He took a bite of salmon. “No. I’m going to have to suck it up and decide soon, but for the moment we have bigger fish to fry.” He stabbed another piece of flaky pink fish. “Pardon the pun.”
I blew on my soup. It smelled of rosemary and garden-fresh herbs. Inhaling the scent gave me the final boost of confidence I needed. I planted my feet firmly on the ground and arched my shoulders back. “Listen, I know I’m all over the map right now, and that’s because there’s a huge elephant in the room. I want to trust you. I want to believe that you’re on my side, but until you tell me everything—I mean everything—you know about Sheriff Daniels and Pops, I can’t.”
“I get that.” Greg slid his salad to the side and opened the file folder. “When you called to say that Sheriff Daniels is here, I dropped everything and came right away.”
“I know, but why? I don’t understand.”
He let out a long breath and rested his chin on his hand. “I think the best place to start is the beginning.”
“Yeah, please.” Watching Greg made me feel more nervous. He was usually calm and confident. Not today. His fingers trembled slightly as he thumbed through the stack of papers in front of him. “This file contains everything I know about your dad and the Meth Madness investigation.”
I almost dropped my spoon. Greg had my attention now.
“Meg, before I tell you this and give you the file, I want you to know that I really believed I was doing the right thing by not telling you before. I owe you an apology. I’ve been second-guessing everything. I think I’ve trusted the wrong person.”
Greg had admitted that he knew Pops but had sworn that he had been looking out for me. I wanted to trust him, and my gut told me that he was telling me the truth, but I was so confused I wasn’t sure who I could trust—other than Matt and Jill, of course.
“You mean Sheriff Daniels?” It wasn’t exactly a question. More of a confirmation.
Greg nodded. “I don’t know who sent me this file. It showed up in an unmarked envelope without a return address the day that your dad died. I have my guesses, but I want you to read it for yourself and draw your own conclusions.”
My throat felt tight. I reached for my water glass and took a long sip.
“Honestly, Meg, I thought it came from Sheriff Daniels. When I hired you and he was the lead on Lenny’s murder at Angel’s Rest, I hinted to him that I would take good care of you—to the letter. It was my subtle attempt at acknowledging that I had received the file. At the time I thought his reaction was strange. He didn’t respond, but I blew it off. The instructions in this letter are clear. I was to speak to no one about the fact that I had been asked to hire you. NO ONE.”
I tried to process what Greg was telling me.
“That’s what I’ve done. I’ve done what was spelled out here. I’ve watched out for you at every turn, but I think I’ve unintentionally put you in harm’s way. I think I’ve trusted the wrong person.”
“You think Sheriff Daniels is involved.”
Greg sighed and nodded. “Everything leads back to him. Everything.”
This news didn’t surprise me. In fact, it made me feel slightly better. Greg was confirming everything that I had wondered about for months.
“That’s what I thought.” I swirled my soup. My appetite had vanished.
“If he’s here it can be for only one reason,” Greg continued. “He has to be spearheading the drug trade. I think your dad figured that out and got too close. Maybe he confronted him. Who knows? I’ve spent more time than I can count trying to piece it all together, and every turn takes me to Sheriff Daniels.”
I didn’t want to cry in front of Greg. My face felt hot and my hands were clammy. This is what I had been waiting for, and hearing it confirmed brought an equal sense of relief and terror.
“Do you think he could have killed Pops?”
Greg looked as if he was struggling to control his emotions too. He dug a fingernail into his spider bite. “I think it’s a very real possibility. From what I’ve been able to figure out, your dad knew that there was someone on the inside of the police force. There had to be. I think at first Charlie—sorry, your dad—trusted Sheriff Daniels, as I did. I think that was the sheriff’s plan—to keep him close, you know. But then Charlie realized that the person he was the closest too was actually the mastermind behind it all.”
I thought I might throw up.
“It’s a smart plan if you think about it.” Greg’s salad plate was still full. Food wasn’t on either of our minds at the moment. “I think that Sheriff Daniels intentionally sought out your dad, then me, and even you—and your grandmother, right?”
Gam. My hand went to my heart. Had the sheriff romanced her to try to figure out what I knew? Oh, my God. Things were getting worse by the minute. What if he had harmed her? I never could have lived with myself.
Greg reached across the table and placed his huge hand over mine. “Meg, I know this is a lot to process. Please accept my apology and know that I thought keeping this from you was in your best interest.”
“I get it.” I nodded. “I really do.”
Greg looked relieved. “Look, I know you’re going to have a ton of questions, and I promise I’ll answer all of them, but I think before we go there you should take this.” He closed the file folder and pushed it across the table to me. “Go read it. Look through everything and then we can talk again.”
Part of me wanted to protest because my head was flooded with questions, but Greg was right. I needed time to process and formulate my thoughts.
“What do we do about the sheriff in the meantime?” I asked.
Greg rubbed his temples. “I’m working on that.”
“Matt contacted the DEA.”
