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Eddy cocked his head to the side and stared out the windshield, as if glimpsing into the past. “How does any father change when their child is killed? He’s a shell of the man he once was. Quieter. More of a loner. Started doing more camping and hunting. Him and Aunt Missy stayed as strong as they could, but something broke that could never be fixed.” He caught Chet’s eye then winced, as if realized the parallels between Bobby and Chet. “Sorry, man.”
Nodding, Chet pushed down the ball of despair that never went away. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on his own pain. He understood how Bobby could change, but he didn’t fit the image of a loner in Chet’s mind. He roamed around town every day with his trusted toolbox, helping anyone in need.
Clearing the emotion from his throat, he focused on Eddy’s description of his uncle. “Hard to imagine him more outgoing than he is now. He always has a smile and kind word to offer along with a helping hand. Something inside him might not have mended after Shelly’s death, but he must have been a better man to begin with than I ever was,” he said, more to himself than to Eddy. “Maybe having a child die at the hands of someone else changes a parent in a different way.”
“What do you know about Shelly’s death?” Eddy asked, the words slow and cautious.
“Not much,” Chet said. “I don’t ask questions, and Bobby doesn’t talk about it. Always figured if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.”
Eddy’s mouth dropped. “So you don’t know how she died?”
The question twisted something inside him. “Heard it was an accident of some kind. Bobby found her in the back yard.”
“Bobby did find her, but her death wasn’t an accident,” Eddy said. “Someone killed Shelly, and no one has every figured out who.”
* * *
Mia stoodon her porch and lifted a hand to wave as Zoe drove away. Wrigley sat beside her, tail wagging and gazing up at her with big brown eyes. She debated her next move. A shower was a must after her sweaty workout, but the idea of being alone in her apartment in the tub had too many Pyscho-vibes coursing through her mind. Chet’s truck was parked in the driveway, so she assumed he was home. She toyed with the idea of knocking on his door to let him know she was back, but the fear of his rejection kept her hands firmly at her sides.
Man, she hated this feeling of helplessness and hopelessness, all packaged neatly together with a bow of anxiety. She pressed a hand to her stomach, praying for some sort of sign to tell her what to do.
The call of a bird lifted her gaze overhead. Long wings stretched out as a hawk glided along the sky. She wished she could be so free. To just spread her arms wide and ride the wind, letting it carry her away from all her problems. All her worries. But since that would never happen, she needed to come up with an alternative.
Fishing on the dock.
Chet had shared his zen activity with her. At the time, she’d scoffed at the idea, but sitting on the dock and staring at the pond had been peaceful. She could do without the actual fishing, but maybe if she dug out the poles and tackle, Chet would see and join her. Then they might fall into a comfortable silence, forgetting the moment when his reaction to her touch had cut her like a knife.
“What do you think, boy? Should we do some fishing?” She asked Wrigley as she ran her palm over his furry head.
He barked once as if to answer her and stood at attention.
Decision made, she chuckled at her new pup’s conversation skills and hurried down the steps. She rounded the cabin, the dog by her side, and made a beeline to the little shed where Chet had stored the fishing gear. The logs of the shed matched the cabin, but the door was a cherry red. She opened it wide and wrinkled her nose at the smell of mildew and dirt. “Guess I can’t be afraid to get my hands a little dirty,” she said over her shoulder.
She took one step inside and searched for a light switch.
Wrigley stood by the threshold, not venturing any further than the doorway.
“Chicken,” she said, although she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to come in. She spotted a white string dangling from the ceiling and pulled it. A dull light illuminated the shed. She blinked away the dust catching on her lashes. The space was smaller than she’d expected, the outside giving the illusion the shed would be a longer rectangle. But crudely made wooden shelves outlined the square room.
“Okay,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “Where’s the fishing gear?”
The floorboards squeaked as she crossed to a line of shelves. The tackle box Chet had used the day before sat on the middle shelf. She grabbed the black handle and hauled it down to the floor. Now she needed the poles. Turning in a circle, she stopped when she spotted two rods propped against the corner. Perfect. She picked up the tackle box and carried it out to the path that led to the dock, then ventured back in the shed for the poles.
As she reached for them, a tiny tapping noise caught her attention. Like the sound of an animal skittering inside the walls after it’d climbed inside to escape the cold. She furrowed her brow, curiosity drawing her closer to the wall. If the woods were on the other side, there was no reason to hear a rodent’s claws clacking along a man-made surface—should be no space for a critter to hide.
Pivoting to the side to squeeze her arm between the small space where the two shelving units almost came together, she skimmed her hand against the wall. The smallest amount of pressure caused the old wood to bend.
Weird. The rounded logs that made up the shed were way too sturdy to cave in at all. She dug her phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight, searching for anything askew. The wall didn’t look like it was made of the thick logs, so she shoved a hand behind the shelf and grazed the pads of her fingers against the rough wood. Her finger hooked on a divot, and her heart jumped into her throat.
Saying a quick prayer a squirrel didn’t chomp down on her skin, she pulled her finger back until she heard a tinyclickand a whoosh of wind leaked through a crack.
What the heck?
Shimmying from her corner, she hurried in front of the shelves bolted to the walls. She quickly moved the clutter to the floor to get a better picture of what lay on the other side. The wall was made of plywood. Once everything was cleared away, a tiny, crudely made door was cracked open—the size no bigger than a breaker box. Sucking in a deep breath, she swung the door open and lifted her phone to illuminate what was inside.
Rolls of thick, black rope like the ones she’d seen hanging from the tree sat inside, and she stumbled backward, her feet not stopping until she raced up the steps of the deck and reached the backdoor to Chet’s apartment. She pounded on the door. “Chet! Come quick!”
Wrigley stood beside her, the hairs on his neck at attention as if sensing something wasn’t right.
