Shane dropped his hand and headed back over to where he’d left the cleanup tools.
Rory couldn’t let him leave this way. “Shane, I’m sorry.”
His head came up, and he stared at her hopefully, like a misbehaving puppy who had just been given a second opportunity to do better.
“If you really want to help,” she said, hoping Chance wouldn’t mind her taking this initiative, “find something that will help us prove the truth. We need evidence. Our word alone—yours and mine—won’t be enough. We already know how this will go if I don’t find evidence. Or figure out how the one piece of this they left out fits. I need a witness or something.”
The water hose in hand, Shane rejoined them on the driveway. “I swear to you,” he looked from Rory to Chance, “and you, that I will do everything in my power to find whatever I can. I want to help. You have no idea how much I want to help. I failed you and I failed Pete last time. It’s weighed on me every day for the past two years.”
“Thank you, Shane,” Rory said, drumming up a smile. “I will be forever in your debt if you do.”
His smile widened. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”
He gave Chance a nod and headed for his truck. He tossed the coiled up hose in the back and climbed in. When he’d driven away, Chance asked, “Do you think he means what he says?”
Rory wished she knew the answer. “I hope so. I really, really hope so.”
“You have every reason not to trust him,” Chance reminded her.
He was right. She laughed. “Like I said, I can’t trust right now, but I can hope.”
He smiled then, and she felt buoyed by it. Such a nice smile. Having someone on her side was a good feeling. One she hadn’t felt beyond her little family in a long time.
“You can,” he agreed. “But I think we can do better than just hope. We already know of at least four places where Fowler fell down on the job. We’re going to fill in those missing pieces, and then we’ll prove what he ignored and find the truth about what really happened that night.”
Chance was right. They could do better than just hoping. Rory damned well intended to prove her innocence. She thought of Eudora Harris. No matter what the woman believed, Rory would make her see that she was wrong.
They were all wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kindred Residence
Tupelo Pike
Scottsboro, 12:00 p.m.
Rory removed the cheese and butter from the fridge. “We could have grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Works for me.” Chance reached for the loaf of bread on the counter.
“Mayo?” she asked before closing the fridge door.
“None for me.”
She smiled. “Me either. The cheese is the best part of a grilled cheese. Why dilute it with anything else?”
He held up a finger. “Except pickles. On the side, of course.”
“Pickles.” She made a face as she tried to think if she’d noticed any. “I hope I have pickles. Check the cabinets, and I’ll get the sandwiches started.”
Rory reached into the drawer under the oven and retrieved her aunt’s favorite cast iron skillet. She placed it on top and dug for the matches in the cabinet drawer next to the stove. The appliance was vintage—as in many decades old. Her aunt had loved it. She’d found it at an auction about forty years ago. With the help of her boyfriend at the time, she had completely restored it. The bright yellow color was so Lulu. The important part for Rory was that it worked. The downside was it ran on gas and required manual lighting. The poof that happened when she set the flame to the burner always made her jump.
The instant heat meant the butter melted and started to sizzle quickly. She placed two slices of cheese between two pieces of bread and added them to the pan. A quick turn ensured both sides got a little of that melted butter. Extra cheese was the key, in her opinion, to the best grilled cheese sandwiches.
“Ah-ha,” Chance announced. “We have pickles.” He placed the jar on the counter.
“Better check the date.” Rory laughed. “Just in case.”
