Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(91)

“I don’t think Marlene would have any reason to lie about it,” I tell him. “You know them?”

“Of course. My family goes back generations in Wolfhunter. I’m acquainted with everyone.” He does seem really distressed. “The poor girl. So young. We do need to get out-of-town authorities involved. I can make some calls.”

I look over at Sam. “Anything from Mike?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I texted Miranda too.”

I want to snap at him, ask him why, but I know why. If he last saw Mike with her, he wants to find out if they’re both missing. I make sure my tone is calm when I say, “No reply from her either?”

He shakes his head. That is not good news. Surely one of them would have gotten back to him. Miranda would have jumped at the chance.

I turn to Sparks. “Make the call,” I tell him.

He looks at his phone, but doesn’t pick it up. “I’d much rather get you all safely out of town and arrange a meeting elsewhere,” he says. “Perhaps at the county sheriff’s office. Where is your vehicle?”

“My SUV’s in the county sheriff’s forensics lab,” I tell him. “You know about that?”

Sparks looks ill. “I thought—I hoped, at least—that it would turn out to be an attack by your own personal enemies, not something related to this town. But I’m afraid the truck used in the attack has traced back to a local man, who claims it was stolen. Of course. And unfortunately, he’s the uncle of Mr. Carr, so unfortunately it supports your theory—”

“We can worry about that later. Do you have a place to store our rental and get it off the street before the police see it?”

“Yes. Immediately.” He opens his desk drawer and takes out a remote control. “That will open the carriage house out back. There are two open spaces.”

“Sam?” I hand him the keys and the remote. He nods and is gone, fast. I’m starting to relax a bit, because I read Sparks as being happy to help us. Eager, even. “How are you planning to keep Vera safe?”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I promise, the chief knows better than to trespass on my property without my permission.”

“You may be relying on normal situations,” I tell him. “This isn’t that. Weldon dispatched one crew to shoot Sam and Connor earlier yesterday, and followed up with the ambush on the road last night. I get the sense that whatever’s going on, he’s desperate to keep a lid on things. You’d better have a backup plan other than just good manners.”

“Trust me, this house is very defensible. We can keep you safe.” He suddenly turns and holds his hand out to Lanny. “You are Miss Atlanta, is that correct?”

She shoots me a panicked look, but shakes his hand. “Uh, yeah. Sir.”

“And Mr. Connor?” Connor awkwardly shakes the offered hand, and Sparks moves around the desk to take his seat.

“And Miss Vera,” Sparks says. “I’m glad you’re safe. I truly am. You’ve been through an appalling time, child, but I promise you this: I’m going to make sure you’re secure. No one will hurt you anymore.”

Vera suddenly begins to weep. Lanny hugs her. It’s both heartbreaking and beautiful to watch her melt, to see all the nerve and fight go out of her, and let herself feel—at least for the moment—really, finally safe. But we’re not safe. Not yet.

I can’t see Sam or the garage from where I’m standing, though the carriage house is behind us; the windows are all curtained. He’s okay. We’re all okay now. I allow myself a deep breath. My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket to look at the message.

It’s Kezia Claremont, short and to the point. WHAT TF IS HAPPENING?

I start to enter a message, a long one, explaining everything.

I’m in the middle of it when Mrs. Pall says, from the hallway, “Mr. Sparks? The police have pulled up in front. They’re coming to the door.”

“See to them, please,” he says. “Ms. Proctor, perhaps you could, ah, back up Mrs. Pall? Stay out of sight, though.”

“We’re okay,” Lanny tells me, and gives me a really lovely smile. She’s still hugging Vera, as if she never intends to stop. That’s complicated. I can’t deal with it right now.

I follow Mrs. Pall out, and grab the fireplace poker from the parlor as she opens the front door. The text will have to wait.

I get to see the backstage view of Mrs. Pall’s intimidation; it’s more than equal to the two policemen who are standing on the doorstep. They tell her they need to search the premises. She icily says, “You may not.” When one of them dares to put a hand on the door, she says, “Would you really like to be sued for a million dollars? Because I’m quite sure Mr. Sparks can easily arrange that. If you’d prefer. Where’s your warrant?”

One of the police says, “Ma’am, we’re going to check this house, or we’ll have to call Chief Weldon down to sort this out. Orders.”

“Well,” she says, and butter suddenly wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “you tell Chief Weldon that I’ll be most happy to make him his favorite tea, and I have cream cake, and he’s welcome to visit. But he’s still not searching this house without an official warrant, and that is final.”