“That’s good. I have some connections I’ve reached out to as well. Why don’t you take a couple hours to go through my notes and then we’ll meet up later and figure out our next steps.”
“Okay.” I left my soup unfinished and walked to the car in a daze. This is what I had been waiting for. I finally had answers. Why did I feel so terrible? If Sheriff Daniels killed Pops, how were we going to prove it?
Chapter 23
I don’t remember driving back the hotel. My thoughts were a blur as I pulled into the parking lot and raced up the stairs to my room. As soon as I was inside, I clicked the lock shut and flung myself onto the bed. The tears that I’d been holding back released from my body in one giant tsunami. I struggled to catch my breath amidst my sobs. Salty saliva slid down the back of my throat, and tears streaked my cheeks.
This is what I had wanted to know, but the anticipation of reading whatever Greg’s file contained made my chest burn.
You have to do this, Meg, I commanded as I wiped my eyes on the pillowcase and sat up. The hotel smelled of stale air-conditioning. I opened the sliding door to let fresh air in. I heard the playful sounds of children splashing in the river and paddleboarders shouting to one another. How was the world operating like normal when my world was spinning out of control?
I returned to the bed, clutched the agate for support, and picked up the file. It was more than three inches thick. Greg wasn’t exaggerating about including years of research. I opened the well-worn folder. Its edges were torn, and some of the pages were stained with coffee. There were clippings of Pops’ Meth Madness articles, notes about his accident, copies of the police report, and handwritten notes that Greg had amassed. The last thing I removed from the folder was an envelope addressed to Greg care of Northwest Extreme. As Greg had mentioned, it was postmarked the day before Pops died.
I squeezed my thumb and index finger together. It was a centering technique that I had learned from Gam. Usually, it brought me an instant sense of calm, but not today. My heart beat wildly in my chest. I wondered as I opened the envelope if this was how Professor LeAnna and her team felt when they unearthed a new discovery from the cave floor. This letter was my personal archeological dig. Whatever it contained had been buried in lies.
Dear Greg,
If you’re reading this then the news has probably already hit that Charlie Reed is dead. As one of Charlie’s most trusted colleagues and friends he’s asked for your help. This task is not for the lighthearted. His family is in danger, and while it may be too late for Charlie, he’s done everything he can to ensure that his wife and daughter remain protected.
I paused, trying to fathom the lengths Pops must have gone to not only to arrange for Greg to get the letter but to make sure that Mom and I were okay. It made me appreciate him even more.
It’s imperative that Meg does not get a job at the O. Given the current state of unrest at the paper, it’s unlikely they will extend her an offer. Charlie’s reputation will only make her a less appealing candidate, but should circumstances change Charlie is asking you to intervene. Meg is a qualified, albeit inexperienced, writer. Charlie has enclosed a check to offset any expenses in hiring or looking out for Meg.
A check? Pops paid Greg to hire me? I let the letter drop from my hands and wiped another tear from my eye. How had he done all of this? He must have known that something bad was going to happen. Did he know that he was going to die? And why was he so worried about protecting Mother and me?
I reached for a tissue on the nightstand and dabbed my eyes.
Charlie knows this is asking more than he can ever repay. He hates asking you this, but has nowhere else to turn. Please watch his daughter at all costs and tell no one. The trail leads deep and Meg must never know. If you’re reading this and Charlie is dead it means that he has trusted the wrong person. Please do not repeat his mistake. Trust no one, and take good care.
The words ended as abruptly as Pops’ life had. I sank onto the soft down pillows of the hotel bed and clutched the letter to my chest. It felt like having Pops with me physically. Another round of guttural sobs expelled from my body. I flowed with the tears letting them absorb me.
When I finally sniffed back the last salty tear and let out a sigh, I read the letter again—twice. Greg might have had doubts about who sent it to him, but not me. I knew there was only one person who could have possibly written the letter. Pops. The quickly typed words on the thin paper were my last contact with my father, and knowing that his final thoughts had been focused on me made me miss him more than ever.
I ran my finger over the type, hoping to find a tangible connection with my father. Now what? I had no idea where to go from here. Pops hadn’t trusted anyone, except Greg. Who could I trust? Not Sheriff Daniels. What about Detective Summer? The DEA? Was anyone safe? How deep did the Meth Madness case go?
Chapter 24
My cell phone buzzed, making me crinkle the envelope and let out a small scream. I reached to the bedside table and grabbed my phone. There was a text from Jill.
Checking in. Any update? How was the date with Matt? What’s the scoop with the murder case?
Her timing was synchronistic to say the least. Gam would have said that Jill’s timing wasn’t an accident. She would say that we were so in tune and connected with one another that her spirit knew she needed to reach out to me. That happened often with Jill and me. I would be thinking about her and suddenly my phone would buzz. Or we would call each other at the same time. I wondered if that would change once she left for Italy. I texted her back.
Big news.
Matt?
No Pops.
Pops?!
Greg came clean. Pops paid him to hire me. He wanted Greg to keep an eye on me.
