No One But You

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

1 (#u0d64026d-af9d-56cd-a8bf-f8340880d0f3)

The century-old farmhouse looked haunted...

Sadie Harris wasn’t particularly superstitious, but knowing two people had been murdered in an upstairs bedroom of this isolated white clapboard home didn’t make her eager to work here. She parked outside the gate and sat in her car, engine off, angling her head to see through the passenger window.

Dawson Reed, who’d placed the newspaper ad she’d responded to, was out of jail, all right. A pickup truck that didn’t appear to be in much better shape than the rattletrap Chevy El Camino her mother’s brother left her when he died three months ago sat in the drive. Not only that, the 2x4s that’d blocked the doors and windows of the house for the past twelve months had been pried away, some of the weeds had been trimmed in front and the mailbox had been straightened and reinforced. But Dawson hadn’t been home long enough to get around to everything that needed tending to. What with the vandalism that’d occurred in his absence and the deferred maintenance that went along with having a house sit empty for so long, he had his work cut out for him.

She wondered what he had to be thinking, now that he’d returned to Silver Springs. After a year spent fighting for his freedom, he’d narrowly escaped a verdict that would’ve landed him on death row. But he couldn’t be too excited to rejoin this small community. Regardless of what the jury said, he was guilty in the minds of all those who lived around here.

Sadie frowned as her eyes traced the graffiti that was still on the house. Someone had spray-painted the word murderer on the wood siding above the porch, in letters large enough to be read from the highway a quarter mile away. That Dawson hadn’t scrubbed it off first thing said something about him, didn’t it? But what? Was he too beleaguered after his long ordeal to care what folks thought? Too busy with items he felt should be handled first? Or was leaving it there his way of flipping off the many concerned citizens of Silver Springs?

He could be taunting his detractors because he’d wound up inheriting the property despite what they thought...

The alarm she’d set on her phone sounded, startling her so much she whacked her hand on the steering wheel. “Ow!” she complained as she grabbed her cell and turned off the noise. If she planned to be on time for this interview, she had only three minutes to walk the length of the dirt drive leading to the front door. And yet she wasn’t completely convinced she should keep the appointment, couldn’t even say what kind of job it would be. Although Dawson had advertised for a housekeeper/caregiver, he lived alone. Why couldn’t he take care of himself?

Not many healthy adults had a housekeeper in Silver Springs. That sort of freaked her out right there, before she even got to the fact that it was dangerous to meet a man out here, alone, who might’ve hacked his adoptive parents to death with a hatchet.

She shuddered at the bloody image that crept into her mind. The gruesome details of the Reed killings had been reported in the papers and on the evening news with great regularity. Any murder in these parts would be shocking. LA was only ninety minutes to the south. Such a crime wouldn’t be so unheard of there. But this was a peaceful artist and farming community with mission-style adobe buildings and beautiful murals. The worst thing that’d ever happened, before the Reed murders—at least in recent memory—was when the Mueller girl ran away and was kidnapped. Even that was twenty years ago, and she went to Hollywood, so she was kidnapped there.

Pressing the button that would bring up her display, Sadie checked the time on her phone—the clock in the car was broken, along with everything else that didn’t directly contribute to the drivability of the vehicle. Two minutes. Dared she go? Or should she take off while she still could?

Sly, her domineering, soon-to-be ex-husband, would warn her to keep her distance from Dawson. He’d already put in his two cents. They’d argued about it for over an hour last night. “You don’t want to work for that bastard. What kind of guy kills two old people in their sleep—the couple who took him in when no one else would? Fed him? Clothed him? Treated him as their biological child? They were so proud of him! And you wouldn’t believe what he did to those people. Talk about the ultimate betrayal.”

When Sadie had pointed out that no one knew for sure whether Dawson had killed his adoptive parents, that there hadn’t been enough evidence for a conviction, he’d alluded to having some insider knowledge to suggest Dawson was as guilty as the infamous O.J. had been. “Trust me. You don’t know everything,” he’d said.

He knew everything, though—always had. She was tired of that, tired of him. He’d been playing games with her since before the murders ever occurred, drawing out the divorce proceedings, hiding any extra income he earned working security at various functions so it wouldn’t be included in his child support calculation, threatening to fight her for custody of their five-year-old son if she didn’t accept the pittance he offered. Since she’d been the one to move out, he was living alone in a three-bedroom, while she and Jayden were squeezed into a tiny one-bedroom guesthouse. But having the better living situation wasn’t enough for him. He was trying to keep her destitute so she’d have to come back if she wanted to be able to feed and clothe their child—and eat herself.

She let her gaze range over the farm and the fields that stretched on either side. The place didn’t look inviting. Several windows had been broken, an outbuilding had been burned and a pile of cast-off furniture and other rubbish from God knew where had been dumped in the yard. Even more notable, the closest neighbor had to be a mile away...

He’s a nut job. That was what Sly had said just before he hung up. As a Silver Springs police officer, he spoke with more than a little arrogance and authority. But in recent years, he’d related so many stories that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up—stories about breaking up a high school drinking party but not reporting the kids so long as they gave up all their beer, or picking up a prostitute but not arresting her if she “baked the force some cookies.” Although Sadie had a feeling there was a lot more involved than cookies—she’d once heard Sly make a crude joke about it—he denied any wrongdoing when she questioned him. Said he was only kidding. But if he thought he could get away with using his badge to gain some advantage in a situation, even if it was just to scare people or make someone scramble out of the way, he’d do it. And, especially toward the end of their marriage, he’d started throwing his weight around with her, too. Although he’d never seriously hurt her, he’d come close.

