Dead Right (Stillwater Trilogy #3)(85)
Author: Brenda Novak

“He’s out of town. No one’s home.”

“What about the quarry?”

“Why would she drive to the quarry?”

“If she’s upset, who knows? That’s where her father’s car was found, right?”

Clay sighed heavily. “I’ll ask Kennedy to go up there, just in case.”

In even more of a hurry to finish his distasteful chore, Hunter grabbed the garbage bag again. He imagined Madeline coming to the painful realization she’d been trying to avoid for years, and he knew what it’d do to her. “I’ll drive through town, ask around, see if I can spot her.”

“Sounds good.”

“Let me know what you find.”

“You do the same.” Clay hung up as Hunter opened Ray’s can. He was eager to be rid of the poor cat, but the can was too full. He started to shove down the rest of the garbage to make room—and then he saw something that stole his breath.

Inside were stacks of typewritten pages that looked exactly like the ones he’d been reading himself. Singlespaced. Faded ink. A raised letter or two every few words. As if they’d been typed on the same typewriter.

Setting the cat on the ground once again, Hunter reached in, removed several sheets and began to read.

They were Reverend Barker’s sermons.

The farm seemed to be deserted. Allie’s car was gone; Clay’s truck was missing, too. Madeline supposed they were all out searching for her, rushing around trying to cover their tracks. They were good at that, weren’t they? They’d done it for twenty years.

She swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks as she turned into the long drive. She’d been so stupid, so blind. Everyone in Stillwater had been able to see what she couldn’t. She’d searched high and low, pointed her finger at Jed Fowler or Mike Metzger, anyone but the people who were really to blame, while everyone else, including her aunt and uncle and cousins, watched in frustration, craving justice and receiving none.

How, exactly, had the Montgomerys managed it? Had Irene and Clay called a family meeting whenever she left the house to discuss how they were going to handle her? Did they take note of what she’d said or done that might expose them? Suggest ideas on how to counteract it?

White-hot anger, and the pain that went with deep betrayal, slashed through her, making the lump in her throat grow so large it hurt to swallow. Was the love they’d offered her a lie, too? More pretense to keep her from suspecting?

God, she’d been a fool! Not only had she trusted everything they said, she’d hotly defended them against the rest of the town. Her father’s town. He’d brought them here. He’d provided for them. He’d owned this farm.

And they’d killed him…

It was almost too incredible to believe. Yet she did believe. Now. Hunter was right. Clay was good at protecting, at shielding. He’d protected his mother from prosecution all these years, would’ve gone to jail himself rather than reveal the truth. But there was no need to protect Grace from Lee Barker. No, she couldn’t accept that. She knew her father. Clay must’ve planted that stuff in his trunk. Maybe Grace even gave him a pair of her panties to include, in case the car was ever found. Her father would never harm a child. She would’ve known, would’ve sensed that something was wrong with him. The things in that suitcase had to be more lies, part of the coverup.

Parking behind the house so the truck Clay had lent her couldn’t be spotted from the road, she got out. She wasn’t sure what she was doing here—still searching for her father, she supposed. This was the place where she’d been born and had spent the first eighteen years of her life. This was the last place she’d seen him. And she suspected he was still here, that he had never actually left.

What, exactly, had happened the night she went to Hanna Smith’s house for a slumber party? And what had gone on beneath the tranquil surface of those hot summer days right before? How did it—how could it—have come to murder?

Or had Irene planned her father’s death from the very beginning?

Madeline had no idea. She’d been so starved for attention that she’d readily and eagerly embraced them all. She hadn’t been looking for hidden motivations or evil intent. She’d admired Clay, befriended Grace, helped raise Molly and nearly worshipped the beautiful Irene, who was so much happier than her own mother had been. And she’d done it all with a sense of gratitude for the love she wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Her boots crunched in the gravel as she crossed to the barn. The wide, sliding doors were locked, as usual. Clay was so cautious…

She grimaced bitterly at the thought, then stood at the window, staring into her father’s empty office—at the stripped walls, the concrete floor.

Her soul felt just as bare.

“How did she do it?” she muttered as if Clay was present. “And where did you hide the body, big brother?”

The memory of Grace showing up here with a shovel eighteen months ago entered Madeline’s mind. When she was caught, Grace had said she’d been planning to see for herself if the accusations against Clay had any merit, but she already knew. Like Joe said, it was probably an attempt to move the body. Why not? Joe had been right about everything else.

But the police had searched. They’d dug up the entire backyard and found nothing.

“What did you do with him?” she whispered. Her father was here somewhere. He had to be. But where? Was he buried out near the creek? Beneath the cypress trees? In the barn?

She turned to face the house. Or was he in the cellar? Taking a shovel from the shed behind the chicken coop, she started for the back door. She didn’t bother to see if it was locked. Clay secured everything, trusted no one, and now she knew the real reason.

Using the handle of the shovel, she broke a window, then cleared away the glass. “I’ll find him,” she promised. But as she was about to hoist herself through the opening, she heard the creak of footsteps on the porch behind her.

Was Clay home already? She whipped around, expecting to confront him. Instead she confronted the metal end of the shovel she’d just used to break the window. The last thing she noticed before she fell was the ringing in her left ear and the satisfaction on Ray Harper’s face.

Using a crowbar from Bubba’s shed, Hunter pried open Ray’s back door. It was broad daylight, and the neighbor was out again, obviously perturbed that he hadn’t moved on, but he didn’t care.

“Hey? What do you think you’re doing?” she cried when the door gave way. “You can’t do that!”