by Lynn Shannon
He tucked his Sig P226 into its holster and adjusted the sports coat to cover it before picking up the knife from his nightstand. Luke rubbed the ornate pearl handle. It’d been a gift from June when he first learned of his acceptance into the academy. A foreshadowing, or perhaps God’s intervention, the same knife had cut her free from the car yesterday. Sending up a quick prayer for June’s recovery, Luke tucked the knife into his boot.
His cell phone vibrated against the dresser top, and he scooped it up, glancing at the caller ID.
His father. Again.
Luke’s finger hovered over the phone before he hit the reject button. Patrick Tatum had moved to town six months ago, asking for grace and seeking to reconnect. Forgiveness had been easy to give. Sitting in anger over his father’s addiction and subsequent abandonment had been eating Luke alive, and for his own sake, he’d forgiven Patrick a long time ago. But forming a relationship with his father was a different matter. The last attempt, fifteen years ago, had ended in heartache.
The cold snaked under his jacket as he walked between his house and the main one. Clouds, thick with rain, hung on the horizon. Voices filtered out from the kitchen and the heavenly scent of biscuits wafted into the mudroom. Luke shrugged off his jacket and removed his boots before turning the corner.
His mother leaned against the counter, sipping a cup of coffee. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and her eyes sparked behind the lenses of her glasses.
Weston sat at the kitchen table. Luke marveled for a moment that the wooden chair didn’t splinter into toothpicks under his friend’s weight. It’d been nearly a decade since Weston played professional football, but he still retained his tank-like physique. The sunlight from the windows reflected off his ranger badge, and the plate in front of him held remnants of scrambled eggs.
“I see my mother took pity on you, Weston.”
His mouth quirked up. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Luke bent to kiss his mother’s cheek.
“You look like you could use this.” She handed him a fresh cup of coffee and winked. “I hid some breakfast before he could eat it all. I’ll get you a plate.”
“There’s more?” Weston scraped the last of his eggs onto his fork. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“You’ve had two servings already!”
He sent her a charming grin, complete with dimples. “There’s not a woman in three counties that can cook as good as you, ma’am. Can’t blame a man for gobbling up every bite.”
She chuckled. “You always know how to sweet-talk a lady, Weston Donovan.”
Nancy quickly doled out food for the two men. Luke bowed his head and said a quick prayer before digging in. “This is fantastic, Mom. As usual.”
She beamed. “Thanks, hon. I’m going outside to plan my garden. Hank finished tilling it this morning.”
The screen door slapped behind her. Luke took a long sip of his coffee. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“No trouble at all. Your mom’s cooking is an excellent bribe.” Weston cut into the flaky biscuit smothered in white gravy. “What’s going on?”
“I might need your help on a case.” Luke gave him the shorthand version of recent events.
Weston listened carefully, only asking questions for clarification. When he finished, his fellow ranger sat back in the chair. “Was Franny Heath Dickerson’s daughter? He owns a huge ranch out this way, right?”
“Yeah. He inherited a lot of wealth from his father and grandfather. They’re one of the founding families of Cardin.”
“I vaguely remember hearing about her murder, but I was living on the other side of Texas at the time. Catch me up.”
“Franny was shot three years ago in her home. She lived in a cabin near the lake, and the murder took place during the early-morning hours. There were no witnesses. The murder caused a big uproar in the county. Franny’s father, Heath, donated—still does actually—large sums of money to political campaigns, including the sheriff, county prosecutor, mayor. You get the picture.”
Weston nodded. “Go on.”
Luke set his fork down. Acid burned his stomach and he pushed his half-eaten plate away. “The gun used by the perpetrator was never recovered. It’s my understanding the investigator in charge of the case, Dan Carter, didn’t have a lot to go on. In the hours before her murder, Franny had roughly fifty people over to her home for a birthday celebration. Wade had been at the party and was one of the last to leave. A friend whom he gave a ride home alibied him, but a couple of days after Franny’s death, Wade confessed to Megan he went back to Franny’s later that night.”
Weston frowned. “Not good.”
“No. Megan was in her final semester of law school at the time and living in Houston. She called and asked for my help. She wanted me to talk to Wade.”
“Let me guess, you didn’t.”
Luke shook his head. “It was pertinent information in an active murder investigation. I turned it over to the sheriff. Next thing I knew, Wade had confessed to the murder.”
Megan had interpreted his decision as a betrayal. He understood why. Luke might not have meant to, but he’d hurt her. And those type of wounds were the kind that scarred and changed everything forever.
Weston fiddled with his fork. “Talk about complicated.”
Luke picked up his plate and walked to the sink. “Tell me about it.”
“Do you have any reason to believe Franny’s case wasn’t investigated properly?”
“No.” He scraped the remnants of his breakfast into the trash. “But with a high-profile case like Franny’s, the heat to solve it can cause even the best lawmen to make mistakes. The investigator in charge, Dan Carter, is ambitious. Solving Franny’s murder endeared him to the Dickerson family and they’ve endorsed him in the upcoming election for sheriff.”
Luke took the plate his friend extended and ran it under the water. “I would appreciate some backup on this if you’ve got time. This case is personal. I won’t pretend otherwise. Having another set of eyes wouldn’t hurt.”
