The call from the FBI had stunned the sheriff. He’d marched out to her car, where she patiently waited, to ask if she’d actually gone behind his back. Emily had nodded, looking directly into his shocked eyes. He didn’t intimidate her. Few people did. She would always say and do what she thought was right.
Sean didn’t hang himself.
Sean didn’t carve the Klan symbol into his own forehead.
The sheriff was dense if he couldn’t see those facts.
She rubbed a hand across her eyes as the cold numbed her fingers, and her vision slightly tunneled.
Not now.
The sensation wasn’t a surprise. As soon as she’d seen Sean, she’d known she’d be haunted by dreams and panic attacks as she had been in her teen years.
Emily tore out of her house, knowing something was very, very wrong. Outside she looked up and shivered. It was dark and cold, and the heavy winds whipped her nightgown around her bare legs. Behind her the flames crackled and grew, and the smoke burned her eyes. She strained to see the shape in the dark. A flash from the fire lit up her father’s face as he dangled from the tree branch.
Breathing deeply through her nose to fight the panic, Emily shoved the dream away as she dug in her minuscule closet for clean boots. The images had tormented her dreams for nearly two decades, growing less frequent year after year. She’d thought she’d conquered it for good. Rattled, she shoved her feet into the boots. The old nightmare about her father would invade her nights—and days—for weeks. Maybe months.
Without another glance at the paper bag, Emily left her bedroom and jogged down the ancient stairs, the old varnished wood creaking in protest, and headed for the kitchen. The timeworn Queen Anne mansion was from a different era, built by her great-great-grandfather in the late 1800s. Emily and her two sisters had been raised in the mansion after the death of their parents, and Emily had returned when her marriage disintegrated.
“Emily, you’re not going back to work, are you?”
Emily slowly turned around, her breath stuck in her throat.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Aunt Vina stood in the hall, her hands on her hips. Her great-aunt was tall and sturdily built, with white hair and piercing blue eyes that could see into her nieces’ brains and instantly spot a lie. Aunt Vina’s two sisters had the same skill and also lived in the mansion with Emily and Madison.
The trio of interfering great-aunts had good intentions but often exasperated Emily. Vina, Thea, and Dory. The three older women were social leaders in the tiny town, a role they took very seriously since the town carried their last name: Barton.
“Yes, I’m headed back to the restaurant. I’m sure they need me.”
Vina raised a brow. “Can you tell me what happened at Lindsay’s home?” Her eyes softened. “Such a lovely young couple. I’m so sorry, my dear.”
Clearly her aunt had heard about the deaths.
Emily exhaled.
Avoiding the aunts, she had sneaked into the mansion to change her clothes after the sheriff said she could leave. She hadn’t wanted to talk about the horror she’d discovered that morning. But the high-speed gossip chain must have already swept through Bartonville. Aunts Thea and Dory were noticeably missing at the moment—usually they were present in the kitchen at this hour. No doubt the two women were out gathering intel and keeping Aunt Vina in the loop.
“Lindsay and Sean are both dead, but it’s unclear what happened.” Emily choked out the words.
Blue eyes bored into her skull. “And Greer is in charge? He’s a good man. But he is getting up there in age,” Vina said, watching Emily closely.
Emily nodded and blindly reached for the back door handle, her eyes wet.
“You were married to a police officer,” said Vina. “I bet you spotted more details about the deaths than Greer did.”
Emily’s sorrow turned off like a faucet at the mention of her ex-husband. He would have been furious that she had gone behind the sheriff’s back, insisting it wasn’t her place to call the FBI.
He had a lot of opinions about what wasn’t Emily’s place.
Emily had never held back her thoughts about his opinions.
It was part of the reason they were divorced.
Emily turned back to Vina, for once biting her tongue. She was too tired for a discussion and didn’t want to add to the gossip chain. The news that the FBI was investigating would spread soon enough. “I’m sure we’ll hear what happened,” she said noncommittally. “I need to get to work.”
Vina nodded, sympathy in her gaze. “Your staff is going to be crushed about Lindsay.”
Emily’s stomach twisted.
She nodded at Vina and left.
I can’t tell them about the horror that was done to Lindsay. Or Sean.
4
The sheriff had been right; the Barton Diner resembled a gigantic cabin. Zander paused before he opened the door, examining the huge logs that formed the outer walls. Just like a kid, he ran his hand over the timber. The round wood appeared too symmetrical to be real, but his fingers told him it was authentic. He was in logging country. He’d passed three log trucks with full loads as he’d driven to the diner, bringing back memories of when he was a kid and would see the big trucks on the highway towing one huge tree trunk that filled the entire trailer.
Inside the diner a bald cook with a long goatee and a white apron appeared to be both waiting tables and filling the orders in the nearly empty restaurant. The older man paused midstride when Zander asked for Emily Mills. Pain flashed in the cook’s eyes, and he said she was probably at home.
He’d heard.
“Do you know the address?” Zander asked the burly man as he deftly delivered two burgers and two salads to an elderly couple and then topped off their coffee. His name tag said LEO.
“Google Barton Mansion. Can’t miss it.” Leo walked away without glancing back.
Mansion? Zander entered the words into his phone and saw the home was minutes away. Everything was close in Bartonville.
His GPS directed him uphill. Bartonville was built on a slope, and many of the homes had an amazing view of where the Pacific Ocean met the wide Columbia River, which separated Oregon and Washington. The town’s businesses were at the bottom of the hills where the land was flat, adjacent to the docks and beaches. The streets led up and across the hills in a basic grid on which homes with steep peaked roofs and roomy porches sat on close lots. Most of the homes needed attention. Missing paint, crumbling stairs, bare lawns.
The sky was gray, and the clouds were low, obscuring part of the river and the coastline of Washington on its other side. On a day with blue skies, the views had to be stunning. The northern Oregon coast was known for its rugged beauty, but living in the small coastal towns was often depressing in the fall, winter, and spring.
Gray skies. Frequent drizzle. Howling wind. Few people.
Most of the coast and river towns squeaked by on a tourist-based economy that slowed to a crawl during the cooler months. Fishing and logging were the other local economy cornerstones, but they waxed and waned with the unpredictable whims of weather and politics.
Zander parked, stared at a house, and then double-checked the address. Sure enough, the gigantic home that nearly filled the city block was his destination.
Mansion indeed.