Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(52)

“Well . . . yes, I did.”

“But you don’t think that’s the case now?”

I blink. “Marlene’s dead. She clearly did have something to fear.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t still a trap. Just that the bait is bigger.” Hector Sparks sits back in his chair and lowers his chin as he stares at me. He’s about to say something when I hear a distant banging. Rhythmic, like someone hammering in a nail. Banging a pipe? Annoyance flickers across his face. He picks up the phone sitting at precise angles in the corner of his desk and dials. “Mrs. Pall? Please get on the intercom and ask maintenance to keep the noise down, if you please.” He hangs up. “Apologies. It’s an old house. Repairs are simply never-ending.”

“Of course,” I say. “It is beautiful. You keep it in great condition.”

“Thank you. Well, it’s been in the family for a very long time.” Something about that seems to give him a flicker of amusement, but then it’s gone, and he’s back to seriousness. “I just want to be clear about what Vera Crockett is facing in this county. They intend to arraign her for first-degree murder, and try her as an adult. She may not have much of a defense unless I can find some alibi witnesses to show she could not possibly have done the deed.”

The banging comes to an abrupt halt. Mrs. Pall is efficient. Mr. Sparks visibly relaxes. “Ah, that’s better. Ms. Proctor . . . I have a somewhat unusual request to make.”

“About . . . ?”

“I’d like you to speak with Vera. I’ll accompany you; everything she tells you will be covered by attorney-client privilege, and you will be acting as my agent in this matter. You’re purely there as a facilitator. I’m willing to pay you a generous fee as an assistant to help me get her full story.” He shakes his head, a chagrined look coming over that kindly face. “She just doesn’t like me, I’m afraid, but I’m all she’s got. She talked to you. Reached out to you, in fact. I don’t have a lot of time if I’m going to start tracking down an alibi for her.”

“Wolfhunter can’t be that big,” I say.

“You don’t know this town. Vera’s reputation was already . . . let’s call it damaged. This place is quick to make judgments and close ranks. If I don’t find her witnesses quickly, then I might not be able to get them on the record at all.”

I don’t want to be drawn into this any deeper; I’m not sure I actually want to help Vee Crockett. She unnerved me on that call. But she’s fifteen, and alone, and he’s right: small towns like this don’t forgive, or forget. “Mr. Sparks, this case could draw media attention, and I’d rather not get caught up in it.”

“Understandable, given your, ah, current notoriety. It will only be one conversation, I promise, and then our business will be done, and you’ll leave her defense in my hands. Does that sound all right?” When I don’t immediately answer, he drops his voice a little into a warmer, slower register. “She’s your daughter’s age, more or less. And she’s trapped in a nightmare, all alone except for what help I can offer. And if I’m to give her any hope of avoiding a conviction, maybe even the death penalty . . . I need your help. All I’ve got to work with right now is a girl who was in the room with her dead mother, covered in her mother’s blood, with her prints on the shotgun that killed Marlene. And I’m assuming she didn’t say anything to you that would have exonerated her.”

I shake my head. “And even with all that, you still don’t think she did it?” I make it a question. Sparks’s expression stays carefully neutral.

“I believe she deserves a chance to prove she didn’t,” he says. “But she won’t speak to me to assist in her own defense. You could be the key to helping her.”

“I don’t think the police will welcome me back.”

“I can’t imagine you’re a great deal concerned with what the police want. I’ll get you inside. If you make a good-faith effort but Vee still refuses to talk, then keep my payment and be on your way with a clear conscience.”

I think about it and then ask, “Why did you take her case? You must have known the town would be against you.”

He’s silent for a moment. A long one. Then he slowly leans forward with a creak of springs in his leather chair and spears me with a look I can’t read. “I didn’t choose it,” he says. “I was assigned the case. Believe me, I’d rather not be responsible for it, but here we are. Do we have an agreement?”

We do.

When he writes me a check from a thick leather ledger for $1,000, I get the oddest feeling that he’s buying more than my time. But a grand is nothing I can refuse, especially now. I have no idea how he’s going to be reimbursed for this—if he ever is—but I’m not going to turn it down if he’s willing to offer. And besides, I do want to get Vera to tell her story. I want to know.

So I take the check, and now I’m hired.

“May I have your cell number?” he asks, and I write it down for him. As I hand it over, my sleeve rides up, and he sees the Sharpie marks on my arm. His silvery eyebrows climb. “Is that my phone number?”

“In case I was detained by the cops,” I tell him.

“How enterprising. I expect to have our interview set for the afternoon,” he says. “Thank you, Ms. Proctor. I appreciate your willingness to help.”