What She Saw - 41

Sloane

As Grant confirmed final details of my appointment with Colton, I drove out to Brian Fletcher’s house. I wasn’t sure if Susan had called to warn him that their thirty-one years of lies were unraveling. But I was hoping to catch him off guard and willing to talk.

I rang the bell, and when he didn’t answer, I went straight for the privacy fence gate. The dog trotted across the backyard toward me, wagging his tail. I pulled a dog treat from my pocket and fed it to him. I rubbed him between the ears, and he followed me, barking as we made our way to the back door. I knocked on the sliding door. As tempting as it was to break into the house, I decided to wait. Brian Fletcher wouldn’t be thrilled with me, and I didn’t need to find myself at the wrong end of a gun.

I knocked again.

The dog nuzzled my hand. I gave him another treat. When Fletcher didn’t appear, I slid the door open a few inches. “Mr. Fletcher? It’s Sloane Grayson.”

The air conditioner hummed, but the house had an unsettling stillness. “Mr. Fletcher?”

I tossed a couple of treats on the deck, and when the dog turned to eat them, I slipped inside and closed the door behind me. The kitchen was cleaned, the counters wiped, a coffee mug in the dish drainer. An open bottle of Jack Daniel’s rested in the center of the counter. No glass. He’d been drinking straight from the bottle.

“Mr. Fletcher.”

I glanced at the pictures on the wall. The pictures with Susan were gone. Left behind were the faint impressions of the frames.

The dog barked. He was at the sliding door, pawing at the glass. I turned from the door and walked down the center hallway. As I moved toward what looked like an office, I caught a sick, sweet scent.

When I’d found my grandmother’s body, she’d been dead a couple of hours. She’d died in her recliner. The television was still blaring cable news. Later, I learned she’d died of a heart attack. The smell had been the same, and after she’d been taken away, I remembered getting a lungful of it when I dragged the recliner outside to the curb.

I wasn’t repelled or nervous but curious as I edged open the office door. The lights were off, and Mr. Fletcher’s office chair was swiveled away from the door. His right hand draped over the side, and on the floor was a handgun. I looked around the room and saw no sign of the missing pictures.

“Mr. Fletcher?”

Silence mingled with the hum of the air conditioner.

I moved toward the desk with some caution. The less I disturbed, the better. The wall facing him was splattered with blood.

I stepped close enough to see the blood on what remained of his face. The bullet had traveled up the roof of his mouth into his brain. My stomach tightened, and I backed away.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

My mind flipped through what I should do next. Call the cops? Call Susan? Call Grant?

I exited the house onto the back porch. The dog greeted me with a wagging tail, but as soon as I reached out to him, he sniffed my hands, legs, and feet. His ears flattened. “I found a big mess, fella.”

Sitting in a patio chair, I tugged treats and my phone from my pocket. I dumped what biscuits I had out on the patio and called 9-1-1.

The phone rang twice. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m reporting a suicide. Brian Fletcher shot himself.”

“Who is calling?”

I hesitated. “Sloane Grayson. I’m sitting on his back patio now. I just found him.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes.”

“The location?”

I rattled off the address.

“Stay on scene. We’ll have a car there in five minutes.”

“Will do.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be on the back porch with the dog.”

“I can stay on the line until the officers arrive.”

“Not necessary.” I hung up. The dog nudged my hand, and I realized his large water bowl was empty. I filled it from the outside faucet and set it down. He lapped and slopped water on the deck.

I called Grant. He picked up on the third ring. “Sloane.”

“I’m at Brian Fletcher’s house. He shot himself.”

“What? You were supposed to wait for me.”

“I didn’t. And I found him in his study. The police are on their way.”

“Any sign of Susan?”

“All the pictures of her are gone.”

“Okay.”

“Right.”

Why would Brian Fletcher kill himself? He’d been protecting his daughter for thirty-one years. She must have called him and told him I’d found her. But again, why kill himself? Did he think his death would draw attention away from her to him?

I sat back down, closed my eyes, and tipped my face toward the sun. A twinge of remorse for Brian Fletcher snapped my skin like a rubber band.

Did he regret not coming forward sooner? If he had pressured his daughter to talk to the police three decades ago, would Colton’s accomplice have been found? His actions had let a coconspirator run free, and families still struggled for closure.

