a huge bag of chips, and a prepackaged cupcake into a hard-sided lunch bag. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Thanks, Frank—I mean, Tater. If I can help out in any way, you and Ruth let me know.”
He grinned. “I’m just happy she’s got some help at the tavern. You can call me Franklin if you’d like. Help yourself to coffee and a shower or whatever else you need. Ruth put some clothes out for you in the bathroom in case you woke up before she did.”
“Thanks,” I said again as he headed for the door. “Have a good day.”
He grabbed a ball cap off a hook on the wall by the door, tugged it on his head, then tipped the brim to me. “You too.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee after he left—finding a flavored creamer in the fridge—then took it into the bathroom with me. A snapshot of Seth’s face appeared in my head and I shuddered as I tried to expel it.
I stripped off Max’s overshirt, startled when I saw the splotches of blood on my cami from when Seth had coughed on me. Ruth had washed the blood off my hands and face, but the overshirt had hidden the remaining evidence of my involvement in Seth’s death.