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“Mind if I record this conversation?” I place my phone on the cluttered tabletop and point the microphone his direction.
“I guess.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with Dr. Ranger?”
“She’s my vet. My horses’ vet.”
“How long have you worked together?”
“A couple of years, I suppose.” His shoulders rise and fall with a jerk in time as he speaks.
“How did you come to use her as your equine vet?”
“Her momma recommended her.”
I hold back my surprise and keep my voice level. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. She was proud of her girl. Said she was moving home soon and loved horses.”
“How did you know Emilia Ranger?”
“I met her at the grocery store some years back.”
“You just struck up a conversation?” That sounds just like her actually.
“Yeah. We met in produce and crossed paths again in the dairy section. When I saw her in the freezer aisle, I thought she was following me. She said the same thing and laughed. I bumped into her again in the parking lot, and she told me about her daughter.”
This doesn’t add up. No way Emilia offered her daughter up to someone she bumped into in the frozen section.
“You saw her often at Albertsons?”
“All the time. I swear she was there every time I was. I’d have been paran—” He cuts off his thought mid-word. “She was harmless.”
I nod.
“Dr. Ranger reminds me of her.” His voice trails off as does the wistful tone in it. He looks down the hall again. “Excuse me a moment?”
I nod again, and he ambles away, muttering something to himself.
I sit at his table for a couple of minutes, thumbing through the mail left there. I can hear Lager talking, but he hasn’t returned. His voice doesn’t change tenor or volume. It’s consistent. He’s in the back of the house, and I still sit, becoming more and more uneasy, in his filthy kitchen.
I rise quietly, not comfortable with the possibility of his coming up behind me. I pace to his sink. Next to it are medicine bottles. I glance at them, noting they’re empty. Both say they have three refills left as of … two months ago? I memorize their names and when I hear no more conversation behind me, I turn.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I turn on my heel to Lager standing behind me with a baseball bat. His eyes are manic, and his voice is lethally quiet.
“Admiring the view from your kitchen window. Bet it’s stunning on summer evenings.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you late for softball or something, Mr. Lager?
His eyes dart.
“Thank you for your time.” I extend a hand. He drops the bat onto his shoulder and squeezes mine in a shake that’s a bit too firm for polite conversation.
I grab my phone and am almost to the door when the frame near my head splinters with the force of the bat that just misses my head.
“Who are you?” he booms.
Rage rises in me. The ringing in my ear from the hit fuels my adrenaline. My mind focuses like a laser.
