tried and failed to put the confused pieces into place. “I’m not sure.”
“I am,” Sergio said. “The lighter on the floor was a dead giveaway.” He paused. “Unless you’ve taken up cigarette smoking, Helen?”
His words were acid. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep straight against his disdain. “No.”
Sergio bobbed a chin. “Fine then. Maybe Cowboy Chad here can call the cops while I put out the fire.” He vanished into the smoky interior.
Chad raised an eyebrow, his normally impassive face troubled as he pulled out his cell phone. “So that’s Sergio Ross?”
She nodded.
“What’s he doing here?”
It was the very same question making painful circles in her mind.
Sergio Ross.
The last man on earth she wanted to see.
Sergio wondered if the tension he was picking up was from the cop, the cowboy clan who were seemingly coming out of the woodwork or his own angst at returning to the town that had claimed his sister’s life. Probably all of the above, he decided.
Property owners Gus and Ginny Knightly were cordial to him and comforting to Helen, inviting the cop and participants back to the warmth of their beautiful Spanish-style ranch house to finish the questioning. Helen sat across the room on an armchair, being fussed over by Ginny. He could see she was developing a decent-sized bruise on her forehead. She’d shared what facts she knew. The branch that came through the window was a ruse, he suspected, to urge her out of the cottage, probably an attempt to get her to leave. The person then circled around and hid in the closet, perhaps not expecting her to fetch the broom. When she awoke the place was on fire.
The cop waiting patiently for his statement looked to Sergio to be in his late sixties, face wide, head shaved, tanned from time out in the sun, pretty fit from the looks of him. “I’m Mark Farraday, acting chief of the Driftwood Police Department.”
“Where’s the real chief?” Sergio asked mildly, earning himself a sharp look which he deserved.
“Danny Patron is on leave,” Farraday said. “His youngest just had a liver transplant.”
Sergio’s heart thudded considering what that must feel like, to watch your child struggle for their life. He jammed his hands in his pockets, regretting his gibe.
Farraday shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed for a moment. “You’re a commercial diver?”
The cop had done a little checking. “I was.”
“What kind?”
“Deadhead logger.” He caught the blank look. “I work for a company that salvages sinker logs.”
Surprisingly it was Chad who spoke up. “Some of those logs were cut way back in the 1800s. The water keeps them pristine. They’re worth big money.” Chad cocked his chin. “Risky job.”
“Can be.” He thought he detected a glimmer of respect in the younger man’s eyes, which vanished in an instant.
Farraday continued. “So what brings you to the ranch? To Driftwood?”
“Up from southern California. Visiting.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not investigating?”
Sergio smiled. The cop was putting him on notice, establishing that he had the intel. “I am a licensed private investigator, as you already know, right? I came to the cottage because it’s where my sister stayed before her death.”
He saw Helen flinch. The bruise marred her skin, her dusting of freckles stark against the pale complexion. He saw the fine muscles of her throat convulse. It made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t figure out why. “Are you okay?” he asked before he could stop himself.
She pinched her lips together and nodded, meeting his gaze for a moment. The green of those eyes had to be one in a million, the iridescent hue of some brilliant ocean coral he’d photographed. He shook off the thought and went on. “I just wanted to see the place again before it was demolished.”
“And?” Farraday prodded.
“And I got wind that there may be a connection between Fiona’s death and the teen who was murdered, Trish O’Brian.”
Now Farraday’s eyes slitted. “How exactly did you get wind of that?”
Sergio shrugged. “Not important.” Before Farraday could press him further he continued. “You were the investigating officer back at the time Trish was killed, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” One clipped syllable.
“And the murderer was never apprehended?”
Farraday paused. “No.”
Sergio nodded. “The two kids who looked like suspects, Justin Dover and Gavin Cutter. Both were cleared.” He shot a glance at Helen. “And you, and my sister, of course.”
Farraday didn’t respond.
“Now those tunnels where she died are closed up, but rumor has it they’ve been used more recently.” Sergio surveyed the family watching his every move. “Bad guys get paid a few bucks to carry illegal prescription drugs from a drop to some distribution points.”
“Old news. Patron shut that operation down. Those are rumors,” Farraday said. “Plenty of those flying around in a small town. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
And don’t discount anything either. “My sister was looking into something.”
“Yes,” Helen said, stepping around Ginny. He half expected Farraday to stop her joining them, but he didn’t. She was followed by the cowboy he’d met earlier, Chad, and a mountain of a man with dusky skin and a scar on his cheek.
“Mitch Whitehorse,” he said by way of introduction. “Helen’s brother.”
Not blood kin, clearly. The woman was surrounded by adopted cowboy brothers.
“Mitch is a former US marshal,” Farraday explained. “He can tell you we don’t arrest people without evidence, and there wasn’t enough to nail anyone for Trish’s death.”
“Or my sister’s.”
Farraday nodded. “Correct.”
“So the note? The one my sister wrote mentioning Trish before she was murdered?”
“Your sister’s death was a hit-and-run...” the cop started.
“Murder,” Sergio said firmly. “It’s murder when a driver speeds up intentionally to hit someone and doesn’t stop after, isn’t that right?” He locked gazes with Helen again, noting something
