he glanced at the spot in front of the refrigerator. The door of the old appliance was propped open, much as it had gaped that night. The maple boards had been stripped and revarnished, but still the stain shone through the gleaming surface.
Although his knees shook, Dylan forced himself across the floor. He dropped the house keys onto the counter, rubbed a hand over his face and wiped away beads of sweat.
The sheriff was right. He should have sold the house. Maybe it was that simple. He shouldn’t have left town, just the house.
He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and pulled out a letter. He’d received it before he’d left Detroit. He uncrumpled the paper and perused the shaky handwriting of an old man.
The Winter Falls postmark hadn’t surprised Dylan. Sheriff Buck often wrote to him, and as he’d been working out his notice in Detroit, he had figured the sheriff had had details of Dylan’s reemployment as a Winter Falls deputy.
Instead he’d found the letter had been written by the lawyer of the man who’d killed his brother and then later himself.
Although he hardly glanced at the words, Dylan recited them from memory.
Dylan,
As I hear you’re returning home, I need to make an appointment with you to handle some unfinished business from ten years ago. I have something from Steve Mars that is addressed to you. I should have given it to you years ago, but when you left town, I thought you wanted to leave those painful memories behind. Now that you are returning, I feel it is my duty to deliver this item to you even though I am retired from my law practice. Please notify me when you return to town.
Sincerely,
Chet Oliver
Dylan crumpled the letter again and stuffed it back in the pocket of his leather jacket. Of the darkened room he asked, “Do I really want anything from Steve Mars?” His gaze fell on the stain on the hardwood floor. Other shadows blended into it, but he knew precisely where the stain began and ended.
Before he could give it any more thought, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. “Dylan Matthews.”
“Deputy,” the sheriff reminded him, but there was no teasing note in his voice. His booming voice shook.
“What’s wrong, Sheriff?”
“Get over to Sunset Lane, Oliver’s place. something happened. I’m going to call it in, but I want you here first. Better yet, you call it in when you get here.”
Dylan reached into his pocket and touched the letter. He remembered where Chet Oliver lived. He’d gone to the lawyer’s house after Steve Mars’s jail-cell suicide. He’d wanted to know if the lawyer had really believed Steve had killed Jimmy. Why hadn’t the old man given him whatever Steve Mars had left for him then? Why keep it ten years?
Dylan slipped his phone into his pocket with the letter and picked up his keys. Would he finally get some answers tonight or only more questions?
WHILE HER FATHER WORKED on his editorial, Lindsey loomed over his shoulder, reading as he wrote. “You’re brilliant, Dad. The things you notice…well, let’s just say you’re a much better reporter than many I’ve known.”
Her father squeezed the hand she’d braced on his shoulder. “Brat.”
Behind her on the scarred credenza, her father’s police scanner sputtered out a call. Despite the static and the poor reception of the ancient model, she recognized the voice. Dylan Matthews. Deputy Dylan Matthews calling for the coroner.
“Chet?” her father gasped when the address sputtered out of the box.
“Chet Oliver. The lawyer? If he died of natural causes, why wouldn’t they have called his family doctor?” Lindsey narrowed her eyes. Then she grabbed her backpack-style leather bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“Lindsey.” Her father reached for her arm. “You’re not going—”
“Do you want the story, Dad?”
Her father leaned back in his chair and stared at her over the rims of his reading glasses. “I want the story. Are you working for me?”
She’d come home to see her father. She hadn’t thought beyond that. “I guess I am.”
“Then remember I’m the boss. Go easy on Dylan, okay, brat?” He softened the warning with a smile.
“You want the story, Dad. To get it, I have to go to the story.” And the man. Not that she wanted the man. She hadn’t wanted him in a long time. She was over her ado les cent crush.
In Chicago she’d learned it was better when wishes didn’t come true. Idols were safer admired from afar. Up close they were human and flawed. When she saw Dylan Matthews again, she believed she’d see just the man, not a heart-stopping hero.
Chapter Two
DYLAN SNAPPED on his plastic gloves and touched the desk where Chet Oliver was slumped. A bullet in his temple. Dylan had already called the coroner, taken crime-scene photos and dusted for prints.
This was his inspection. The one that gave him a “feel” for what had happened that night. He hoped the crime scene would speak to him, not that he had much experience with murder investigations.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sheriff Buck muttered from the chair Dylan had pressed him into earlier. The tiny Queen Anne dubiously sup ported the sheriff’s weight.
Oliver’s Victorian farm house show cased several antiques. Dylan admired the gleaming mahogany surface of the desk as his fingertips skimmed over it.
He raised a white residue to eye level. Then he glanced up. Plaster from the ornate ceiling above Chet’s desk. He spied a bullet hole near some cove molding.
“Did you find it?” Sheriff Buck asked, his breathing ragged.
Dylan glanced at him and wondered if he should call the rookie deputy to look after the sheriff instead of having him wait outside for the coroner.
But the kid had turned green when he’d seen the victim, and Dylan had wanted him to get some air. Perhaps the sheriff needed some, too.
“What? A suicide note?” Dylan gestured at the retired lawyer’s slumped body. “This was no suicide.”
The sheriff sighed. “It wouldn’t make sense for him to kill himself. He just retired. We went fishing a couple weeks ago. He was looking forward to retirement, to his fight with the developers….”
“Fight?”
“Over the proposed mall project. Chet is—was a trustee.”
“You told me about the developer this afternoon.” Dylan retraced his steps across the room. He dropped his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Oliver didn’t do this.”
“I saw the gun in his hand.”
Dylan shook his head. “It was put there. A
