Page 95 of Weight of Guilt

Sondra Pike was a family law attorney in Fog Lake. She worked out of an office above the bank. Wren had sat in that office at nineteen with a two-year-old on her hip, asking a woman she couldn’t afford how to make Mason’s father pay two hundred dollars a month to help with bills.

Now Cody had called this very woman.

“You spoke with my lawyer?” Accusation dripped from her tone. “Without even talking to me first?”

“She’s not your lawyer. Hasn’t been for years. Besides, I knew how our talk would go, and I was right.” He paused. “You didn’t even listen because your mind is made up. I just wanted to ask Sondra what my options are.”

“Options?” She forced herself to keep her voice calm, though everything inside her wanted to panic.

“She said I might not need a judge for matters like this—not when Mason’s personal safety may be on the line. She said if you fight me, it will only make you look bad.”

More anger surged through her. Cody wasn’t just trying to take her son from her. He was playing dirty, and she didn’t appreciate it.

“I’m picking Mason up from school at three.” Her voice came out level, which surprised her. “That’s what we agreed to.”

“Wren—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. Instead, she slammed the phone onto a nearby table.

Cody had a lot of nerve. He wouldn’t take Mason from her. She’d make sure of that.

Chapter

Forty-Eight

By eleven, Nash had a full page of notes.

Faye Loudermilk, born in Cocke County. The land where she currently lived had been given to her by her mother in 2009. There was no mortgage on it. No liens.

Faye was sixty-one years old. She’d never been married. She’d worked as a farmer and had owned a farm stand for twenty years. That was the only employment Nash could find. There were no news articles about her or police records.

Nash sighed and closed his computer. As he did, Tank got up from the floor, walked a circle, and lay back down against Nash’s feet.

He rubbed the top of his dog’s head. “I know. It’s one of those days, huh?”

He’d hoped to make more progress. To find some answers. To find . . . something.

At 11:50, Luke called.

“You sitting down?” Luke started.

Nash’s muscles tensed. That was never a good way to start a conversation. “I’m sitting.”

“I just found out that Everett Voss owns land in this county. Seventeen acres off Pilcher Road. He’s had it for four years.”

Everett Voss . . . the FBI’s number one suspect ten years ago in Christian’s disappearance. The man who’d dropped off the grid and never been heard from since. Had he been right under their nose the whole time?

Nash put his pen down. “Where’s Pilcher Road?”

“It runs behind the Loveless place.” Luke let those words sit. “The road leading to the property is on the other side of the county line. But the back line of that parcel is about a mile from their yard. Straight through the woods.”

Nash’s jaw tightened. “How does this happen in a county this size without anyone flagging it?”

“Because his name isn’t on the deed.”

“Then whose is it?”

“Everett Tolliver. His mother was a Tolliver, and her name went on his birth certificate alongside Voss.” Papers moved on Luke’s end. “He filed the deed under Tolliver only. Paid cash. Never once put Voss on a piece of county paper.”