As far as she was concerned, he was a “nut job” himself. So why would she let him make her decision for her? She couldn’t trust him. At least, as far as trust went, Dawson was still a question mark.

With only a minute left, she got out of the car. Dawson was offering full-time employment doing...something she hoped she was capable of, and he was promising to pay much more than she was making waiting tables at Lolita’s Country Kitchen. If she wanted to escape her ex-husband for good, this was her chance. It wasn’t as if she could get anything else, not with Sly using his influence to sabotage her in every way possible. No one dared get on his bad side—he’d make life too difficult—so whenever she applied for a job, she was told she didn’t qualify, or a better candidate had been selected. The only reason she had her job at Lolita’s was because she’d been working there since before she left him.

Dawson didn’t have any reason to harm her. That was what she had to remember. If he killed Mr. and Mrs. Reed, he did it because he wanted their farm—not that that was any small thing.

As she drew closer to the house, she could see storm damage to the roof, peeling paint and bird droppings on the railing of the porch. These physical details added to her overall apprehension, but she didn’t get truly chilled until a curtain moved in the window. The idea that Dawson was looking out at her, watching her approach, almost made her turn back. She stopped, but before she could do anything, the front door opened and her prospective employer strode out.

“You must be Sadie Harris.”

Silver Springs had only about 5,000 residents. The town wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination, and yet they’d never met. Not only was he two years older—she knew his age because of the many newspaper reports and the trial that’d revealed so much about his life—they’d gone to different high schools. She’d attended the public high school; he’d attended New Horizons, a boarding school exclusive to boys. Troubled boys.

So...how troubled was he? Troubled enough to murder the couple who’d taken him in? Troubled enough to lure a woman out to his farm with the false promise of employment?

She hoped not.

“Yes. I—” she cleared her throat as she shoved that last thought away “—I’m Sadie.”

“And I’m Dawson.”

As if he needed to identify himself. Close to six feet, he’d been out of jail long enough to have seen several days of sun. His sandy-colored hair, cut in a military style typical of county jail inmates, blended well with the golden color of his skin while contrasting sharply with his eyes, which were blue but not a deep blue—more ice-like. She’d known he was handsome before she came. Everyone had made a big deal about how his “angel” face didn’t jive with his “devilish” actions. She’d seen so many pictures she would’ve recognized him even if he hadn’t been standing on his own porch. “I know.”

“You followed the trial.”

“To a degree, yes. It was the talk of the town, pretty hard to miss.”

He nodded as if her response was nothing less than what he’d expected. “Right. That’s unfortunate, of course. But...thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” She wiped her sweaty palms on the flowing black skirt that constituted half of her best outfit. Sly had thrown away most of her clothes—everything she hadn’t been able to carry in that first load—when he came home to find her moving out. She’d grabbed Jayden’s things first, so that didn’t leave her with a lot of wardrobe choices. No doubt she looked a little silly hobbling down the rutted lane in a black blouse, a flowing skirt and high heels, but she didn’t feel as if she could show up for an interview in jeans.

“Would you rather talk out here on the porch?” he asked. “I’ve made coffee. I can bring out a cup and some chairs.”

He could tell she wasn’t set on staying. This was an attempt to entice her. But she couldn’t leave, not unless she wanted to walk right back into Sly’s arms. She needed the job, needed the money.

“Um...” She almost said it wasn’t necessary that he go to the trouble. She’d been programmed from birth to say those types of things, to be polite. And although it never got very cold—their weather was much like that of Santa Barbara twenty minutes away—it was a little chilly this morning. Thick dark clouds blotted out the sun, showing signs of rain. But she was frightened enough that the idea of staying outside did raise her comfort level. She had to be cautious. Had to be around for her son, after all. She didn’t like the way his father treated him. That was part of the reason she’d finally gathered the strength and determination to leave Sly, despite what she knew he’d put her through. He wasn’t proud of Jayden like he should be; most of the time he acted embarrassed of their sweet, gentle boy.

She drew a deep breath. “The weather’s not too bad. Sitting outside would be a great idea. If you don’t mind,” she added lamely.

“I don’t mind. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he disappeared, she twisted around to see her car, trying to gauge the distance in case she had to kick off her shoes and make a run for it. The El Camino wasn’t all that far. Since she’d parked it outside the gate, where there’d be no danger of getting blocked in, she could make a quick getaway, if necessary.

Somewhat relieved to have Dawson occupied elsewhere for the moment, she hurried to the porch as best she could without turning an ankle and gazed at the dry rot and warped boards that needed to be replaced while telling herself to calm down.

When he returned with a small table and then a tray supporting two cups of coffee, as well as cream and sugar, she wished she had said no to the coffee. She’d been so preoccupied it hadn’t occurred to her he might’ve spiked it.

“Have a seat.” Next, he brought out chairs and placed hers—rather strategically, she thought—near the stairs and away from him. “It’s great to meet you. I appreciate you coming out here in spite of...in spite of everything.”

She didn’t deserve any gratitude. She wouldn’t have come if she’d had a better choice. “Sure. It’s okay.”

“Would you like cream? Sugar?”

She went through the process of adding cream and one packet of sugar to her coffee even though she couldn’t drink it.

“So...you live in Silver Springs?” he asked when she finished.

She met his eyes, tried to determine if they were lifeless. She’d heard that serial killers had emotionless, flat eyes, like those of a shark. But she wasn’t sure a man who killed his parents for the sake of financial gain counted as a serial killer. Probably not. And there didn’t seem to be anything unappealing about Dawson’s eyes. The reverse was actually true. They were such an odd, arresting color and fringed with the longest, thickest gold-tipped lashes. “I do,” she said.

“How long have you been in the area?”