“That wasn’t your fault. You were what? Ten?”
“Eight, but the age doesn’t matter. She was damaged for life. Do your parents know that it was you who dented the car?”
Emma sighed. “No, and I surely don’t want to tell them now.”
“Try it. When I feel really guilty, I try to remember what Mom told me. That even if I should have been watching Jenny, that was the past. It’s over and done and can’t be changed. Jenny has forgiven me, and I’m sure if Ryan were here, he’d forgive you for letting him take the blame.”
“You really believe that?” Hope was in her voice.
Most days he did, but sometimes watching Jenny struggle with her bad leg hurt him to his core. And truth be known, he’d gone into law enforcement looking for something big to redeem himself and prove his dad wrong—that he was good for something. But working for the park service hadn’t brought him the acceptance he needed. He wasn’t sure what would. Maybe like Emma, it was finding Ryan and Mary Jo’s killer.
She brushed her hand across her cheek. “Thanks.”
He took his eyes off the road briefly. Her eyes were wet, breaking his heart.
“You’re telling me I need to forgive myself.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“I don’t see that happening, but thanks for letting me get it off my chest,” she said as his phone rang.
Sam started to ignore it until Balfour Ring Company showed up on his dashboard screen.
46
Sam had pulled off the highway to answer the phone, and Emma stared out the car window at the curtain of Spanish moss hanging from a large live oak tree. Her breathing slowed as she listened to Sam’s end of the conversation with the ring company.
“Yes,” he said, then listened to whoever was on the other end of the call. “I see. Well, thank you for letting me know.”
He ended the call but made no attempt to resume their trip to the Selbys, and her stomach took a nosedive.
His phone rang again. “I have to catch this.”
She nodded. Why couldn’t he let it go to voicemail? He knew she was waiting to hear what he’d learned.
“Ryker,” he said.
She strained to hear what was being said on the other end of the call, but Sam’s side was all she could hear.
“Really.” He was quiet again, then his shoulders slumped. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll tell Emma.”
“What will you tell me?” she asked after he hooked the phone on his belt.
Sam stared through the windshield, not answering.
“Sam . . .”
He licked his lips. “The first call was from the ring company. Their research showed only one ring was shipped to Mississippi State in 2012 with the initials RTW. It was made for Ryan Thomas Winters.”
“Maybe someone stole it.” She knew better, but right now she was looking for any lifeline she could find. Emma would almost rather believe Ryan had dropped it digging the grave. At least that way her brother would still be alive.
Silence. He cleared his throat, then he turned to her and the answer was written in his face. “The last call was from Nate. Turns out the private testing company has the integrated microfluidic system . . .”
“And? Spit it out, Sam!”
“It’s a Rapid DNA testing machine. The DNA in the toe bone was a match to yours.”
Cold shot through her body, leaving her head swimming and her muscles useless. She sank against the seat.
“It’s not official and won’t be until the state results come in,” Sam said. “But . . . it was Ryan’s body in the grave.”
His voice penetrated the murkiness filling her head. No matter how many times she’d prepared herself, it wasn’t enough. Her brother was dead. Her mouth was so dry, she couldn’t swallow.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said. “Do you want me to take you somewhere? Maybe to see your dad? We can talk to the Selbys later—they’re not expecting us.”
Ryan is dead. And his murderer had gotten away with it for ten years. Emma sucked in a life-giving breath and willed steel into her backbone. “No. We have to find out who killed Ryan, and we have to start somewhere.”
She turned her gaze to Sam. The pain in her heart was reflected in his eyes. He was hurting too. Emma rubbed her good hand across her face. “Give me a minute to pull it together, and then let’s go talk to Mary Jo’s parents.”
He reached to the back floorboard and pulled out a bottle of water and uncapped it. “Here,” he said, handing it to her.
She took a long draw. The water wet her dry mouth but almost made her throw up. It was one thing to think her brother might be dead and another to know it for a fact. “Who could have killed him?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to get justice for him.”
“Do you think it’s the same person who killed Mary Jo?”
Sam didn’t answer right away. “I think she’s the key,” he said. “I haven’t told you, but I talked to the owner of the Hideaway last night. Charlie Shaw.”
She bolted upright. “What did he say? Did Mary Jo leave with Ryan?”
Emma listened as Sam filled her in on what he’d learned from Shaw. “Let me get this straight. Mary Jo came with one person and left with Ryan and Trey and Gordy?”
“Yes.”
She was having a hard time wrapping her mind around the information. “This doesn’t make sense. Why weren’t Trey and Gordy in Sheriff Carter’s report?”
“I have a theory.” He rubbed the steering wheel.
“Are you going to tell me what it is or do I have to drag it out of you?”
“I can’t let you get involved in this any deeper, now that it’s definitely a murder investigation,” he said.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Take me home.”
He turned and pinned her with a frown. “What are you going to do?”
“What I do doesn’t concern you.” Emma calculated the time it would take to get an Uber to take her to Mount Locust for her truck. Two hours at the most and then she would drive to the Selbys without Sam.