What?
I know, right?
Can you talk?
Not right now. I’m messed up. Later, OK?
I understand. Love you, Megs.
Me too. XO.
I clicked off my phone. I couldn’t talk yet. Not only because my body felt depleted from crying so much, but because I couldn’t piece together a coherent sentence in my head, let alone to fill Jill in. I knew that she understood and would wait until I was ready. That was the true test of a good friend.
The question was what to do next? Greg had encouraged me to take my time and read everything. There was no way I could concentrate on anything else for the moment, so that sounded like the best plan. I poured myself a glass of water and moved to the desk. Most of the newspaper clippings and articles that Greg had included in the file were things that I had already read, but there was no harm in reading them again.
For the next hour, I read each story word for word in hopes of pulling out some new phrase or discovery that might be the key to what I was missing. However, each article I read was exactly as I remembered it. Pops had been riding his bike on the side of the road when someone hit him. The driver didn’t stop, and despite a thorough investigation the police had no leads.
Had someone committed the perfect crime? Pops was biking in broad daylight on a two-lane road that took him from the family farmhouse into the city. Unlike the streets in downtown Portland, which were uber–bike-friendly, the stretch of road that Pops had been riding didn’t have a bike lane. The side of the road dropped off into a steep ravine. I remember driving that route over and over after he was killed, hoping to spot a sliver of a broken headlight glinting in the sun or some other clue that would have given the police anything to go on.
Whoever hit him must have noticed. There would have been damage to the vehicle, but the police found nothing when they combed the grassy ravine where they’d found his mangled bike.
After I had reread the articles I found another letter tucked between the fading pages of the O. It was addressed to Greg in Pops’ handwriting. The letter was dated ten years ago and was written on letterhead from the O. I smiled at the sight of Pops’ handwriting, which looked more like chicken scratches.
Greg,
It’s been a pleasure getting to mentor you these past few years. You are one outstanding writer, kid, and the world of investigative reporting is going to miss having a bright, young mind like yours on our team. I get it. Believe it or not, I was young once too. Go have grand adventures in the mountains. They’re calling you.
As the great Edward Abbey said: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing views. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.
Here’s to seeing you on a hilltop somewhere soon. You’re like a son to me. Travel far, but stay in touch.
All my best,
Charlie.
Despite the aching sadness I felt at reading Pops’ encouraging words to Greg, a huge smile tugged at my lips. I hadn’t been wrong about Greg. Pops trusted him too. Pops thought of him like a son. Relief tingled in every pore. My intuition was right. Greg had never been in this to harm me, he’d been protecting me the entire time.
I laughed out loud thinking back to how many times I had been convinced that Greg was going to fire me. Hardly. He’d been paid to keep me on staff. Although, that thought was less than comforting. Pops had had to pay him to get me a job.
But what did that mean in terms of the O? Greg hadn’t hired me right away. I’d spent many long months crashing on Jill’s couch and eating nothing more than soup and crackers every day. Had the O been about to hire me? Is that why Greg bumped into me at the coffee shop? I thought back to our encounter that fateful rainy January day. Greg caught up with me at a coffee shop in Portland’s swanky Pearl District. Someone had left behind a pink umbrella and, because I was wearing pink, Greg assumed it was mine. Had that all been a setup?
Oh, my God! Had everything at Northwest Extreme been a setup? My smile faded. Did Greg even think I could write? Had he given me carte blanche over our social media just to keep me busy? Self-doubt bubbled inside me as I thought about everything I’d done for the magazine and realized none of it probably mattered. I wasn’t a real journalist. I was a babysitting case.
Jeez, Meg, you’re an idiot. I tossed Pops’ letter back in the stack and closed the f
ile folder. I didn’t have time for self-pity at the moment. That could come later, but in the meantime I had about a thousand questions for Greg.
I sent him and Matt a group text asking if we could meet for dinner soon. I wanted Matt there for moral support and for another set of ears. Knowing how unstable I felt, I figured it was probably best to loop Matt in now.
They both shot back replies immediately. We would meet at Deschutes Brewery in an hour. In Portland Matt, Jill, and I used to hang out at Deschutes all the time. It was our go-to happy hour spot. I’d never been to the Bend pub, but I knew that even if it was an exact replica of the warm, natural wood brewery in Portland, nothing about tonight would feel familiar. I was stepping into the vast unknown. I didn’t know where this was going to take me, but I knew that there was no turning back. I was committed to figuring out who had killed Pops (as he had said in his letter to Greg) no matter the cost.
Chapter 25
Deschutes was only a short walk from my hotel. I changed into jeans and my favorite pink hoodie, and I removed my contacts. My eyes were bloodshot from hours of crying and felt like sandpaper. I opted for a pair of brown-and-pink polka dot glasses. Jill claims that I have an addiction to designer frames. That might be true, but my philosophy is that you can never have too many pairs of glasses, especially if, like me, you can’t see past your own hand without them.
In Cave Danger Page 16