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“That’s between them. I don’t care what they do as I don’t need the money…in fact, no one needs the money. So it’s up to Trey. And speaking of Trey, let me grab the mail and I’ll drop it off at his house this evening.”
But the copper bucket where Shane was supposed to put the mail wasn’t on the front porch, or the back. Cormac tried the back door and it was open. “I’m going to have a quick check inside,” he said.
“You think it’s okay?”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
Whitney followed him in. The kitchen was tidy, the counters empty except for the small drying rack that held a cup and the coffee pot.
Cormac glanced around, didn’t see the copper bucket, and headed on down the hall. He glanced into the dining room and then stopped.
Whitney stopped behind him. At one end of the table sat a laptop computer with a printer to the right on the antique sideboard. The rest of the dining table was covered with piles of books, file folders, and stacks of neatly printed pages. Bulletin boards hung from picture hooks on the walls with the old fashioned paisley wallpaper.
“What is this?” Cormac asked, entering the dining room.
“Looks like he’s made this his library or study.”
“Study of what?” Cormac retorted, his gaze sweeping the room.
The books were neatly stacked and the papers on the table appeared organized, but the bulletin boards were filled with newspaper articles and photographs, and Whitney could read the screaming newspaper headlines from where she stood. Tragedy in Marietta. Local Family Slain in Home Invasion. A Slaughter of Innocents. Montana Manhunt.
The titles were deliberately provocative and she knew they’d been crafted for the shock value but seeing them cover the walls made her sick. She swallowed in revulsion even as Cormac moved around the room, studying the boards.
“This is that home invasion on the Douglas ranch,” she said. “McKenna’s family.”
“Yes.” Cormac turned to the table, picked up a few books, put them back down and then leafed through a number of the pages in the print out pile. “It’s a draft of a book,” he said, glancing up. “He’s written a book about the home invasion on the Douglas ranch.”
Whitney’s gaze returned to the horrifying headlines and then the stacked pages. “Has anyone ever written a book about the murders before?”
He shook his head. “The crime has never been solved.”
“Why is he doing it?”
“I don’t know. And I definitely don’t know why he’s doing it while living at our house.”
It was quiet in the SUV after leaving the Sheenan ranch house. Whitney knew Cormac well enough to know it wasn’t the good kind of quiet, either. He was upset, and trying to keep it in. She didn’t blame him. She was upset and it wasn’t even her house, or her family.
As he drove, she darted a couple glances at Cormac but his profile remained hard, his jaw set.
“What are you going to do?” she asked after a few minutes.
He didn’t immediately answer but his hand tightened on the steering wheel. She studied the broad hand with the prominent knuckles. She’d heard stories about his fighting prowess. Apparently all the Sheenan were fighters, with Trey being the fastest, and dirtiest.
“Are you going to say anything to your tenant?” she persisted after another minute of silence. “To let him know we were there?”
His gaze finally met hers, his expression fierce. “To let him know that we know what he’s writing?” He shook his head. “I want him out of there. I want him out of the house now.”
Whitney chose her words with care. “If he has a lease agreement, I’m not sure you can legally evict him for something like this.”
“McKenna is my sister-in-law.”
“No, I get that. I do. That was really weird, and creepy, and I wasn’t even raised here and was bothered by all those clippings and photos, so I can’t imagine what it feels like for you to see it. Never mind how your brother, Trey, would react. I can’t help but think he’d flip out—”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Cormac interrupted grimly. “McKenna was thirteen when it happened. She’s spent her entire life trying to come to terms with what happened and this guy is living in our house, writing a book about how her family was tortured and murdered?”
“What if he could help solve the murder?”
“Then maybe he should go to the detectives who’d worked the case and see if they can’t reopen it.”
“That’s something that will probably happen after the book comes out.”
“I don’t want this guy making a penny from McKenna’s loss.”
“I get that, but try to look at this from a big picture point of view. Try not to make this personal. You own lots of media. You understand the nature of media. It’s selling the news. Getting people to watch, buy, tune in. This guy is writing what looks like a true crime book. Vincent Bugliosi, Truman Capote, Ann Rule…they all made careers out of writing stories about serial killers and unsolved murders. It’s a profitable market for publishers. A legitimate market.”
“That’s fine. But this Shane guy doesn’t have to do it in my family home. This is where I was raised. It’s where my mom died—” he broke off, shook his head, swallowed. His voice dropped, deepening. “I don’t want him here anymore. I want him out.”
They drove without speaking for a good ten minutes. It was an uncomfortable quiet, too, with Whitney staring out the window and Cormac chewing relentlessly on his lip, working it over.
Finally he broke the Whitney silence. “I don’t have a lot of good memories of growing up in that house. I’ve never liked going back to visit. But having this guy in there is just a total slap in the face. Everyone around here knows that Trey and McKenna go back a long, long way…all the way back to high school. And for this man to talk to Trey on a daily basis and live in the house and hang photographs of the crime scene on the walls of my parents’ dining room—” his deep voice cracked. “It’s just wrong.”
Whitney reached across, and touched his forearm, a squeeze of comfort, before pulling it away.
He was a complicated man. And he and she had a complicated relationship. But when the chips were down, she’d be in his corner.
So maybe the unthinkable had happened.
Maybe they had become friends.
Chapter Fifteen
‡
It was nearing eleven and Cormac hadn’t gone to bed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He was too upset still about what he’d seen at the ranch house today. It had taken every bit of his patience to stay calm with Daisy tonight, too, when she had a tantrum about nothing and all he wanted was some calm and quiet to think. Her tears frustrated him and he hung on to his temper…just barely.
He paced
the suite, feeling trapped.
Sometimes he didn’t want to be the single dad. Sometimes he didn’t want to be the ambitious guy. Sometimes he just wanted to run away from it all…
His hands balled at his sides. He wanted to hit something, and just bust it wide open.
If he had a sitter for Daisy he’d go to that twenty-four hour gym in Bozeman and get on the treadmill and run until he couldn’t take another step and then once he caught his breath he’d square off with a punching bag and pummel it until his arms gave out.
He needed the release. He needed to let his aggression fly.
He missed his mom.
Going to the house made her seem so real and he’d wanted her to be there today, when he’d entered the house. He’d wanted to see her in the kitchen turning to smile at him as he came through the door.
He’d never told her goodbye.
He’d never said what he’d needed to say to her. That he loved her. That he’d always love her. That she was a great mother even though she sometimes looked so sad…
And then to find that the writer, Shane, had hung bulletin boards all over the dining room and covered those boards with clippings from the murder at the Douglas ranch.
It was too much. It was.
It was still too much and it ate at him, the fact that Shane was in their house doing this. But Whitney was right. You couldn’t just throw a guy like Shane out on the streets. He’d know his rights and probably wouldn’t hesitate to fight back, coming at them with a lawyer, suing for unlawful eviction. And that was the last thing any of them needed.
But he had to do something, didn’t he?
Cormac paced again, and still wound up, grabbed his phone and shot Whitney a text. You up?
She answered a couple minutes later. Everything okay?
I don’t suppose you’d want to have a beer and talk.
Her answer was immediate. I’d rather do wine at this hour.
I have a bottle of red here. Come over. He swallowed hard and then added. Please.
Will be there in ten.
She actually arrived fifteen minutes later and apologized for it. “I forgot about parking,” she said when he opened the door.
