took a deep breath before he responded. “I came here as soon as I could. I don’t know how word leaked. It shouldn’t have.”
“Well, it did.” His mother pushed her bangs off her forehead with a smile. The fact that the hair found at the crime scene was short and brown didn’t escape him. His mother’s hair was short and brown.
Lucas lifted his drink glass in a gesture of offering. “Fix you one and then we’ll toast.”
“What are we toasting?” Harrison asked gruffly.
“That Waylon Granger is dead,” his mother said. “Tumbleweed is better off without him.”
Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long damn day. “How can you say that, Mother? Granger was a crappy father, but we don’t have proof he did anything else.” Honey’s face flashed in his mind. She didn’t deserve any of this.
His mother patted his shoulder. “You always were the diplomat, Harrison. But we know, at least I know, that that damned man hurt our Chrissy.”
Harrison glanced at his brothers to see if they were in agreement. Lucas sipped his drink, his expression neutral. Dexter slipped an arm around their mother as if to offer support. Brayden poured himself another drink, then fixed Harrison one and offered it to him.
Harrison took it, struggling to think of a way to defuse the situation. And how to subtly ask his family when they’d last seen Granger.
He sipped the whiskey, grateful for the warmth sliding down his throat. “Do any of you have evidence to prove that Granger did something to our sister?”
“Not yet,” Lucas said.
Dexter cleared his throat. “I talked to Waylon’s neighbors but no one remembered seeing Chrissy that night. They couldn’t say he was at home all night, either.”
“When did you talk to them?” Harrison asked.
“As soon as I got my PI license. But three of the families who lived in that neighborhood had already moved.”
Brayden’s look turned dark. “Have you found anything to incriminate him?”
Harrison bit his tongue. He didn’t want to reveal what he’d found or learned; not yet. People would convict Granger—and he wanted the truth, not a vigilante situation.
But his family deserved answers.
“Let’s sit down and eat before dinner gets cold.” His mother ushered them to their usual chairs and for a few minutes, the discussion was put on hold as they served themselves from the platters of roast beef, potatoes and gravy and green beans.
Although Harrison wanted to gulp down his whiskey, he forced himself to eat instead. He still had work to do.
“How did Granger die?” Dexter asked as he forked up a bite of roast.
Harrison studied his family, searching for any sign that one of them already knew the truth. Emotions strained everyone’s faces, as if just mentioning Granger’s name stirred up the horrid memories of the night Chrissy disappeared.
His mother had been near hysterical when she and his father arrived home from their party and discovered Brayden and Chrissy weren’t home.
Harrison had felt sick to his stomach—it was his fault they’d sneaked out. His fault they’d been at the bluff because they’d followed him.
Brayden had raced in on his bike with his ankle swollen, ready to fuss at Chrissy for not sending help, then realized she hadn’t made it back to their house. Fear had ignited tempers, and a lot of screaming and yelling had ensued.
His parents had frantically called Chrissy’s best friends but both of them had been home in bed and hadn’t seen or talked to Chrissy.
His mother dropped her fork with a clatter. “What aren’t you telling us, Harrison?”
His brothers stopped chewing and stared at him as if they, too, realized there was more to the story. Damn.
Harrison took another swig of his whiskey. “Granger didn’t die of natural causes.”
“What?” His mother gasped.
His brothers gave him questioning looks. “What’s going on?” Dexter asked.
Harrison swallowed hard. “He was murdered.”
His mother clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, then lifted her glass of wine. “Well, he got what he deserved.”
Harrison agreed with her. But he still had to find out who killed the man. A silent prayer formed on his lips that his family had nothing to do with it.
* * *
HONEY SLIPPED INTO a booth, hoping to avoid attention. A teenager wearing tattered jeans and a denim shirt appeared, an order pad in her hands. Black square glasses framed a thin, pale face. A sadness radiated from the girl as if she had problems bigger than a teenager should.
Honey felt a kinship with her. At fifteen she’d worked at the Dairy Barn to make money so she could leave town. Did this girl have problems like she’d had? Did she have any family who cared about her?
Had Cora hired her because she wanted to help?
“What can I get you?”
Her name tag read Sonya. “A turkey sandwich and a bowl of that vegetable soup.”
“Sure. What do you want to drink?”
Wine would be nice but the diner didn’t serve it. “Just water. Oh, and a cup of coffee. Decaf, please.” She didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake tonight. It would be hard enough to sleep in her father’s house anyway.
The girl nodded then made her way to the counter and dropped off Honey’s order. She returned a minute later with the coffee and water.
Honey stirred sugar into her mug then sipped it, her gaze scanning the room. Two older couples sat having coffee and pie while a group of teens chowed on burgers and fries at a table near the door.
Three gray-haired women were huddled around a table beside her sipping tea.
“Did you hear that Waylon Granger died at the bluff?” the curly-haired woman with glasses said.
The other two women’s faces expressed surprise.
The thin lady in a blue knit pantsuit leaned over the table, eyes wide. “Really?”
The curly-haired woman clinked her spoon on her teacup. “He sure did. My grandson was up there and found him. Waylon fell over that ridge.”
The third lady clacked her teeth. “Wonder what he was doing up there?”
“Probably drunk,” the thin lady said.
“He was always drunk,” the curly-haired one whispered. “Such a sorry excuse for a man.”
The
