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Claire sighed. “Oh, Randa, I’m so sorry.”
“One person knows what happened.” Miranda’s voice was stronger, filled with a new conviction. “Weston Taggert lied to me. The day that I went to see him, to ask about Hunter, he said Hunter was on the payroll in Canada, working for Taggert Industries. That was a lie.”
“You think Weston killed him?” Tessa asked as she lit a cigarette, and the flame from her lighter illuminated her face. Tears were filling her eyes as well.
“Or knows who did.”
“This is all such a mess.” Tessa blew smoke toward the roof of the porch and the scent of burning tobacco reached Kane’s nostrils. “What can we do?”
“Go to the police.” Claire was convinced, and through the branches of the arborvitae he saw her face, shadowy in the candlelight but still beautiful.
“I don’t know if we can.”
“Why not? Look, Randa, we’re talking about murder. For all we know, Weston did it.”
“There’s more,” she said, and Kane, silently cursing himself, strained to listen. “I saw an object not far from the body.”
“What?” Tessa asked.
“A knife. I’d seen it before.”
“Like the murder weapon?” Tessa drew hard on her cigarette, and the tip glowed deep red in the night.
“I don’t know. But it was Jack Songbird’s knife. The one no one could find after he died.”
“So you think Jack killed Hunter?” Tessa’s fertile mind was already jumping to conclusions.
“No, no. Hunter was still alive when Jack was buried, but . . . but whoever killed Hunter probably killed Jack.”
And Harley Taggert? Kane’s jaw was so tight it ached. What the hell was happening here? He should burst in on the sisters, demand the truth, but he couldn’t break in on their privacy and grief just yet.
Claire reached over and touched Miranda on the shoulder, and Randa, always the tough one of the group, slumped a little lower. A soft wail of deep mourning escaping her throat. “I loved him.” Randa shook her head and wrapped her arms around her middle, as if in self-protection. The tough as nails prosecutor was gone, an anguished, grieving woman in her place. “I loved him more than I thought was possible,” she whispered.
“I know,” Claire whispered.
“Love sucks.” Tessa shot a stream of smoke into the air, then crushed the butt in a tray on the table.
“Sometimes,” Claire agreed, and took in a shuddering breath. “This investigation is bound to open up everything again—you know, about Harley Taggert and Jack and Hunter.”
Tessa snorted. “Kane Moran and Denver Styles have already taken care of that. God, that Moran can be such a pain in the ass and Styles—that guy gives me the creeps. You never know what he’s thinking.”
“Weston Taggert gives me the creeps,” Claire said.
“Amen.” Miranda closed her eyes and rocked slightly, as if trying to comfort herself.
“Okay, but listen. Everything that happened that night is going to come out. Kane and Denver Styles and Dad won’t be the only ones interested,” Claire said.
“She’s right,” Miranda said, her voice cloaked in doom. “People will start to wonder.”
“And Ruby
and Hank Songbird will make a stink about Jack’s knife. Reporters from all over the country and Dad’s opponents in the race and even just the townspeople that remember what happened that night are going to start asking questions, nosing around. They’re going to find out the truth.”
“Oh, God,” Tessa whispered and started to shake.
“We’ll stick to our story.” Miranda’s voice was calmer again. She was in control.
“It doesn’t hold water.” Claire was on her feet, pacing the length of the porch, her silhouette dark against the light glowing from the windows as she walked back and forth. “And I don’t know the truth about that night.”
