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“Okay, what’ve we got here? Jesus! Would you look at that?”
“Let’s rope it off,” the second deputy said. “Don’t disturb anything else.” He eyed the bulldozer as if it were a tool of the devil, then swept his gaze over the small crowd. “Forensics and the ME will need to see this. No one’s to disturb anything.”
But Miranda barely heard the command. Her eyes were drawn to the right hand of the corpse and the ring that hung loosely around one skeletal finger. No! It couldn’t be! Her heart dropped. A small cry escaped her lips. “No!” she cried. “No! No! No!”
“What the hell—?”
Her knees gave way, and her father caught her by the arms. Pain screamed through her brain. It couldn’t be . . . oh God, please, no. Not Hunter. Not her beloved . . .
“Miranda, for the love of St. Peter, what—?”
“Hunter,” she whispered, tears falling like rain from her eyes. “Oh, no, Hunter!” She tried to deny what her eyes saw, but she couldn’t, for there, on that lifeless hand, was the ring that Hunter Riley had worn just before he disappeared. He hadn’t run away to Canada she realized, trembling and fighting the urge to wretch. Somehow, some way, by someone, he’d been killed.
Seated at his worktable, Kane gritted his teeth as he stared at the evidence of Claire’s lies. The state of Oregon’s records of Sean Harlan St. John’s birth were different from the story Claire had told him. She’d said that Sean had been born in July when in actuality he’d entered the world at the end of April, just about nine months after Harley had died. So Sean wasn’t a St. John at all, but a Taggert.
Or was he?
Another thought, more damning than the first, raced through his brain. At first he discarded it as wishful thinking, but the longer he turned the idea through his mind, the more convinced he was that it was a concrete possibility.
Why couldn’t Sean be his son? Hadn’t he made love to Claire over and over again before he left for the army, the morning after the night that Harley Taggert had died? The timing was right. Perfect, in fact. Was it possible? Could he have a boy? A strange, unwanted feeling crept through him. A son. He could be a father!
“Shit.” He walked through the house to the front porch. The night had darkened the waters of the lake, and a few stars had begun to wink in the purple heavens. The kid looked like him. More than like a Taggert, but maybe that was just foolish male pride talking. He’d like to think that he was the father of Claire’s boy rather than Harley Taggert, but he couldn’t. Hadn’t she named the kid after Taggert? Sean Harlan St. John.
His fist clenched around the condemning paper. What was Claire thinking, passing off her kid as belonging to one man when in reality, in truth . . . who the hell knew the truth?
Only Claire. Who had lied to him, to the world, for sixteen long years.
Cramming the copy of the certificate into the front pocket of his jeans, he strode down the overgrown path to the dock, climbed in the old boat, and revved the motor—only to have it die twice before he realized he was out of gas. He could drive around the lake, but decided he needed time to think things through, to cool off. So he took off at a slow jog, around the perimeter of Lake Arrowhead. It would take him nearly an hour to walk or jog to the other side, but by that time, his head might be clearer, his anger might wane.
With only faint light from the moon as his guide, he kept moving, over rocks and sandy beaches, through thickets of trees and undergrowth, ever steady, intent on his purpose. The time for lies was over. From here on in, he was only interested in the truth, no matter how painful or disgusting it might be.
Soon, no matter what, Claire was going to come clean with him.
He was sweating by the time he saw the patches of light coming from the first floor of the old lodge. He walked past the stables and fields where the horses, sensing him, snorted before turning back to grazing. The birth certificate burning a hole in his pocket, he strode across the lawn and up the path to the front door, but as he approached, voices caught his attention and he walked around the side of the lodge toward the back porch, where he saw the sisters, all three of them, seated around a table with a single flickering candle giving off meager light.
He was about to shout a greeting when he realized that one of the women was crying softly. He stopped dead in his tracks. No one had seen him yet, as the night was dark and a hedge of arborvitae offered some concealment. The kids weren’t around and he assumed they were already in bed, asleep in their rooms, as it was well after midnight.
“You’re sure it was Hunter?” Claire asked, her voice touching Kane as no other could.
“Yes, yes.” Miranda sniffed. “His clothes, his ring . . .” She sobbed, then caught herself, and Kane’s mind was whirling. Hunter? As in Hunter Riley?
“So he never went to Canada?” Tessa this time.
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Miranda was in more control, and a dozen questions raced through Kane’s brain.
Was Hunter back in town?
“Whoever killed him wanted him never found.”
Killed? Riley was dead?
Kane didn’t move a muscle, and though he felt guilty about eavesdropping, he couldn’t barge in on their private conversation, nor could he tear himself away.
“You think he was murdered?” Claire asked, disbelieving.
“Of course. He was healthy, and though the police don’t know how . . . how he died, he was buried in the woods and no one knew about it for God, what? Fifteen, no, sixteen years.”
“Jesus,” Tessa said.
