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Barbara shone the flashlight around. The boxes and crates were packed with dishes, ornaments and cutlery. Larger boxes were full of old paintings.
“Maybe that’s what it is,” she said. “Maybe Nathan came back to sell off his family’s stuff.” She picked up a heavy silver spoon. “Could be worth quite a lot.”
“So why is he still here a year later?” Tucker asked.
“Good question.”
For which she had no answer.
They backed out and proceeded down to the kitchen. It was large and old-fashioned, lined with dark cabinets. Barbara pulled one open. No food inside, but something shiny and black scuttled behind a joint in the wood. She shut it again hastily. To her left a dented, scorched range tilted against one wall and, in front of her, a cracked Belfast sink was full of dirty dishes and empty shot glasses.
“I guess we’d better check—”
She broke off. A noise. A creak from the hall. Tucker’s eyes met hers. Barbara turned and walked to the kitchen door. She stopped. Shit.
Nathan Bell stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was dressed in a stained T-shirt and jeans. He looked pissed off. And he was holding a shotgun.
“Who the fuck are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?”
28
She should have brought a flashlight, Jess thought. The forest was dark, and her phone light didn’t penetrate far into the pockets of gloom between the trees. Only a little daylight trickled down between the thick spruce.
She had already tripped over coiled bundles of tree roots and almost fallen flat on her face twice. At this rate, if she busted an ankle or a leg, they’d be sending out a search party for her as well. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Maybe she should go back and get the police involved. But that would mean asking the new detective, Atkins, for help. And what use would an out-of-towner like her be? On the other hand, her dad was seventy-nine. What if he was hurt or injured? He wouldn’t survive long out here in the cold.
If he was still alive.
She shoved that thought to one side.
“Dad! Dad—are you out here?”
A flock of birds took flight from the trees up ahead, stirred by her voice. She jumped and then shook herself. Her nerves were rattling like dead men’s bones. Jess knew this forest well, but she also knew how it could trick you, how the landmarks you gave yourself could change, how the darkness messed with your sense of direction. The forest wanted you to get lost. It wanted to keep you within its silent, breathless embrace.
“DAD!” she called again, pushing through a stubborn clump of undergrowth. Just a little farther and then she would turn back. Summon help. It would do her dad no good if…she paused. She thought she had heard something. A voice. Up ahead. She moved forward quickly but carefully, trying to pinpoint the direction. Somewhere to the left. She was so intent on tracking the sound she almost walked straight into a large tree trunk and scraped her head on a low-hanging branch.
“Shit.” She rubbed at her head and her fingers came away streaked with blood and dirt. She wiped them on her coat. Then the voice came again. Dad, talking in a low tone:
“I know you’re out there…and I know what you want. But you’re not having them.”
Jess cut the phone light and felt her way forward. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could see a little more. Ahead, there was a clearing. A familiar white-haired figure stood in the middle, clad in a thick jacket but no gloves or hat.
“They deserved what they got,” she heard him say. “He killed that boy.”
Who was he talking to? She couldn’t see anyone else there.
Her dad raised his crossbow, pointing it at an unseen foe. “You stay away from Deadhart. You hear me?”
“Dad?” Jess said.
Beau spun round; crossbow raised.
“Don’t fire!” Jess cried. “It’s me.”
For a moment her father stared at her like she was a stranger.
“Jess?”
“Yes.”
