Ava shuffled back to her rocking chair, moonshine untouched in her hand. “Strange timing, a suicide right when the federal men start poking around.”
“Very strange,” Naomi agreed, not taking her eyes off Julius.
He sighed and set down his glass. “Look, I get it. You want there to be some big conspiracy because it’s easier than accepting the truth—that sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one.” His voice softened. “I wanted that for Mary Rose too. Remember? I couldn’t accept that she’d just run away. But she did.”
“No, she didn’t,” Naomi said automatically. The familiar argument felt like picking at a scab that had never fully healed. “She was taken.”
“Maybe,” Julius conceded. “But after all these years with no evidence...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Sometimes we have to let go, Naomi. For our own sanity.”
“Let go?” The words tasted like ash in her mouth, and she stood, suddenly unable to remain still. “No. I won’t. Everyone else let go of Mary Rose the second she was gone. They let go of Alice Dougherty. They let go of Leelee.”
“Naomi—”
“No,” she cut him off. “Sheriff Goodwin is covering something up. Sampson’s ‘suicide’ is too convenient. And now Deveraux—” She stopped abruptly, a terrible thought forming. “Wait. How did you know it was Mitch that Owen attacked?”
Julius blinked. “What?”
“You said Owen ‘did a number on Mitch.’ If you were in the canyon, out of cell service, then how did you know?”
Julius stared at her for a beat too long before his face smoothed into an easy smile. “It’s all over social media, cuz. Half the town was recording it on their phones.”
The explanation made sense, but something cold slithered down Naomi’s spine. She touched the fox pendant at her throat, drawing comfort from its solid weight.
“Right,” she said. “Of course.”
“You’re exhausted,” Julius said, his voice gentle. “Seeing threats everywhere. It’s understandable after what you’ve been through.”
Naomi swallowed, suddenly aware of how isolated they were in Ava’s cabin at the edge of town. No Owen. No backup. Just her, her grandmother, and her cousin, who suddenly felt like a stranger despite the familiar face.
Julius drained his glass. “Jesus. Sampson?” He shook his head and turned away to pour another one. “I can’t believe he’d strangle Leelee with her own stockings. You think you know a guy.”
At Naomi’s sharp intake of breath, he froze, then very slowly set the bottle down.
“Fuck.” He turned, and the look in his eyes had her taking a step back, knocking her shoulder into the wall. “I wasn’t supposed to know that detail, was I?”
forty-one
The cell door squealed open,metal against metal, a sound Ghost had hoped never to hear again. He kept his face blank as the deputy stepped back, eyes averted like Ghost might attack if looked at directly.
Six hours in a box, breathing recycled air that reeked of disinfectant and despair.
Six hours wondering if Naomi was safe, if Deveraux had friends who might seek retribution, if he’d lost control for nothing. Ghost stepped out without a word, shoulders square, spine straight—nothing in his posture betraying how badly his skin crawled from confinement.
“You’re goddamn lucky, Booker,” Goodwin sneered from his desk, not bothering to stand. “Next time, Marshal Brandt won’t be around to save your ass.”
Ghost didn’t acknowledge him. Engaging with Goodwin now would only extend his time in this fluorescent purgatory. He focused instead on Walker’s steady presence beside him, on Brandt’s rigid professionalism as he signed the last of the release forms, on Boone’s barely contained rage that vibrated from him in almost tangible waves.
“Your personal effects,” the desk sergeant muttered, sliding a plastic bin across the counter.
Ghost quickly inventoried the contents—wallet, keys, pocket knife (blade under three inches, technically legal), his watch, and finally his phone. Nearly dead, of course. They’d confiscated it fully charged. He slipped it into his pocket without comment.
“We done here?” Walker asked Brandt, his voice calm but edged with steel.
“Just about,” Brandt replied, signing one final form with an elegant, practiced flick of his wrist. “Sheriff, I’ll expect full cooperation with our investigation moving forward.” He slid the clipboard back to the desk sergeant. “Including any evidence related to Sampson Padilla’s death.”
Goodwin’s laugh held no humor. “You federal boys and your paperwork.” He swiveled in his chair, dismissing them. “Feel free to waste taxpayer money chasing wild geese. My department has actual crimes to solve.”
Ghost felt Boone tense beside him, ready to respond, but Walker caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head. Not here. Not now.
