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The waitress places two beers in front of us, and she lifts hers, taking a short sip. “I actually, really do. My mom is still obsessed with finding Dad’s killer—through any spiritual means necessary.”
“Gwen still believes your dad was murdered?” It’s more a musing question, based on what I remember of how hard my dad investigated the case.
The conclusion was indisputable. It was simply a terrible accident, caused by a fault in the machinery.
Britt nods, taking another sip. “According to her, there’s no way Dad should’ve drowned in that box. She was convinced it was tampered with.” A sad smile curls her lips. “Because there’s no magic. It’s all distraction and manipulation and making you look that way while something else happens over here.”
The resistance in my chest is all but gone at this point. “You surprise me, Miss Bailey.”
“I aim to please, Sheriff Stone.”
She has no idea.
With an exhale, she traces her finger along the bottle. “I watched my mother throw herself into astrology and tea leaves and tarot—anything that would reveal his killer.”
“I get that. She was hurting.” I can’t believe I’m relating to Gwen.
“She wasn’t the only one hurting, but my pain didn’t appear on her star chart.”
Ouch. I reach across and place my hand on hers. “I’m sorry.”
I imagine pulling her into my arms, sliding my hand down her soft hair, and comforting her.
“I was right there with her, suffering right beside her.” She traces the tip of her finger along mine. “Tarot and magic were the only ways I could be close to my one remaining parent. Until I realized it wasn’t helping anything. None of it would make her see me.” She sits straighter in the booth, moving her hands to her lap with an exhaled laugh. “I’m sorry—that was a major downer. Let’s change the subject!”
“My wife cheated on me.” The words tumble out like more dirty laundry.
Britt inhales a short breath, then her hand is on top of mine. “I’m so sorry. Was it before…”
“A few months after her funeral, I was cleaning out her stuff, and I found a box of love letters between her and this guy, Clive Stevens.”
“Oh my God!” Her eyes widen. “The guy from the library?”
“Yeah, that guy. Who knew?”
“Not me… You must’ve been devastated.”
“It wasn’t a great moment for me.” I hesitate, thinking. “I’ve only told one other person about that.”
“Your mom?”
“No, actually.” I pick at the label coming loose from my bottle. “I told Adam. We were having some argument about faith.”
I don’t feel like going down that road again, but somehow she seems to understand.
She gives my hand a squeeze, and her voice is sure. “I won’t betray your confidence.”
Shifting in my seat, it’s my turn to exhale a laugh. “You wanted to change the subject. What about our case? Did you learn anything from your mom today?”
The waitress returns, and I motion for the check.
“She wanted to read the cards.” Britt rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “I swear, the woman makes me crazy.”
The lightness in her tone makes me grin. “Parents are like that, I guess.”
“What about you? What did you learn from the Jones boys?”
“They weren’t home. I briefly talked to their dad.” I polish off my beer. “I expect they were up to no good somewhere else that night, but I was planning to go back tomorrow and ask about the three-wheeler and our guy with the prosthetic leg.”
