stuff eased off, he was it.
And that was the other thing Megan was right about— D’Angelo was going to go for him personally, potentially crucifying him on points of police procedure, like putting the probationary cop outside Louisa’s door.
Damn, but he was in a no-win situation.
Megan sped along the country road, autumn wind in her hair, the vineyards, vibrant with reds, oranges and gold, flashing by in a blur.
She’d spent the morning with D’Angelo and Louisa at Elias Memorial, rehashing the arrest, going over every little detail that had led up to the heart attack. When they’d finished, D’Angelo had pushed his glasses up his Roman nose and told them with his classic trademark equanimity that he would personally make Detective Sergeant Dylan Hastings his target in getting this arrest overturned.
D’Angelo had been particularly pleased to discover the probationary rank of the constable guarding Louisa’s door. He’d noted this was against NSW policing regulations, adding that police staffing problems in the Hunter LAC were going to be their ace in the hole.
So was the fact Louisa had not yet been officially charged.
D’Angelo’s criminal team was now in the process of putting together a case to nullify the arrest, focusing on police ineptitude, Dylan’s in particular.
Megan felt conflicted by this.
That wasn’t justice. Not in her book. That was legal chess.
It went to the heart of why she’d dropped criminal law.
In her mind, the one and only way to exonerate her aunt and put a simple end to this was to find the real killer, and the cop sure as hell wasn’t going to be looking any further—he thought he had his suspect.
Which was why Megan was on the road to Lochlain Racing now. She wanted to see the arson site herself, speak to owner Tyler Preston, find something—anything—that might help solve this case.
But a cold and faint finger of doubt touched her again as she turned onto a dirt road, slowing for some riders, the sun warm on her arms.
What had Dylan meant by saying Louisa had bought justice before? And why had Louisa’s pistol been used as the murder weapon?
Megan drove up the Lochlain driveway, and pulled up under a tall stand of gum trees alongside one of the farm outbuildings.As she got out of the car, the first thing she saw was a young teen in a navy-and-white school uniform on some risers near an empty dressage ring in the distance. She was bent forward, face buried in her hands, crying. Not just crying, but sobbing, her frame physically racked by emotion.
Megan glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity. She hesitated, then walked up to the girl. And as she neared, something in her heart squeezed.
The child reminded her of herself at that age.
Perhaps it was the thick honey-blond hair in two pigtails, the proximity of a dressage ring, the scent of horses in the air—all combining to prod loose a certain memory thread. It was at about the same age as this girl, Megan had lived to ride.
Dressage had been her performance class, a passion passed down from Granny Betty to her mother to her.
She’d lost touch with the sport after her mum and dad’s accident. Life had changed after that. She’d been sent off to boarding school, the horses sold. But right at this moment she felt the old passion stirring oddly, deeply, inside her once again.
“Hey there,” she said, edging onto the wooden bench alongside the girl. “You okay?”
The teen stilled, then sniffing and wiping her face, looked up cautiously. Her cheeks were streaked and blotchy, but she had incredibly beautiful big green eyes. Again an odd sensation gripped Megan. She had a weird feeling of looking back in time, at herself.
“My name is Megan Stafford,” she said softly. “Can I help?”
The girl swiped her eyes, looking embarrassed, then shook her head.
“Did something just happen?”
She glanced away, stared at the empty ring, her gaze shifting slowly towards the fire-damaged barns that had been cordoned off with construction fencing and checkered blue-and-white crime tape. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears and she moistened her lips. “My horse, Anthem—” she said, eyes fixed on the charred ruins “—was injured in the fire.”
Megan’s heart clutched. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Did… did you lose her?”
The girl bit her quivering lip as tears spilled silently down her cheeks again. “I…might. She’s got smoke inhalation damage. I don’t know if she’s ever going to be okay, and…” She was racked by another deep sob. “I can’t be with her because the vet is in there with the other horses now. Anthem was doing all right, and…and then suddenly there was a whole lot of fluid in her lungs yesterday…” Her voice choked as a wrenching surge of raw emotion took hold of her.
Megan instinctively put her arm around the teen, drawing her close, just holding her, stroking her hair. She recalled how many times in her own youth she’d wished her mother had been around to do just this, hold her—how alone in the world she’d felt after her parents had died.
Megan hadn’t thought about this in a long while.
After a few minutes the girl looked up sheepishly with redrimmed eyes. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her face. “I’m sorry. I…I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
“It’s okay, hon. You need to let these things out.” Megan had a sense the child had also desperately needed the tactile comfort of another human. “Are you here all alone?”
She nodded. “I got off the school bus here because I was hoping they’d let me see Anthem. I usually ride her on Tuesdays, but…” She sighed deeply. “They’re so busy with all the other horses and Anthem is not a Thoroughbred. I’m worried they’re not watching her closely enough.” She glanced up. “Anthem’s depressed. I think she needs special attention or…she might just give up.”
“I’m sure they’re treating all the horses the same, sweetie.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If we had money, I’d take her someplace she could get individual care. I bet if she was an expensive racer they’d have gotten her out of the fire earlier. She wouldn’t have been left until last.”
“I’m sure it didn’t happen like that.”
She looked up with an expression that made Megan’s heart ache. “I’m sure it did.”
“Why is Anthem stabled here?”
The girl sucked in a shaky breath as galahs, pink and white, flitted and chattered in the tree above. “Tyler Preston, the owner, was giving me lessons.”
“Dressage?”
“No, Anthem and I have been working on that ourselves. Tyler teaches a couple of us local kids the basic stuff. He’s really good—he used to have his own TV show. He gave my friend Zach a part-time job as a groom, and his payment is the lessons. Zach uses one of Tyler’s horses when he rides here, but he has his own at Huntington Stud, where his
