A Breath Away

Logan’s mouth twitched as if he was about to argue. Then he seemed to think better of it, turned and went to work.

Grady dismissed the odd reaction. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get away from Violet. Then he could forget that he’d almost agreed with Logan.

But not at the cost of letting Darlene’s killer get away.

VIOLET TREMBLED INSIDE. She would never forget the look of accusation in Grady’s eyes.

It had been the same piercing look he’d given her twenty years ago when he’d stood outside her bedroom, waiting for her to tell them where to find Darlene.

Pressing her hands to her temples, she battled another onslaught of tears. She would not cry now. No, she wouldn’t give Grady the satisfaction of watching her crumble. Besides, she’d cried a river of tears the past two days, and it hadn’t helped. She had to be strong.

After all, she’d expected Grady to blame her for Darlene’s death because she’d begged her friend to come over that day. But she’d never imagined he’d believe she would protect the killer.

So why was she defending her father?

Because if he had evil inside him, then maybe she did, too…. Maybe he had been right about her. Maybe that evil was the reason she’d heard the woman’s cry.

Confused, Violet yanked on shorts, a T-shirt and sandals, then dragged a brush through her hair and scrubbed her teeth. The itch to run from this house and her father’s mess gnawed at her, but she couldn’t run away. Not without knowing the truth.

But what if Grady found something in the house? And why hadn’t she thought to look around last night after he’d left?

You were too shaken by coming home again. And by everything that’s happened.

Steeling herself against Grady’s anger, she went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The deputy was searching the den, while Grady was examining the pizza box, his eyebrows furrowed.

“The answer to your question is no, Grady. That confession note was a complete surprise.”

He glanced up, a flicker of regret simmering in his dark eyes before his mask slid back into place. “Did you and your father keep in touch?”

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

He nodded curtly, then scribbled some notes in a small notepad.

“Can I clean up this mess now and make some coffee?”

“Let me dust for fingerprints first.”

She stared at him, wondering where the kind boy she’d once known had gone. Had he died the same day Darlene had?

Well, she refused to stand here and watch him tear apart her house. She stalked out onto the front porch, more questions assailing her. If her father had killed Darlene twenty years ago and had brought her to the house, which Violet knew hadn’t happened, any evidence would be long gone. So why fingerprint the kitchen if he thought her father had committed suicide?

What exactly was Grady looking for?

GRADY WINCED AT THE SOUND of the screen door slamming, then frowned when Violet’s car tore down the graveled drive. As much as she might not want to face the fact that her father was a murderer, he had to know the truth.

She’d claimed she wanted that, too. But would she be able to handle it?

Would he, if he discovered his own father had something to do with Baker’s death?

Logan whistled as he scavenged through the desk in the den, bringing Grady out of his reverie with the location of a bill for signature comparison. Other than that, Baker’s house offered little in the way of clues, except the fact that Jed had been as depressed and lackadaisical about life as his own father. The two of them seemed so much alike that they should have been friends instead of enemies. But something had torn them apart.

Secrets. What were they?

Grady checked the refrigerator, logging the contents, then scanned the sink and counter. The uneaten pizza in its box, full six-pack of beer and the want ads on the counter disturbed him. Why would a man buy food and beer and job-hunt right before he killed himself?

It didn’t make sense.

He copied down the number of the pizza place. He’d check and see what time and day Baker had bought it. That, along with the M.E.’s report on the time of death, might help him piece together the chain of events that had led to Baker’s trip to Briar Ridge.

Other details bothered Grady. Why would Baker go to the mountains to kill himself instead of doing it at home? If guilt had triggered the suicide, why wouldn’t he have returned to the scene of the crime to take his life?

“Not much in here but some old magazines.” Logan gestured toward the desk. “Oh, and there’s a couple of photo albums of his daughter. Thought she told you they weren’t close.”

“She did. Said they hadn’t spoken in years.”

“That’s strange.” Logan pointed to three scrapbooks. “There’s all kinds of pictures of Violet growing up.”

Grady frowned. Had Violet lied to him about not staying in touch with her father?

NEEDING A REFUGE from Grady Monroe and her past, Violet drove into town and parked in front of the Rosebud Café. Without sleep, she desperately had to have caffeine and food.

Hoping no one in town would recognize her yet, she ducked her head and entered the café. It was like entering a time warp. Nothing had changed. The same earthy adobe and turquoise colors, the warm smell of coffee and biscuits, the same Native American artifacts filled the place.

Three elderly women sat at a table sipping tea, a hefty man was hunched over a bar stool, scooping up sausage patties from his plate, and two other men she didn’t recognize faced the bar, away from her. She spotted Laney Longhorse behind the counter, her long braid now graying, her skin leathery from the sun. Violet had always been fascinated with the woman. Maybe because she ignored the difference in social status between people instead of dividing them into classes the way the more prominent citizens did. In fact, Violet had felt more at home with the kids from the reservation than she did the white children in town. Except for Darlene.

She slid into a corner booth and studied the menu, surprised to see the same items Laney had always carried. Thankfully, some things never changed. A fair-haired man in his thirties smiled at her from the booth across from her. She forced a tight smile, then averted her gaze.

The older woman ambled over to her, her long skirt swishing against her thin legs. “Hi!” Laney said in her Cherokee accent. “Your order, miss?”

Good. Laney didn’t recognize her. “Coffee. And I’ll have your country breakfast.”

“Comin’ right up.” Laney studied Violet for a moment, shook her head as if she was trying to place her but couldn’t. Then she sauntered off to get the coffee.

Violet dialed the nursing home on her cell phone. The nurse assured her that her grandmother had arrived safely, but was in physical therapy. Her sister, Neesie, was there, waiting to visit.

Determined to avoid eye contact with any of the locals, especially the man who kept watching her, she informed the nurse she’d call again later, then studied the back of the menu. A small inscription described the history of the town’s name. Crow’s Landing had been named after an old Cherokee myth.

Although eagles were the revered, treasured bird of the Cherokee legends, their feathers used in religious ceremonies, one myth described an Indian boy’s battle with a wicked gambler who could change forms. When put to the test, the boy, Thunder, beat the gambler, who had turned himself to brass. The boy planted the brass in the river and hung crows on each side of a pole to ward off the beavers, so they wouldn’t chip away the brass and free the gambler.

Violet was pondering the legend when the woman returned. Interesting folklore. The crows were actually protecting the town, not haunting it or looking on, ready to prey.

Laney placed the coffee and food in front of Violet, her squinty eyes assessing. Violet offered nothing. Not yet—she wasn’t ready. But she wondered if the woman would know the Native American expression from Violet’s vision.

She thanked Laney and sipped her coffee, then took a few bites of her eggs. A tall man with a shoulder-length, black ponytail bustled in from the back. Joseph Longhorse? All grown up?

He had always been quiet, moody, angry. But she’d felt a kinship with him. Not a psychic one like she’d shared with Darlene, but they had connected. She’d been called white trash, while Joseph had suffered the cruel prejudices harbored by a few small-minded people in the town. The Barley boys had been especially ruthless, turning Joseph’s Native American name, Strong Legs, into a joke because Joseph had been the shortest kid in the class. Not anymore. Now he was six feet tall, strong and tough. She bet they didn’t mess with him now.

Laney returned to her table with fresh butter. “You are not an asgi’na, a ghost, are you? No, you are the little Baker girl come back, heh?”