Page 130 of Wild Sanctuary

“Alright, son.” Marcus’s voice is matter-of-fact. “You know what needs doing. Make it look like whoever broke into her cabin came back for the rest of it.”

Like he’s assigning a task.

Stan says nothing.

Marcus reaches for his hat on the counter, then his keys on the table. He pockets them, then squeezes my shoulder on his way past, the same way he did two minutes ago, and every drop of blood drains from my face.

Stan steps out of the doorway, his hand sliding under the back hem of his jacket, and when it comes out, there’s a gun in it. It’s not raised, just held loose along his thigh.

My eyes land on the black shape of the barrel, but instead of spiraling, I focus on the voice memo on my lap, on the need to get justice for Dad and Bill. Everything else is secondary right now.

Marcus pauses and looks at Stan. Then he shifts his attention to the gun and nods once, as though confirming a routine appointment.

“Quick would be a kindness, son.” He drops his hat onto his head. “After all, she’s Tom’s girl.”

30

DAISY

Marcus starts toward the door.

The gun in Stan’s hand is six feet from my face. Dave is two hundred yards away with his head under an engine and Johnny Cash in his only good ear. Wyatt is on the other side of Blackstone Creek.

Marcus is walking out to give himself an alibi.

Unless I act, all chance at a confession goes clean out the window.

And for a moment, I swear I can hear my dad’s voice in my ear.

Keep him here. Keep him talkin’. Wyatt is comin’, angel.

I inhale through my nose as I close my eyes for one moment.

Okay, Daddy.

“Marcus.” It comes out rough, forced past the ball of emotion lodged in my throat.

He turns at the doorway, already halfway gone.

I open my eyes and force my voice to stay gentle and even. “Please, I need to know… What happened to my dad?”

Marcus stares at me for a beat before relief flashes across his weathered face, clear as day, and I immediately know I’ve chosen the right topic.

Because this is a man who has been waiting three years to explain his reasoning to someone who also loved Tom Monroe.

“Sweetheart—”

“No endearments, Marcus. Just tell me the truth.” I clench my jaw and tilt my chin without breaking eye contact. “I deserve that much at least.”

Marcus glances at Stan, who’s watching our conversation with a frown, the gun still resting against his thigh.

Beneath the table, my phone is doing the work. Every word he gives me is going on record.

When he looks back at me, he removes his hat, and after a minute, lowers his gaze.

“I got in over my head.” His eyes are on the brim of his hat, not on me. “Caroline wanted the house on the hill, and then she wanted the one past it. The kids needed schooling, and then they needed more schooling. More, it was always more. And, you need to understand, I was making a small-town accountant’s wage while living a life that cost three times what I earned, and every month I’d sit at my desk, look at those books, and tell myself I’d stop next quarter.”

His thumb rubs the brim of his hat, over and over again, as he continues.