Weston joined Company A last year. The two men had become friends, and Luke respected his investigative skills and straightforwardness.
“Awww, man. I’d love to help out.” Weston clapped him on the back. “I’m touched you asked.”
Luke’s mouth twitched. “I’m already second-guessing my decision. I should’ve asked Grady.”
Grady West was a fellow ranger in Company A. Luke had worked closely with him last year on a difficult case.
Weston grinned. “Naw, Grady’s not as fun.”
Luke’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel before pulling it out.
“Speaking of Grady…” Luke answered the call. “Morning. I’ve got you on speaker. Weston’s here too.”
“You missed a fantastic breakfast.” Weston leaned a little closer to the phone. “Scrambled eggs, biscuits with gravy, sausage. Luke’s mom cooked the full works.”
Grady’s groan came through the speaker. “All I had was cereal this morning.”
“How come? I thought you were the cook in the family.”
“I am, but I’ve taken a hiatus.” He paused. “Tara’s pregnant. We’re expecting a boy in August.”
Luke grinned and hollered congrats over Weston’s whoop. Grady and Tara had been through a trying ordeal, and both had nearly died trying to protect Maddy, the little girl Tara had adopted. No one deserved happiness more than them.
“Thanks, guys,” Grady said. “Unfortunately, morning sickness and country breakfasts don’t match. She can’t stand the scent of food, so I see a lot of cereal in my future.”
“No doubt.” As happy as Luke was for his friend, he needed to turn back to business. “Do you have an update from forensics about June’s vehicle, Grady?”
His fellow ranger sighed. “You’re not going to like this.”
Five
Forty-five minutes of searching June’s bedroom and Megan w
as still empty-handed. She shoved a dresser drawer closed with a frustrated sigh. Her cell phone rang, the name Grace Sterling flashing on the screen. She didn’t bother answering with a hello. Her best friend and the other half of Hunt & Sterling law firm had been texting all morning.
“It’s not here, Grace.”
Megan shifted the phone against her ear. Her gaze skipped around the bedroom, verifying she’d checked every nook and cranny. The closet, under the bed, the nightstand. None of it had gone untouched.
A slight drumming came over the line. Megan pictured Grace thrumming her manicured fingers on the antique wooden desk, a silk scarf highlighting her high cheekbones and ebony eyes, and her mouth pursed in thought.
Her friend sighed. “Are you sure it’s not in her office?”
“I tore it apart last night. All I found were news articles about the case. There should be a lot more than that.”
Megan crossed the room to the window. From this angle, Hank’s truck was visible. Luke’s stepfather was strolling the fence line near the barn. Nearing seventy, he still had the long stride of a man far more youthful. She’d already offered him coffee this morning, which he’d kindly refused.
“Have you drawn up the attorney/client agreement?” Megan asked.
“Yes. I’m going to see your brother this morning, and I’m not taking no for an answer this time.”
“Good. Luke’s made arrangements to question Wade later today, and I want you there. Meanwhile, I’ll keep searching.”
Her friend was silent for a long beat. “Megan, maybe you should back off. We can send a private investigator—”
“No. This is something I have to see through myself.”
She glanced down at her hand, and a memory flashed in her mind. Her mother’s blood coating her palm as the rain beat down on their rolled SUV.
Take care of Wade. Promise me, Megan.
I promise, Mama.
She squeezed her eyes shut and willed the haunting image away. If she thought of all the ways she’d failed to live up to that promise, it would cripple her. Right now, she needed to stay strong and focused.
“Do you think Luke will help?” Grace asked.
“Help is a relative term. He’ll investigate June’s accident, but I don’t know if that will lead to the evidence.” Megan crossed the room and opened June’s closet. She shoved a row of clothes to the side and tapped against the wall searching for a secret compartment. “Honestly, I wouldn’t involve him at all if I could avoid it. I can’t be sure he won’t hide things from me again.”
“You know he was obligated to tell the sheriff about Wade going back to Franny’s house that night.”
“It goes so much deeper than that. My brother was drinking and getting into trouble. Luke knew about it, but never said anything. I didn’t get the chance to set Wade on the right path before things spiraled out of control.”
The betrayal burned like a hot iron as much today as it did three years ago, and Megan hit the closet wall with more force than was necessary.
Grace sighed again. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course. Talk to you soon.”
She hung up, her mind already jumping to the problem at hand. She tapped all along the closet walls, but there was no hole or a secret compartment. Where was Wade’s file? There should be notes, a list of interviews, and a timeline. The progress of June’s investigation had to be documented somewhere.
A thump cut through the silence. Megan froze and the hair on her arms rose. It sounded as if it’d come from the living room. She scooped up her cell phone from the closet shelf, but hesitated. The front door was locked, and Hank was outside. The likelihood of someone being in the house was miniscule.
In the doorway, she listened. Not a whisper of sound. Her heart pounded as she approached the living room. Sliding along the hallway wall, she peeked around the corner. Books, previously stacked on the coffee table, littered the floor. A streak of gray whipped past her. Megan stifled a scream.
