A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(40)

“But the films will be ten years old—or older. Will they be helpful?”

“I asked the same question. Dr. Harper said she can definitely use them to determine if these skulls are the Hartlages.”

“Impressive,” admitted Truman as he popped the last part of one half of his sandwich in his mouth. Mercy looked down at her giant salad. She’d eaten two bites.

“Was the brother-in-law a patient too?” asked Truman.

“No,” Mercy said, stabbing her fork into a strawberry. “I don’t know if I’ll ever find his dental records—we haven’t even found his name—and we need to know who the Asian skull belongs to. With the skull we found yesterday we’ve got the right number of Caucasian skulls to match the Hartlage adults, so the Asian one is a big mystery.”

“And they’re still searching the area, right? Hopefully they don’t find more victims.”

“Amen.” They ate in companionable silence for a few moments. “Did you get any sleep?” she asked him.

Truman crumpled up the paper from his finished sandwich. “A few hours.”

“Same.”

“I got a call from your contractor. He said you didn’t call him back.”

“Oh, crap. I forgot.” Mercy’s brain scrambled to recall the message her contractor had left on her voice mail regarding the construction of her new cabin.

“He said the parts for the photovoltaic system will be here in four weeks.” Truman leaned forward, catching her gaze. “You didn’t tell me you were going with that power system again.”

“I made a decision.” Warning bells went off in her head at his quiet tone. She shoved a huge bite of spinach leaves in her mouth.

He pressed his lips together. “You know best what you need done up there, but that’s the fourth big decision that you have left me out of. I felt completely out of the loop when he talked to me about the system as if I knew everything about it.”

His words were gentle, but she knew she’d hurt him. She set down her fork. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that you’re in this with me.”

“You forget?” He looked stunned.

Open mouth, insert foot. “What I mean is that the cabin has been my baby for years. I’m not accustomed to discussing it with anyone. It’s a habit. I’m on automatic pilot when it comes to dealing with it.”

He nodded but didn’t look convinced.

She reached across the desk and took his hand. “I love you. This is our project. I’ll try harder to include you.”

“I haven’t paid for any of the construction yet.” His eyes narrowed. “How much have you paid out?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“Yes, it does. You just said this is our project. That means I contribute.”

Pride and independence rose within her. Plus she made more money than the small-town police chief. “I’m using the insurance payout.”

“But you had to meet the deductible.”

“I used the money I was saving for a down payment on a new house.”

“Mercy . . .” Disappointment filled his face.

He has pride too.

“When the insurance money runs out, we’ll divide everything, okay?” His obvious hurt stung deep in her heart. She’d made two big blunders and not even noticed. This relationship stuff is hard. I need to share the pain-in-the-butt and expensive stuff too . . . not just the happy stuff.

She’d been on her own for a long time. The routines and decisions that felt perfectly normal to her felt exclusionary to Truman.

“Okay,” he said, standing up and collecting the garbage from their lunch. “I need to get back to work.”

I didn’t convince him.

She’d have to show him she meant it.

“I do too.” She came around the desk and kissed him goodbye.

I will try harder.



It was nearly midnight when Truman’s officer Samuel Robb woke him up with a call to come to a scene. It took Truman a full ten seconds to connect faces to the names Samuel stated.

The Moody brothers.

Ryan Moody had returned to the home he shared with his brother, Clint, and found a lot of blood in Clint’s bedroom. Clint Moody was missing. Samuel had already checked with the local hospital and clinics to see if Clint had come in as a patient. No luck.

On the drive over, Truman wondered if one of the brothers had finally been pushed over the edge, lost his temper, and done away with the other.

The Moodys lived in an older Eagle’s Nest neighborhood. The homes sat on large lots with the garages behind the houses. The road was gravel, and Truman’s headlights shone on dented and crooked mailboxes along the street. He pictured teens cruising along the street with a baseball bat, trying to knock the boxes from their posts. As a teen Truman had hung with friends who’d played mailbox baseball, but he’d never taken the bat. He’d laughed along with them but passed on destruction of property, knowing his uncle would hang him if he was caught. Looking back now, he knew the cops would have arrested him for simply being in the car, not caring that he claimed he’d never touched the bat.

Truman parked next to Samuel’s patrol vehicle and spotted his distinctive silhouette in the front door of the Moody home—the cop’s slightly spread legs, his crossed arms, and his buzz-cut head. He was reliable, sharp, and physically fit. The only one of his officers who checked all three boxes. Truman felt secure when Samuel backed him up.