“I’m not going anywhere until you promise you’ll let me handle this.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not promising you anything. You might be able to lock me out of the official case, but you can’t stop me from asking questions.”
“Come on—”
“Don’t come on me. Ryan was my brother, and I intend to find out who killed him. I’d rather do it with your help, but either way, I will get some answers.”
“And get yourself hurt, or killed,” he said.
“That’s why I’d rather work with you. I figure you’ll try to keep me safe.” She pointed her finger at him. “But if you shut me out, I’ll find a way around you.”
Sam gripped the steering wheel and stared out the windshield, his jaw clenched and the muscle in his cheek working. Gradually his jaw relaxed and the muscle calmed. “If I let you tag along this time,” he said, turning to face her, “will you then leave the solving of this case to Nate and me?”
She took a shaky breath. She’d won the battle, but not the war. “I promise I won’t do anything without running it by you. Now, let’s go talk to the Selbys.”
47
Emma and Ryker were going to see Mary Jo’s father. He checked his watch. The conversation he’d listened to took place twenty minutes ago. They were probably already at Selby’s house. He cursed the situation that kept him from tuning in to their live conversation. But his job required certain obligations, and until he went off the grid, he had to fulfill them.
Ryker wouldn’t learn much at the Selbys’, and he tried to let that information calm him. The mother had died, and Mary Jo had always complained that the old man never paid any attention to her.
The sister. What if they talked to her?
When he and Mary Jo dated, she lived with the Wyatt woman, and he’d met her briefly when
he arrived early for a date with a bouquet of daisies in his hand. What if the sister remembered him . . . or mentioned the flowers?
His name had not come up in the first investigation, and it couldn’t come up now. Maybe he needed to pay another visit to the nursing home. Make sure he had no worries there. In his last visit, he could see that the dementia had advanced significantly, and if the new sheriff, or even Ryker, interviewed him, they would quickly discount anything he might say.
Stay on target. Right now, Sandra Wyatt was his concern. He couldn’t take the chance of her identifying him. He grabbed his keys and picked up the .22 caliber rifle. No. He laid it back down and grabbed the pistol.
48
Letting Emma tag along wasn’t a good idea, but for Sam it was safer than her going out on her own. Something he had no doubt she would do. At least this way he had a little control. GPS directed him to turn left off the highway and then again a mile later. Maybe the Selbys wouldn’t be home. Then he could come back later by himself. When he reached the address he’d programmed into the map, a car sat in the drive.
“Oh, good,” Emma said. “It looks like someone’s here.”
She didn’t wait for him to come around to the door but scrambled out and met him in front of the SUV. Sam rang the doorbell. The man who opened the door looked much older than the sixty-five Sam’s research had indicated George Selby would be. Sallow and thin, he gave the impression that time and circumstances had taken their toll on him.
“Can I help you?” the older man said.
“Are you Mr. Selby?” Sam asked.
He pushed black horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose and ran his gaze up and down Sam, stopping briefly at his gun. “Who’s asking?”
“Sam Ryker. I’m a law enforcement ranger with the US Natchez Trace Park Service.”
Selby blanched when Sam mentioned the Trace. “What do you want?” he asked, his attention moving to Emma.
“I’d like to ask a few questions about your daughter Mary Jo,” Sam said, softening his voice.
The man seemed to shrink another inch. “Guess there’s no need to stand out there in the cold,” he said and stepped back.
They followed him inside to the living room, where a single lamp beside a worn leather recliner broke the darkened gloom. Newspapers lay strewn about, making Sam wonder where Mrs. Selby was.
“Sit wherever you can find a spot,” Mr. Selby said and sank into the old recliner.
Sam sat on the sofa across from Selby while Emma moved clothes from the only other chair and sat on the edge. “Your wife, is she here?” Sam asked.
The old man shook his head. “Passed a month ago.”
Beside him Emma gave a small gasp. Sam was just as surprised. His research hadn’t shown that Jane Selby had died. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“She’s better off now. At least she’s with Mary Jo and knows what happened. I wish I was with her.” Selby turned to Emma. “And you are . . . ?”
“Emma,” she said. “And I’m so sorry about your wife.”
He nodded and blinked away the wetness in his eyes before turning his attention back to Sam. “What is it that you want?”
“New information has come to light, and your daughter’s case is being reopened,” Sam said.
Selby gaped at him, then closed his mouth. “Have they found the Winters kid?”
Sam noticed Emma flinch. This was going to be difficult in more than one way. “Something like that.”
“Where’d you find him? Alaska? That’s where Sheriff Carter thought he ran off to.”
“We found him buried at Mount Locust,” Emma said, her voice tight. “And he’d probably been there all this time.”
Selby turned to her, his eyes rounded. “I . . . I don’t understand.” A range of emotions crossed his face, and he shook his head as if to clear it. “But . . . Carter said the Winters boy killed Mary Jo. Why would he be dead . . . unless he didn’t murder my daughter?”
“We’re almost certain he didn’t kill her,” Sam said. “We figure the same person is responsible for both of their deaths. Can you answer a few questions for me?”
