She wasn’t worth Emily’s time.
Emily turned back to the Anita Haircut door. Ignore her.
“I hear you found two dead bodies yesterday.”
She stiffened. “Go away, Leann.”
“I’m trying to get some facts for my article.”
“Then talk to the police.”
“I have. A statement from you would be helpful.”
Emily looked back at her. “You’ve never said a kind word about my family in person or in the paper.”
“I just report facts, Emily. That’s my job. Did yesterday stir up some bad memories for you?” Fake sympathy shone in her eyes. “Must have been horrible seeing something like that . . . so similar to your father’s death.”
Every cell in Emily’s body screamed for her to get inside the salon to put space between herself and the leech. But she didn’t. Warning bells rang in her brain as she slowly pivoted. She wasn’t angry, but she craved satisfaction.
And thinking before she spoke wasn’t her strong suit.
“How is that fact-reporting job treating you? I heard they cut everyone’s pay again.”
“Tell me what happened yesterday. The public deserves to know.” Ignoring Emily’s comment and all business now, Leann tapped the screen of her phone, and Emily assumed she’d turned on a recorder.
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“I heard your tires were slashed later that day.”
“What about it?”
“Seems odd to happen so soon after you discovered two murders.”
“I also burned my fingers at work,” Emily said in a mild tone. “Do you think that’s odd so soon after the murders?”
Leann tapped her screen again and dropped the phone in her purse, giving Emily a side-eye. “Sarcasm isn’t appropriate. Two people are dead. I understand the FBI is in town to give a hand in the investigation.”
Emily said nothing, thinking of Zander Wells. She didn’t need to tell Leann about the agent. It had taken less than one day for her to see that Zander was damned good at his job. And when her aunts swarmed, it hadn’t intimidated him. Another plus in Emily’s eyes.
“If you don’t want to talk, I’m sure one of your aunts will.” Leann edged closer, fake curiosity in her eyes. “I wonder how they feel about the second hanging in Bartonville’s history.”
Emily was finished with the conversation. And Leann. “If you hound my aunts with a single question, I will call your boss.”
Emily spun back to the door and yanked it open, the bell on the inner handle clanging loudly. Inside three women stared at her, their mouths slightly open. They hovered at the window, where they’d enjoyed a view of the altercation. The door swung shut behind Emily, and she silently groaned as she met their eyes.
Anita was the first to recover, strolling back to her salon chair as she spoke. “I see that snippy reporter has you in her sights again.” She waved her scissors so her client in the black nylon cape would sit back down. “Stay away from her, Emily. One time she wanted an interview about the shop, but it turned out she was fishing for information about one of my clients. I don’t gossip,” she said firmly as she combed and snipped at the wet head of her client, who nodded in affirmation.
Emily disagreed with her gossip claim.
“That girl has had it in for your family for years,” Anita said, making eye contact with Emily in the mirror. “What’s she after this time?”
“Just the usual.” Unless Emily wanted her words spread across town, she knew to keep them to herself in the salon. She sucked in a breath and frowned as she studied the faces, remembering why she’d come. “I thought my aunt Dory had an appointment right now.”
“She canceled. Not feeling well, the poor thing.”
Just the usual.
One day Dory would acknowledge that she’d rarely been sick in her life—except for that time she had food poisoning. If her hypochondriac aunt would put the energy she burned worrying about her health into something else, she could change the world.
“Thanks, Anita. I’ll catch her at home.” Emily stepped back outside into the cool air, thankful to see that Leann had left. Remnants of irritation vibrated under her skin.
Why do I let Leann get to me?
Since yesterday morning, Emily had been off-balance, caught up in a whirlwind of fresh and old painful memories. She felt as bleak as the coastal weather. Gray. Unstable. Cold.
Abandoned.
Tara and her parents now haunted her thoughts in a way they hadn’t for years. She’d experienced nearly thirty-six hours of distressing events. Emily pressed her fingers over her eyes, trying to erase the images of her father that kept attacking her brain.
Her life had veered down a difficult road since the night he’d died. She’d dreamed of leaving town for college, marrying the perfect man, having 2.5 kids, and enjoying a wonderful career. Instead her life was money issues. Family issues. Ex-husband issues. Madison issues.
Maybe she should have escaped, like Tara.
Does she know our mother committed suicide?
Would her mother be alive if Tara had stayed and told what she’d seen?
Zander wanted to send the sheriff home. The strain of the last two days showed in Greer’s face, and his movements had slowed considerably. Instead the two of them were finally on their way to the Osburne brothers’ house. The sheriff could offer valuable insight into the interview, and the brothers might be more open to a familiar face—even if the sheriff had arrested them a few times—than an unfamiliar FBI agent.
They left Ava behind at the Copeland home to keep an eye on the crime scene team. The Copeland parents had called the sheriff as he and Zander were getting ready to leave. Seeing Greer’s face as he read the name on his phone screen had made Zander thankful that notifying the parents wasn’t his job. The sheriff had stepped into the backyard to deliver the news.
His eyes and nose were red when he returned.
The sheriff’s vehicle took a sharp turn off the highway. If he hadn’t been following someone, Zander would never have spotted the driveway. A beat-up line of mailboxes was the only indicator that homes were somewhere down the rocky road. Water splashed against the undercarriage as his vehicle bounced through deep puddles. He passed a faded sign: ROAMER’S REST. Up ahead he spotted several manufactured homes in an uneven row.
A bright-turquoise house made him wonder if the owner had gotten a good price on the paint or if, possibly, their cataracts had softened the true intensity of the shade.
Maybe they simply liked the color.
The other homes were browns and grays, blending into the landscape subdued by the mist. It was as if a cloud had nestled into the valley with the small manufactured home park. Zander scanned the tall firs surrounding the homes, wondering what quirk of nature concentrated the heavy mist in the area.
The sheriff parked and Zander pulled in alongside him. Stepping out of his vehicle, Greer pointed at the turquoise home, indicating their target. “Believe it or not, they’re easygoing boys,” the sheriff told him. “Not very quick to react. I don’t expect any trouble.”
Unless they’ve been drinking.
“We don’t need backup?” Zander asked.
“We’re just talking. They’ll be fine.”