A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(15)

Britta was silent for a long moment, a slightly flustered look on her face. “I don’t know. I’m sure he told me when he was here, but I’ve forgotten.”

“That’s okay.”

“Wait.” She suddenly sat forward. Lines appeared on her forehead, and she visibly swallowed. “That body—I think it’s about the same age and hair . . .”

“You think it could be your neighbor?” Truman asked sharply.

Her pale eyes fastened on him. “I don’t know. But a second ago as I recalled our encounter, I had a brief feeling that there were similarities between the victim and him.” She looked back to Bolton, her hands gripping the edge of the bench, turning her knuckles white. “You’re going there next?”

“We will,” Bolton told her. “This meeting with your neighbor clearly stuck with you. What happened?”

Her face blanked, and an invisible wall formed in front of her. Zara stood and put her paws on Britta’s lap, giving a quiet whine. Britta stroked the dog’s head. “Nothing happened. He stopped by and introduced himself as my neighbor.”

“I assume you answered with a weapon ready,” said Truman. He held up a hand as Bolton turned toward him. “She knows what she’s doing. Out here with no one around, it’s smart to take precautions.” Especially as a woman living alone.

Britta grimaced. “I did. I heard him drive up and was on the porch before he got out of the car. He laughed at my rifle and said he’d heard I lived alone.”

“Jesus Christ,” mumbled Bolton. “Was he asking to be shot?”

“Then he said he was just being neighborly, introducing himself, and wanted to tell me I could call on him if I needed help with anything on the property or had an emergency.”

The encounter was perfectly normal for rural neighbors. People expected to know who lived nearby and relied on each other in a crisis. But the neighbor’s visit would have triggered every anxiety Britta carried in her brain.

“I’d seen him one other time,” Britta continued. “He was at the end of his driveway on foot and tried to flag me down as I drove by.” She shook her head emphatically. “Hell no.”

Again, typical rural behavior. Neighbors waved. Neighbors stopped to chat. Neighbors stopped to see if there was an emergency.

But to a woman who had survived two attempted murders, stopping for a stranger was a big no.

She picked at the frayed hem of her T-shirt with nervous fingers. “Now I see his face on that body out there. My head is messing with me.”

Bolton stood. “We’ll go check on him now. I’ll call if I have more questions.” Zara padded to him, rubbing against his leg and begging for attention.

Britta eyed her dog. “I appreciate it. And you can stop by if you come up with more,” she said.

Truman nearly tipped backward off his bench.



Bolton drove, and Truman rode along to check on Britta’s neighbor.

“You made an impression,” Truman told him, still stunned that Britta had suggested the detective stop by. He wanted to text Mercy to share his surprise.

No communication.

The silence from Mercy was already grating on him. He’d reached for his phone twice that morning to shoot her a quick text. He hadn’t realized what a habit it was to share little things with her throughout his day.

“I didn’t do anything special. Just listened. Helps that I know what she’s been through.” Bolton slowed on the narrow two-lane road. “That must be it.” He turned into the driveway next to a battered mailbox that had clearly been a victim of kids in cars with baseball bats.

They already knew the owner was Darrell Palmer, age forty-five. Both men had studied his driver’s license photo and been unable to confirm he was their victim. But they hadn’t been able to rule him out either.

The Palmer driveway was long and curving, with fields just like Britta’s, but Britta’s road was in better shape. The Palmer drive was full of deep ruts. Bolton drove slowly, cursing under his breath as he heard a scrape along the underside of his vehicle. A small green farmhouse appeared, a large pickup parked on one side. Three big dogs rushed Bolton’s vehicle, barking their heads off.

Bolton turned off the vehicle, and both men sat in the Explorer as the dogs pawed the doors, their angry faces at the windows. Saliva dripped from their mouths. “Now what? A replay of Cujo?” asked Bolton.

A man stepped out from behind the house and called the dogs. They immediately raced to their master, and Truman noticed a tiny fluffy white dog had joined the three big ones. It barked just as much.

“That him?” Truman asked, squinting at the man, who herded the three large animals into a dog run. The white one ran in circles around his legs.

“Can’t tell,” replied Bolton. Once the owner threw the bolt on the run, the men opened the Explorer’s doors. Bolton swore at the scratches on the paint.

“How’s it going?” The man waved as he strode toward them, and Truman breathed a sigh of relief. It was Darrell Palmer.

“Not dead,” Bolton said under his breath.

Britta had been right that Darrell was the same size as the dead body. But the large stomach hanging over his belt was from food or beer. Not the decay of death. His hair was the same salt-and-pepper as their dead body, but his teeth showed in a wide, welcoming smile.