“I don’t know much. Could I call my daughter and get her to come over here?”
“Sure. Does she live nearby?”
“Next house up the road.” He picked up the receiver to an old push-button phone, and after he explained that someone wanted to talk to her about Mary Jo, he frowned. “I’ll see.” He turned to Sam. “Sandra wants to talk to you.”
Sam took the phone and identified himself as Emma carried on a conversation with Mr. Selby.
“Dad said you’re there about Mary Jo,” Sandra said. “What exactly do you want?”
He moved as far as the landline would allow him. “Last night I talked with Charlie Shaw, and—”
“Please don’t mention his name or the Hideaway to Dad. It really gets him down. He can’t handle that Mary Jo went to a place like that.”
“I’ll do my best,” Sam said, lowering his voice. He would move to another room except the phone was attached to a cord. “Shaw said she was with a date at the beginning of the night. Do you know who that might have been?”
“Before I answer any of your questions, I want to know why you’re investigating her death again. Sheriff Carter all but assured my parents that Ryan Winters killed my sister.”
Sam explained what they’d discovered.
“Oh no. His poor family,” she said. “I taught Ryan in the tenth grade and never quite believed Sheriff Carter’s accusation.”
“What do you mean, you taught Ryan?”
“I taught English at Natchez High School for fifteen years—until I took a leave of absence last year to take care of Mom. Of course, when Mary Jo attended Natchez High, she didn’t want anyone to know we were sisters.”
Mrs. Wyatt. He remembered her now. Tall and willowy with blonde hair. “Do you know who your sister might have gone on a date with the night she was killed?” Sam asked again.
“No. Mary Jo fell in with the wrong crowd at college, got involved in drinking and partying. I don’t think she ever got into drugs, though. And as for the men in her life, she never brought any of them around . . .”
Suddenly she fell silent.
“Wait . . . let me think.” Silence filled the air briefly. “There was this one guy . . . I met him a couple of weeks before . . .” Her voice dropped, and she took a breath. “He came to the house to pick her up, and he had flowers . . . Look, you need to see her journal. It might have his name in it. I’ll be right there.”
“What kind of flowers?” Sam asked, but she’d already hung up. He replaced the receiver and turned to Emma and Mr. Selby. “She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Good. I was just telling the ranger here that I let Mary Jo down by not being home more,” the older man said. “I was working twelve-hour shifts at the local bottling company and didn’t see her much. Jane—that’s my wife—said I needed to be firmer with her. Sandra was complaining about her coming and going all hours of the night.”
“She wasn’t staying with you at the time of her death?” Sam asked.
“No, we’d had another one of our arguments, and Mary Jo was staying with Sandra until she could get enough money to go back to Southern Miss.” He shook his head. “Seems like once she got grown, argue is all we did. Anyway, she’d come home to save money. Mary Jo was always good about money. What she wasn’t so good about was boundaries.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“Mary Jo came and went as she pleased at Sandra’s, like it was her own house. She thought nothing of coming in at three in the morning, waking her older sister up, and I’m afraid that’s my fault.”
“How so?”
“After my wife had so much trouble carrying Sandra, we never expected to have another child, so twelve years later, Mary Jo came as quite a surprise. When she was a little girl, she could wind me around her little finger like a rubber band.” Mr. Selby’s eyes got a faraway look i
n them, then he wiped his eyes. “Anyway, Sandra was complaining to my wife, and she wanted me to talk to Mary Jo . . . and I never got around to it.”
“I remember Mary Jo from school,” Emma said. “She was very popular.”
He took another look at Emma. “You look a little familiar. Were you friends with my daughter?”
“We were in several classes together,” she said.
Suddenly red flooded his face. “Oh, my goodness. I haven’t even offered you two refreshments. My wife would be horrified. There’s drinks in the refrigerator, or I can make a pot of coffee.” He stood and started toward the kitchen.
“Nothing for me,” Sam said quickly.
“Or me,” Emma added.
George Selby turned around. “You sure?” When they both nodded, he said, “Be sure to tell Sandra I offered. She’s as bad as her mama was about things like that.”
Sam checked his watch. It’d been ten minutes since he talked to Selby’s daughter. “Did you say she lived next door?”
“Her house is about a quarter of a mile—don’t take long to walk the path.” A crease appeared between his brows. “But she shoulda been here by now.”
Unease crept into Sam’s mind. “Why don’t I go check on her?”
“Take the path from the back of my house to hers. It’s a shortcut. Go right down the hall and out the back door, and you’ll probably meet her.”
Sam nodded and hurried out the back. Right away he saw the trail that curved out of sight, but no Sandra.
He jogged down the path, and just beyond the curve, a body lay slumped on the ground, facedown. Sam rushed to her side. Blood spread from a bullet wound in her back, and he jerked out his phone, dialing 911. When the operator answered, he identified himself. “I need an ambulance at . . .” What address had he put into the GPS? He couldn’t remember. “Look up the 911 address for George Selby on Lake Drive. I’m outside at the back of the property.”
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