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“That won’t happen. We don’t know what went on with the body or who was involved. They might just clean it up and file it shut. Cold case. But there’s one way we can try to guess.” His eyes glint. “We can see what’s inside this thing.”
“Holt, don’t—”
Too late.
He reaches for the table and pops the case open, the snaps unlatching as easily as if they were brand new, the two halves of the smooth brown leather casing coming loose along the seams and the top side lifting a little.
My heart pounds.
I’m terrified of what’s inside.
Especially when Holt lifts the lid with his gloved fingers, peering in, before the weirdest expression crosses his face.
“Libby?”
My mouth goes dry. I lick my lips.
I can’t speak, but after a second I manage to croak, “Y-yeah?”
“Looks like a note.”
He flips the case open fully, turning it sideways so he can lay it out flat with that piece of paper inside, curled with two creases like it’d been folded inside an envelope.
“It’s got your dad’s name on it,” Holt says.
There it is. The whole world’s just been yanked out from under me.
There’s no floor anymore, no ground.
Just total free fall, and I’m plummeting when I haven’t even moved off the chair.
I stare at the note.
It’s handwritten, elegant and almost old-fashioned, but there’s no mistaking that opening line even if my vision kind of willfully blurs on the rest.
To the esteemed Dr. Potter.
“I…I don’t understand,” I whisper. “Why would a dead man have a note for my father?”
“Let’s see what it says.” Holt watches me with those bourbon eyes dark with concern.
He plucks it out gingerly, handling it like fragile evidence and unfolding it with his thumb, smoothing it out.
Yeah.
Evidence my dad is guilty of murder.
Slowly, Holt reads it out loud.
“To the esteemed Dr. Potter,” he reads. “You’ll be pleased to know that the information is all here. I’ve spoken to the appraisers and can confirm total authenticity. This is indeed a rare find, and I’d be happy to work with you to find a buyer; this could well be the auction of the century! Please let me know how you’d like to proceed. We could finalize the deal tonight. I’d be delighted to pay you a deposit in advance of bidding. I’ll be waiting to speak with you in the usual place. Yours truly and with utmost regards, Gerald Bostrom. He’s signed it August 14th, 1992.” Holt stops, then, lowering the time-yellowed, thin paper. “Who the hell’s Gerald Bostrom?”
“No clue,” I say numbly, clapping a hand over my mouth.
I’m gonna be sick, and I can barely hold it in.
From the sound of that letter, Gerald Bostrom must be the dead guy.
That shotgun shell probably came from my dad’s favorite rifle, hung over the freaking sofa on the wall rack even now.
Dad killed a man over money.
Money.
My eyes prickle.
No. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.
He wasn’t that kind of man.
There has to be something more to this story.
I lift my head, setting my jaw. I won’t cry in front of Holt. I swear to God, I won’t.
Instead, I glare at the briefcase.
The empty briefcase.
“The letter says the information’s all here,” I say. “But there’s nothing else. You didn’t open it and take any other documents out?”
Holt shakes his head sharply. “Nope. So if there was something else in there, it came out before we ever had a chance to see it.” He frowns, setting the letter down and stroking his thumb and forefinger over the neatly trimmed line of his beard, tracing down to the firm peak of his chin again and again. “I’m guessing Gerald Bostrom’s our skeleton man.”
Way to go, Sherlock.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I—look, I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got to think about the ranch, and…and…”
And I’m about to break down.
I can’t breathe. My chest is heaving, but there’s no air coming in and I don’t know what’s happening, only that it hurts.
I suck in several wheezy breaths.
I barely hear Holt’s panicked, “Libby?”
Pressing a hand to my chest, I curl forward.
Suddenly there’s warmth wrapped around me—no, heat.
Heat that can only come from a large, firm body.
Heat that can only come from two enormous arms folding around me, gathering me close while Holt kneels next to my chair.
He holds me up effortlessly.
“Here,” he murmurs, and his breath and voice are warm against my hair, his hands stroking over my back like he can tame my lungs. “Breathe with me and count. Inhale—one, two, three. Exhale—one, two, three.”
He says it again, and I try to convince my rebelling, stupid body to listen.
Inhale. Exhale. Hold.
Holt…
My throat’s so tight it’s a miracle I can even get a breath out. But the more I do it while his dense, rhythmic voice rumbles in my ear and his warm body keeps me safely cocooned, the easier it gets.