Sirens wailed and the dog lifted his head from the water bowl. He barked and turned toward me.

“It’s okay. Just the police.” I took hold of his collar and tugged him toward me. Out of treats, all I could do was scratch him between the ears.

The back privacy fence gate opened, and two officers appeared. Their guns weren’t drawn, but each had a hand on their sidearm, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

“Ms. Grayson,” the first officer said.

“That’s right.” I moved to stand, but he motioned me to sit.

“Stay where you are. Keep your hands in sight.”

“Sure. Fletcher is in his home office. It’s on the main floor beyond the den. Door is on the right. I went through the sliding glass door.”

“Thanks,” the officer said. The second officer disappeared into the house.

“How do you know Brian Fletcher?” the officer asked.

“I’m writing an article. I interviewed him a few days ago.”

“You’re poking into the Mountain Music Festival.”

Small towns were efficient with news. “That’s right.”

“Fletcher’s daughter was one of the victims.”

“That’s right. And so was my mother.”

“Did he appear upset to you the other day?”

“Sure. All the families I’ve spoken to were upset. He missed his daughter. His life was never the same.”

“Did you get the impression he wanted to hurt himself?”

“I didn’t,” I said. But maybe if I hadn’t tracked down Susan, he’d still be alive. I considered telling the officer about Susan but decided to save that for later.

“You need to wait here for now,” the officer said.

“Dog and I are going to sit in the shade in the backyard.”

“That your dog?”

“Mr. Fletcher’s dog.”

The officer rubbed the dog and then glanced at his collar. “His name is Cody.”

“Right.”

“Stay in the backyard.”

“Sure.”

Cody and I found a shaded spot and sat on the lush, thick grass. The dog lay down beside me, but he kept a close eye on the people moving in and out of his house.

“It’s crazy. But it’ll be okay.” That was a lie. Cody’s life would change. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

As more personnel arrived, we moved to a lawn chair under the shade of a tree. We were forgotten for the moment. Any communication I made to Susan could be traced through my phone records. That would prove I knew of her existence, and I’d become an accessory to something.

I opened my phone and texted, Your father died by suicide. I don’t know what the police will find, but I’ve said nothing about you. My thumb hovered over the send button before I pressed it.

Cody and I remained on-site for another hour before Grant appeared at the back fence. He scanned the scene, his gaze settling on me. When he seemed convinced that I was in one piece, he ducked under yellow crime tape and moved toward the officer safeguarding the scene. They spoke, another officer was summoned, and within fifteen minutes Grant was motioning me toward him.

I rose. Cody’s head perked up. And together we walked toward Grant.

“They have your contact information, and I’ve vouched for you,” Grant said. “You can leave.”

“Did you tell them about Susan?”

“I didn’t. I don’t want it getting back to Colton.”

“Good.” Cody followed me toward the back gate. I stopped and looked at the golden retriever. Shit, if I left him here, he’d end up at the pound. And at his age, he wouldn’t have many takers. I walked to the officer. “I’m taking the dog.”

“It’s not your dog,” the cop guarding the perimeter said.

“We’ve bonded. I’m not leaving him here.”

“You have her information,” Grant said.

“If anyone wants me or Cody, they can call. In the meantime, I need dog food.” I scooped up the water bowl and dumped out the water. After more discussion between the uniforms, an officer brought out a large bag of kibble and a leash.

“Thanks.” Cody looked at me. I hooked the leash to his collar. “Let’s go, Cody.”

Cody wagged his tail.

I took the dog food bag, and the three of us walked away from the scene. I turned on my Jeep’s engine, cranked the AC, and put Cody in the back seat.

“Do you know what to do with a dog?” Grant asked.

“Feed, walk, repeat, right?”

“A little more than that.”

“That’ll do for now?”

Grant looked past me to see if anyone was watching us. And then: “Did you contact Susan?”

“I texted her.”

Grant shook his head. “Why did you text her?”

“She needed to know.”

He checked his phone. “Her car is still at her house.”

“I never looked in her garage. Is there a second car?”

He frowned. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open, then. Cody and I are headed back to Taggart’s cabin if you need me.”

“Are you safe up there alone?”

His question wasn’t unreasonable but still felt a tad overprotective. “I have Cody.”

“He’s ten or twelve years old. And he greeted you like part of the family when you broke into the house. Twice.”

