Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(34)

I’m glad for the silence until Lanny shoves her headphones aside and asks, “You’re not going to get married again, are you?” Well, that comes out of nowhere.

“Honestly?” I say. “I doubt it.”

“Even to Sam?”

“Even to Sam.”

“Why not? Are you guys breaking up?” I don’t want this discussion. I glance around. Connor doesn’t seem to be listening.

“We’re not breaking up,” I tell her. “Nothing’s changed. It’s just . . . I’m happy where we are, is all. I don’t think there’s any reason to be pushing it, do you?”

“As long as you’re not breaking up.” She shrugs, as if she doesn’t care. I know better. She likes Sam a lot, and most of all, she likes how Connor is with Sam. It takes a lot for my son to trust people, but when he’s with Sam, I see a kid who feels like he’s . . . normal. Seen. Loved by someone with whom he feels safe. It’s pretty special, and very necessary.

So I say, “Sam’s always his own person, Lanny, and he makes his own decisions. But I don’t see him leaving us anytime soon. If I do, I’ll tell you.”

Lanny just shrugs again, as if it doesn’t matter to her. Headphones go back on.

We’re almost home when I get a phone call from Sam. He’s made it home. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Fine,” he says, but with such crispness I wonder. “You heading home?”

“Yes. I’m not far. Why?”

“Because we had a note on the door. A film crew was here looking for you,” he says. “Also, we’re out of oregano.”

“Note? Film crew?” I repeat. At least I don’t repeat oregano. “Jesus, they’re getting bold. I just spotted them in town too.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “We probably need to talk about this.”

“Probably.” I’m not looking forward to that talk, or the other one that we need to have.



All through the evening I can feel it sitting between us like a stone wall, and I want to reach across it, feel him reaching back . . . but I don’t know if I should. Or if that’s even possible right now.

Time, I tell myself as we silently do the dishes, me washing and Sam drying. Give him time. But time could drive him away, and I don’t know how to do this; nobody prepared me for how terrifying being in love, really in love, could be.

My landline phone rings, derailing me, and I’m caught between irritation and relief. I dry my hands and grab it because I recognize the number on the caller ID. It’s Marlene, from Wolfhunter.

I get silence after my somewhat-brusque hello. Noise on the line. Breathing. I’m about to hang up when I hear a young woman’s voice say, “Help me.”

I pause, uncertain. “Hello? Who is this?”

“Vee,” she says. “Vera Crockett. Momma said you help people. And your number was in her phone.”

The accent is familiar, and so is the last name. Marlene Crockett was the woman who called me after the Howie Hamlin disaster. Who clearly had something on her mind, but couldn’t bring herself to say what it was. Who’d wanted me to pick up and drive to a nowhere town to discuss it in person.

I’m instantly on guard. Using a kid, that’s low. I have to resist an urge to hang up. “Put your mother on the phone, please.”

“I can’t,” Vee says. She sounds strangely flat. “She’s dead.”

“Excuse me?” I’m turning to look at Sam, instinctively, lips parting. I shake my head to tell him I don’t know what’s going on, but the tone of my voice has alerted him to something odd. “When? What happened?”

“You should come,” Vee says. “They’re goin’ to get me soon too. She’s dead on the floor, and they’ll come for me next.”

“Vera? Vee? Are you saying that your mother is on the floor right now?”

“Yes.”

I feel the world shrink around me, reality condensing into the voice on the phone. “Okay, I need you to call 911, Vee.”

“If I do that, they’ll kill me.” She sounds calm, but terrifyingly disconnected. I don’t know what I’m dealing with here. “Shoot me down like a dog right here.”

I gesture to Sam, cover the mouthpiece, and say, “Get on the phone with Kezia. Tell her to get the Wolfhunter police over to Marlene Crockett’s house. I don’t know what’s going on, but the daughter says her mother’s dead.”

He doesn’t hesitate or ask questions; he grabs his phone and walks off to the corner to make the call.

“Vee,” I say. “Your mother. Can you tell if she’s breathing?”

“She’s dead.” No affect in her voice. None at all. Shock? Something else? I don’t know.

“Can you check for a pulse for me?”

“She’s dead.” For the first time, I hear emotion. It’s exasperation, and it jolts me. “She’s on the floor, and—”

I hear Vee Crockett hesitate. Go silent.

When she speaks again, she’s whispering. “They’re comin’ back.”

“Vee? Vee!”

She’s put down her phone, or dropped it. I hear something like footsteps, or banging, and then an ear-shattering bang that makes me flinch and stare at the mouthpiece, as if expecting something to come out of it other than sound.