Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(50)

9

GWEN

Everything in Wolfhunter is a short walk, even in the heat. Hector Sparks has a lush old place, probably one of the nicest in Wolfhunter. It’s a private home with a carefully tended garden bursting with flowers. Bushes trimmed to precise measurements. Trees that don’t have a leaf out of place. Since I can’t see a lawyer—even in this little burg—having the leisure to tend such a thing, he either has a brilliant full-time gardener, or a spouse with a green thumb and lots of free time. There’s a shiny—but discreet—polished brass plaque on the lawn that says HECTOR J. SPARKS, ESQ., and beneath that, even more discreetly, ATTORNEY AT LAW. This isn’t a guy who feels the need to plaster his face on a park bench or advertise on late-night television. He has to be very high priced to afford this lifestyle. And living in Wolfhunter?

Interesting.

I stop and check the address on my phone, and realize that I’ve missed a couple of calls—coverage in this town is shitty, dropping in and out every block or so. One is from Sam, and one is from Lanny. I listen to Lanny’s voice mail first. She’s sobbing her heart out about Dahlia, which is what I was afraid would happen; I want to call her back, go back to her, but first I switch over to Sam’s voice mail. He sounds worried about where I am. So I call.

He answers on the first ring. “Gwen?” He sounds tense as hell.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m okay. About to go in to talk to Vera Crockett’s attorney.”

“Thank God,” he says, or I think he does. It’s fast and almost a mumble. “Okay, well, I tried to call there, and the dragon lady who answers his phone wouldn’t confirm whether or not you were there. She’d only say he was in a meeting.”

“And you’re concerned because . . . you don’t think I can look after myself?” I’m strangely touched.

“No, I’m concerned because we’re in a town where women disappear,” he says. “And I don’t want you on that list, Gwen.”

Now I’m charmed, and also a little annoyed. “Do you seriously think I would end up there?”

“No.” He pulls in a deep breath and lets it out, as if struggling with what he wants to say next. “Connor’s working on stuff for you to look over. Anything you want me to do?”

“Just watch out for them,” I say. “Thank you. I know you’ll protect the kids, whatever might come.”

I don’t say that about many people—two others, to be exact, and in truth I only entrusted Connor and Lanny to Javier and Kezia because Sam couldn’t stay to do it. He thought my safety was just as important . . . and that’s something I need to remind myself of more.

“They’re okay, though?” I ask when he falls silent.

“Lanny’s got a bit of a broken heart,” he says. “Connor’s enthusiasm for researching crime is scaring me a little. They’re great, though. As they always are.” I feel my throat tighten. I have strong kids who care about others despite everything that’s been done to them. They’re watchful and guarded, but beneath that they have real empathy. It’s a gift that must have come from heaven, because I’m not arrogant enough to think it’s something they got from me.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything okay with you?” I ask because I can feel him holding back. I can hear the tension even when I don’t see it. “Did something happen?”

“No,” he says, and this time he almost sounds normal. “It’s just . . . I have a bad feeling, so watch your back. Please.”

“I will,” I tell him.

“I’d like to leave tonight,” he says.

“We already paid, though.”

“I know. I just—” He makes a sound that’s all frustration, no words. “Dammit. I don’t know that going home is much of an answer either. The documentary crew isn’t going to give up.”

Fucking Miranda. No wonder he’s edgy. “Okay. Let’s stay here tonight and decide tomorrow,” I tell him. “Sam. It’s okay. I promise.”

He doesn’t ask how the hell I can promise, and I’m really glad because I damn sure don’t know. I tell him I love him. He says he loves me too.

I carry that inner warmth on the walk up the broad, clean sidewalk and up the front steps onto the wraparound veranda. Bees drift lazily between the flowers, drunk on nectar, and the thick smell of hyacinth and roses mixes in a powerful cloud.

I ring, and the door’s answered in ten seconds by a rawboned woman of middle age who seems like she’d have been more comfortable in a farmhouse on the prairie during Westward Expansion—or, to give it the real definition, Westward Invasion. She’s got long hair piled up on her head and a sharply angular face, and is wearing—of all things—a full apron, the kind that loops around her neck and goes down to her knees. It looks like a costume. Beneath that, she’s wearing a flowered dress with a high collar and long sleeves, even in the summer.

“Yes?” she says doubtfully, looking me up and down as intently as I’m appraising her.

“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Sparks,” I tell her.

“Mr. Sparks is not currently seeing new clients—”

“I’m not a new client, ma’am. I’m just in town for the day, and I need to talk to him about Marlene Crockett’s daughter, Vera. Vee.”