The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(79)

“Yes. Nice guy. He gave me the photo.”

“May I look at it again?”

I hand it back to her. She cradles it with both hands. “How old is the boy?”

“Thirty-two.”

Lane looks to the side as she does the math. “Oh. That young?” There’s something about her tone that indicates she suddenly lost interest. She hands me back the photo.

Why would she have been more interested if the boy was older? Would it be because she might have thought she knew the father?

“Did Sarah have a boyfriend?” I ask.

Lane’s eyes narrow. “We didn’t allow that kind of thing. Girls lived upstairs, and the boys stayed in the bunkhouse by the barn.”

“Right. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“We were very strict here. My husband, Jack, didn’t spare the belt, for the boys or the girls.”

I’m now getting a creepy vibe. As much as I don’t want to cause Mrs. Lane discomfort, I’m afraid I might have to push to get more information.

“Do you know why Sarah ran away?”

“No,” she replies harshly. “She was troubled. Always causing problems. Getting the boys stirred up. Jack did his best, but she was too wild.”

The way she says Jack’s name—with conviction and near reverence—is unsettling.

I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that Jack’s punishments might have included statutory rape and Mrs. Lane is well aware of that. If I press too much on that subject, she’ll probably kick me out.

I ease off on that line of questioning. “When Sarah was here, who were the boys?”

“Mr. Cray, is this about genealogy or Sarah Eaves?” Her voice is stern. “I think it’s time you leave.”

“Actually, I just want to know about the scars on her back. She got them when she was here, didn’t she?”

“That was an accident when she fell on some farm tools. The child services people know that. I don’t know what you’ve heard. But it’s a lie. It’s time for you to go.” The friendly woman who greeted me at the door has vanished.

I’ve only got one more card to play before she can have the police arrest me for trespassing.

If our killer was one of the foster children staying here when Sarah was, or close enough in time to know her, he could very well have already been playing around with his metal claws back then. I slide a photo of a bagh naka out of my folder and hold it up to her face. “Have you ever seen something like this before?”

She says nothing, but her eyes widen at the sight of the weapon.

I need to keep her agitated, off balance. “Did your husband, Jack, use this on Sarah?”

Her face goes white. “Jack? God, no! He would never!”

She’s protecting someone else. “Who? Who else was your favorite? Was he the one that did that to her? Was he angry with her? Jealous of your husband?”

“That’s enough.” She stands up and points to the door. “It’s time you leave. I’m calling . . . the sheriff if you don’t.”

“Wait, who were you about to say you were going to call?”

“Nobody. Now go!”

Her voice is so strident I’m afraid she’s going to have a heart attack.

So close! I was about to get a name!

I get a sudden idea, drop my papers, and go down to my knees to clean them up.

She storms over to the door and holds it open for me. “Now!”

I push them back together and make my way out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She slams the door on me, then watches from the window as I drive off.

I’m going to have to think of a hell of an excuse to come back in a few hours to get the phone I left under her couch with the recorder running.





CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR


ACCOMPLICE

After an hour of sitting in my car a half mile down the road, I turn around and head back to Julie Lane’s house. I run through several different lies to tell her but can’t settle on one that doesn’t sound too forced. I decide to just knock on her door and tell her I may have left some government papers behind—without emphasizing what they were, other than government.

I feel like some kind of con artist trying to fleece the elderly with bullshit encyclopedias or insurance policies that are impossible to collect on. Then I remind myself that she may be shielding the killer. And then there’s the possibility she might have been sitting by idly as her husband sexually abused their wards.

I think I’m okay with lying to her now.

“I told you to leave,” she says from the other side of the door.

“I may have left some papers behind.”

“You didn’t. Now go!”

“Please, it’s important.” Impulsively, I grab the doorknob and turn it.

When I open the door, she jumps back with a terrified look on her face. Technically this is trespassing, but I pretend otherwise.

I give her my broadest smile. “Thanks for letting me in. I’ll just be a second.”

I move past her and get down on all fours by her couch, dropping my folder near where I left my phone. She steps to the other side of the room, making it easy for me to slip it in my pocket. I pull a sheet out of the folder and hold it up as I stand up. “Got it! Sorry to be a bother.”