“I think we did.” But she’d found more. Memories that she didn’t want. “Let’s get out of here,” she said to Luke. He was all but vibrating against her. That rage might kick free soon, and she’d hate for him to be close to the sheriff when it did.
She headed for their vehicle. Heard the thud of his steps behind her. This little trip hadn’t been…
“Now I remember.” Martin called out, and her blood froze.
She stilled at his words, and the darkness that always surrounded her seemed to grow thicker. Monica took a quick breath before glancing back at him. Deliberately, she didn’t let her eyes stray to Luke.
“Remember what?” Clear and cold.
He gave a nod. “Kyle West. Seems I recall hearing about him… he was the sheriff’s nephew.”
Now she did risk a glance at Luke and saw the understanding in his eyes. Sometimes, even law enforcement looked the other way when it was family.
“Something else you should know, Dante.” The sheriff’s words were thicker now. “I don’t like this shit with Lynn any more than you do.”
She caught the tightening of Luke’s jaw. “Oh, really?”
“Hell, yeah. Lynn—she’s my sister.” He stalked toward them. His voice lowered when he said, “And I’ll be damned if I let her wind up in a grave.”
Family.
Yeah, sheriffs, agents, the cops on the beat—they could all break the rules for family. Especially when death came calling.
“Then you better make sure she stays the hell away from Charlie,” Luke ordered, “because that’s where he’s gonna put her.”
The two men’s stares locked. Then the sheriff gave a hard nod. “I’m workin’ on it.”
Family. Just how far would you go to protect family?
How far had Sheriff Patterson gone? “Tell me, Sheriff,” Monica said. “Are there any other members of Kyle’s family in town?”
He spat on the ground. “Just one. May Walker. Lives up on Grimes, past the fork that leads to the right.”
“Somebody lives here? We’re sure about that?” Luke asked, eyeing the dilapidated house on Grimes Street.
She could understand his disbelief. The house didn’t exactly look inviting. Darkness from within, two windows boarded up, and an overgrown lawn with thick, twisting trees that seemed to surround the rundown house.
“Don’t you take so much as another step or I’ll shoot you!”
Monica stiffened at the yell. A woman’s voice, coming thickly from the darkness of the porch. And, ah, yes, she could see the barrel of a shotgun. “We don’t mean you any harm.”
“Get off my property! Been robbed twice this week. Fool sheriff won’t help me; I’m helping myself! You’re not takin’ anything, so—”
“We’re not here to rob you,” Luke told her, his voice carrying easily. “We’re FBI agents, ma’am. We need to ask you some questions about your nephew, Kyle West.”
Silence.
Then, “What the hell you doin’ comin’ out here so late? Tryin’ to give an old woman a heart attack?”
“Uh, no—”
“Show me your ID!”
Carefully, Monica reached for her badge. Luke’s movements mirrored hers. Wood creaked, and a small figure of a woman with a bun of gray-streaked black hair eased down the steps. She still had a tight grip on her shotgun.
She squinted. “Can’t see shit.”
Good to know when that shotgun was so close.
After a moment, she dropped her gun. “If you’re robbers, you’re the loudest damn robbers I ever heard.”
“We’re not robbers,” Luke began.
She grunted. “Agents from the FBI.” She whistled. “And you lookin’ for Kyle, huh? You not gonna find him here.”
“We heard he left town,” Monica said.
“Yeah, yeah.” She rocked forward a little bit. “After Saundra—sweet little Saundra—he took off.” Her head turned a little bit to the right.
“And do you know where he went?”
May turned away. “Ya’ll come inside. I want to see them IDs in the light.”
They followed her in, and the steps creaked beneath them, a rough groan of sound.
The inside of May’s house was packed with old boxes, piled high, nearly touching the ceiling. There were old newspapers and dolls—lots of porcelain dolls with wide, black eyes.
Not any room to sit on the couch. It was covered with books.
But there was plenty of light, and May took her time looking at their IDs. Finally, she said, “Don’t know where Kyle went.”
“No idea at all?” Luke pressed.
“You get in a fight? What the hell happened to your eye?”
His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “A fist that didn’t agree with me.” His gaze held hers, an intent look. “Ma’am, do you have any idea where Kyle is right now?”
She hesitated, and then her already narrow lips thinned even more. “Maybe out West. Used to talk about goin’ to California to try and find his dad.”
Luke pulled out a notebook and scribbled down the information. “And his dad is?”
“Hell if I know.” May shoved aside some books and sat down on the end of the sofa. “My sister Margaret—she didn’t know, either. Some guy she met one night. Idiot who promised her a new life, but screwed her and left her to rot with a kid.”
Ah, not the most warm family moment there. “So Kyle never knew his dad?”
“Nobody ever knew him. My brother said he was gonna hunt him down when he found out that Margaret was pregnant, but Henry never did. Couldn’t find the bastard. Hell, maybe Henry didn’t even look.”
Right. Henry. That would have been Sheriff Henry Patterson. Monica began to walk casually around the house. The papers were at least ten years old. And most of the books were covered with dust. May wasn’t reading the books, just keeping them.
And, apparently, almost everything else. “What about Kyle’s mother?”
As she turned back to watch her, Monica saw the other woman flinch. “Dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Luke said smoothly. “It must have been hard for you, losing your sister.”
A jerky nod.
“And how did you lose her?” he asked, as he stepped closer to May. A slow, easy move. No threat. Just compassion there, on his face, in his eyes.
May frowned at him. “A f-fire. She died over fifteen years ago in a fire on Brantley. Hey, don’t go messin’ with my stuff!” A hard bark toward Monica.