A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(42)

I watched, learning body and facial language from the visitors. I knew how to spot fear, distrust, desperation, sorrow, and wariness without a word from their lips. Physical cues. The twitch of fingers. The set of the lips. The hesitation in a step. The picking at skin. Humans told their stories without speaking.

Later I used these skills for my own benefit.

I recognized Truman in the pizza parlor’s parking lot. I can’t place him, but I know we’ve . . . been involved. It must be long ago since the memory is fuzzy. There have been too many men over the years, and their faces blur together. I feel unclean when I meet their gazes in a store. The recognition flashes and they quickly look away, a flush creeping up their necks. Often there is a woman at their side. Her gaze is usually dismissive or locks on me with hatred.

I’m sorry you married such a weak man.

Truman didn’t look away. Compassion shone in his words and eyes. Perhaps he doesn’t remember me.

I can’t stop staring at my daughter as she sleeps. For the moment we are safe. Her bed is warm, the room is secure, and we have food.

But how long can we hide?

He killed the judge. That was how I knew it was him.

When Truman first told me of my mother’s death, I denied the possibility that her warnings had come true, telling myself it couldn’t be him. We knew her business had dangers. My mother risked her life every time she sold a spell or told someone’s future. We both knew that if someone physically attacked, we could be hurt or killed. She wouldn’t allow guns in the house for our protection. Another root of our fights.

But when Truman said the judge’s name, I knew my mother’s fears had become truth, and my body physically rejected his words. Everything she’d warned me of was in motion. No one could protect me from him. He was too powerful, too connected.

I had to run.





SIXTEEN

Truman couldn’t sit idly by. Curiosity about the two murders was driving him insane.

Feeling like a spy, he’d looked up Rob Murray, the employee who had borrowed the Lexus, and decided to pay him a visit. After all, the car had been found in Truman’s jurisdiction . . . well, almost in his jurisdiction . . . and it was his responsibility to see that the man hadn’t been injured.

Right?

Rob Murray lived close to Bend. He definitely didn’t live in the Eagle’s Nest city limits, but Truman was a thoughtful cop. He liked to know everyone was okay. Maybe Rob would say a good citizen of Eagle’s Nest had helped him out when he abandoned the SUV, and Truman could go thank them. Community involvement should be recognized.

I’m full of shit.

Shoving away his guilt at sticking a finger in a case that wasn’t his, he knocked on the door of the apartment. Rob Murray lived on the second floor of a building that had seen better days. Truman dared not touch the outdoor iron stair railing, fearing its one remaining support would give way. On the second level he’d walked by apartment windows with curtains made from sagging floral sheets and one covered with a Seattle Seahawks beach towel. Rob hadn’t bothered with window coverings. Through his small apartment window, Truman could see Rob’s chipped kitchen sink, piled with a half dozen milky bowls and plastic spoons. An open box of Lucky Charms sat to the right of the sink.

Bachelor diet.

The door opened, and a man dressed in splattered white painter’s clothing glared at him. “What?”

His eyes were dark, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He looked about thirty, and he had the pasty skin and the soft, round body of a man who lived on cold cereal and beer.

“Rob Murray?”

He squinted, and his suspicious gaze bounced from the business card Truman held out to the badge on his coat. He took the card and didn’t look at it. “Yeah?”

“I’d like to ask you about the Lexus we found on Goose Hollow Road yesterday.”

The suspicion cleared. “It’s not mine. I borrowed it, and the owner got it back already.”

“Why was it just left there?”

“Because it died. I don’t know what happened. It needed a tow.”

“How come it sat there for a few days? Why didn’t you call for the tow right away?”

Rob shuffled his feet and looked away. “I forgot,” he muttered.

“You forgot about a vehicle? An expensive SUV you’d borrowed?” Bull.

The man worked his cigarette for a moment and reluctantly moved his gaze back to Truman’s. “My buddy who picked me up wanted to party. It slipped my mind.”

“How long was this party?”

Rob winced. “A day or two. He had some great weed.” Defense squared his shoulders. “It’s legal here now. We can do that.”

“Don’t I know it.” Truman tried a different approach. “Christian Lake told me you work for him.”

“Yeah, I’m sort of a handyman for his place. It takes a lot of upkeep. Stuff’s always breaking.”

“I’ve seen the house and can I imagine it takes a lot of work. It’s massive. I guess I assumed Brent Rollins took care of that sort of thing.”

Rob gave a short laugh. “Rollins doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. I’ve always said my job is to do the stuff Rollins thinks he’s too good for.” Resentment simmered in his gaze, and he sucked hard on his cigarette.