I rubbed Cody’s head. “He’s a good boy.”

“You’re assuming Brian Fletcher’s death was a suicide,” Grant said.

“You’re saying it’s not?”

“The timing is worrisome.”

My mind skidded over my memories of Fletcher’s bloodied body. I’d not studied it. I’d not lingered. I’d been more worried about leaving my DNA than analyzing the scene. The forensic team was in that room now, studying and photographing blood spatter, analyzing the position of the handgun relative to the wound, and dusting for fingerprints. Maybe my first impression was wrong. Maybe he didn’t kill himself.

“You think Susan could have killed him? Her father protected her secret for thirty-one years. But their silence created a lot of suffering.”

“Who else knows Tristan is alive?” Grant asked.

“I don’t know.”

“This second person who was in the trailer with Colton would’ve realized one of the girls was missing. He would’ve known all along that Tristan had escaped,” Grant said.

“And this person knows where the bodies are buried. Bodies mean Colton never sees the light of day again,” I said.

“A devil’s bargain.”

“What time is my appointment with Colton?”

“Tomorrow. Four o’clock.”

I didn’t experience fear like most, but the pressure in my head expanded. “Great.”

Grant followed me to the cabin. I’d told him I was fine, but he had a bit of a savior complex, which I didn’t mind right now. One thing to be brave, another to be foolish. Cody drifted off to sleep until I made the turn onto the gravel road leading to the cabin. He raised his head, looked out at the woods, and sniffed. I supposed the woods had better smells than suburbia.

I slipped Cody’s leash on, and we got out of the car. I walked him to the woods, and when he’d taken care of business, I took him inside. I filled a water bowl for him.

I grabbed the dog food bag from the Jeep and filled his bowl. He gobbled, his tail wagging.

A car pulled up outside, and seconds later, Grant’s steady footsteps climbed the porch stairs. Cody looked over at him, wagged his tail. “Great guard dog.”

Grant scratched the dog’s head. “Lucky for you.”

“I’m hoping the woods will help him tap into his inner wolf.”

“Not likely.” He pressed his mouth against mine.

He tasted good. “Has anyone checked Susan’s house? Is she there?”

“The local cops are short-staffed. They’ll report back as soon as they can.”

I wrapped my arms around him. He felt so solid and steady. Grant was proving to be the kind of guy who showed up in a pinch. His hand slipped under my T-shirt and cupped my breast. A twist of a swollen nipple, and I groaned. I was beginning to crave this from him.

Cody barked.

I glanced at the dog. I grabbed a blanket from the bed and laid it on the floor. Cody looked at the blanket as if to ask, What am I supposed to do with this?

I went to the refrigerator and grabbed the remains of a sandwich I hadn’t finished. I handed it to Cody. He took it and settled on the blanket. He grunted his pleasure, his teeth gnawing the doughy bread.

Grant followed me into the bedroom. I shimmied out of my jeans as he undressed. I pulled off my T-shirt, the cool air teasing my bare nipples. I reached for my thong, but he told me to keep it on. The bed squeaked as I lay back and propped myself up on the pillows.

Grant was very focused. He prowled between my open legs and kissed my belly. Then he slipped his finger under the delicate fabric of my panties. He cupped my face in his large hand and locked on my gaze. I threaded my fingers through his hair and kissed him. Energy radiated inside me, scraping the underside of my skin.

He unfastened his belt buckle and opened his pants. Seconds later, he angled around the small scrap of fabric and then pushed inside me, fast and hard.

The sex was rough, his thrusts aggressive. I liked the way he took me to the brink and then eased up, over and over, before I tumbled. Our bodies grew slick with sweat. My heart pounded in my chest as he again teased me toward climax.

He circumvented my dampened emotions and communicated directly with my body. We both came at the same time, and when he fell on the bed beside me, my heart thrummed in my chest.

That night I slept until about 1:00 a.m. When I woke, Grant was sleeping beside me. Cody was settled on his blanket bed. Shadows danced on the walls like specters. My mind began racing toward the case details.

Why had Brian Fletcher killed himself? He’d lived thirty-one years carrying the weight of a terrible secret. He had a good relationship with his neighbors, had been well liked by his coworkers until he retired, and volunteered in his church. He’d shown no signs of cracking. And just like that he broke like Mayor Briggs and Taggart had.

What had driven these men over the edge?