She placed a hand on her racing heart. “Archimedes, you scared me.”
The cat disappeared into the spare bedroom. Rotten thing.
Megan loosened the grip on her cell phone and let out a long breath of relief. Recent events coupled with Luke’s warning were making her jumpy. The lack of sleep and gallons of caffeine in her system weren’t helping.
She went into the kitchen and popped a bagel in the toaster. Leaning against the counter, her gaze drifted over the room. Could June have a secret compartment somewhere else in the house? There was an attic they used for storing the Christmas decorations, but it would be difficult…
Her spine stiffened. She hadn’t checked the basement. Actually, it was a bunker, built by the first owner of the house. June hated the space and had often talked of sealing it off. Still, it would make the perfect hiding spot.
Megan’s sneakers slid over the tile as she rounded the corner of the utility room. She opened the basement door. It was pitch-black inside and snapping on the light did little to change things. A shiver of apprehension raced down her spine. Megan silently chided herself. The worst thing down there was a spider.
Wind brushed against the nape of her neck. She whirled, as a large figure loomed. Two hands landed on her back and shoved.
Pain erupted along her shoulder and hip as she tumbled down the stairs. Objects whipped by in a blur. Landing in a heap at the bottom, her head rapped against the cement floor. Stars exploded across her vision.
From a distance, the door above her slammed shut. Megan moaned. She put a shaking hand to her head. Blood, warm and slick, coated her palm.
Move.
Urgency cut through her shock. She rose onto her knees, using the wall for support. The bumpy cement bit into her hand. A black object lay a short distance away.
Her phone.
On hands and knees, Megan crawled forward. The pain in her hip made her whimper. She hoped it was just bruised and not broken. The phone swam before her eyes, and she shook her head to clear her vision. She unlocked it and the screen glowed. Megan called 911, but nothing happened. The reception bars were nonexistent.
Above her, there were scraping sounds. What was he doing? Did he assume the fall alone would kill her, or would he come down to finish the job? She needed to move to a more strategic position.
Megan struggled to her feet. The bulb above her provided enough illumination so there weren’t shadows in the corners. She turned, looking for a place to hide, and gasped. The entire far wall was covered in paper. Megan took a shaky step forward and instantly recognized the face in the crime-scene photograph. Franny Dickerson. From the extent of her aunt’s notes, June’s investigation was far bigger, far more complex than Megan could’ve imagined.
A giant whoosh came from above. Megan’s attention shot to the door. Her heart stuttered and the hand holding the phone trembled.
Was that…was that an explosion?
Black smoke seeped into the basement through the cracks in the door like an ominous fog answering her silent question. Panic welled in her chest. Megan hobbled up the stairs. She slipped and rammed her knee on a step. Clutching the banister for support, she kept moving.
The smoke attacked her. It burned her lungs. Coughing, she lifted her shirt, stretching it over her nose and mouth. She blindly reached for the door and felt the heat of the fire through the wood. The handle burned her fingers when she twisted it. Nothing happened.
She backed up a few steps. Desperate, Megan rammed herself against the door. The wood vibrated under her shoulder but didn’t give.
Tears welled in her eyes, blinding her as much as the smoke. The need for oxygen forced her back. She stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, dropped to her knees on the cement floor and sucked in a few breaths. She searched the room for something to pry open the door, even as a bigger part of her knew it was hopeless. The earlier scraping sounds suddenly made sense. Something had been pushed in front of the basement door.
A sob rose in
her chest as hysteria threatened to take hold. Megan knew she should pray, but God seemed so far away. With everything she’d been through—from her parents’ death to the attack on June—she was certain He didn’t listen to her anymore.
The Lord helps those that help themselves.
Her aunt’s saying filtered through her mind as if June was right there, whispering it in her ear. Megan shoved her terror away and willed herself to focus. Finding a way out needed all her energy.
She unlocked her phone. It flickered on before going dark. Her fingers trembled as she tried again. The screen lit up. But for how long?
Phone calls wouldn’t go through, but maybe something else would work. Pulling up the text messages, she typed one out. It was garbled, the cracked screen and damaged phone making it nearly impossible. She could only hope Luke would understand.
At the top of the stairs, she hit send. The smoke was as thick as gravy and her lungs seized. Megan sputtered and coughed, the need for fresh air sending her back down the basement stairs.
This time when she tried to unlock her phone, it didn’t work.
The screen stayed black.
Luke hung up the phone with Grady, his breakfast sitting like lump of coal in his stomach. The forensic team couldn’t determine June’s accident was caused by foul play, but he knew it was.
“I don’t understand why you think it’s a murder attempt.” Weston leaned against the counter. “June could’ve accidentally put steering fluid in her brake line causing them to fail. People have done it before.”
“That’s what someone wants us to believe.” Luke settled his hat on his head and grabbed his keys from the peg by the door. “But June was a plane mechanic in the Air Force. I’ve seen her fix tractors and pull apart engines. She never would’ve put steering fluid in her brake line.”
Weston’s mouth opened, but Luke’s phone beeped with an incoming message, cutting him off. He glanced down at the screen to find a garbled text from Megan. Not much made sense except for two words. Help and fire.