A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(7)

And he remembered the assortment of flyers on her kitchen counter two nights earlier. She’d been changing in the bedroom as he casually picked one up. And his heart had stopped. They were flyers for homes for sale. He’d quickly scanned the half dozen different papers. She hasn’t said a word to me. He’d known her apartment was temporary, but he’d always assumed that at some point she’d move in with him . . . or that they’d look for a place together. In his future plans, Mercy was living with him.

Apparently she didn’t share that vision.

He gave his shovel an extra-hard thrust, pushing the snow and his thoughts aside. Elsie was right about the crazy amount of snow. Truman directed his cursing to the unknown highway department driver who hadn’t noticed her long driveway. His back had started to twinge when he finally heard the rumble of the plow.

Thank God.

He backed out of the way and watched as the plow effortlessly cleared what would have taken him three hours. The driver gave him a thumbs-up and went on his way. Truman eyed the results and spent another two minutes clearing the small berm left behind.

He climbed in his SUV and called Lucas. “Call Elsie and tell her she’s all clear.”

“Wow. You shoveled that fast. Was it small?”

“It was huge, but I used a really good shovel.”

“Clearly.”

“Any other calls?” Truman asked hopefully. If Mercy couldn’t reach him for some reason, he knew she’d leave a message with Lucas.

“None. All quiet. Ben went on a doughnut run.”

“Save me the apple fritter.” He ended the call, started his vehicle, and headed to Mercy’s cabin.

Forty minutes later he spotted a Deschutes County SUV parked along the main road a few miles before the turn to Mercy’s property.

“Oh shit.” He scanned for Mercy’s Tahoe, wondering if she’d run off the road.

Nothing.

He pulled alongside the county vehicle and lowered his window.

“Morning, Chief. You’re a long way from home,” said the deputy waiting in the vehicle.

The deputy looked faintly familiar. “Everything okay?” Truman’s insides clenched in a knot.

“A suspicious death.” The deputy jerked his head at the woods. “I’m on guard duty.”

Nausea rose into Truman’s throat as he spotted a narrow road that wound through the tall pines. He’d never noticed it before. No signs or markers indicated the turnoff.

“Who’s the victim?” he asked through clenched teeth as sweat broke out under his arms.

“Senior citizen. Female. Scene is in her home back there.”

Instant relief left a throbbing ache in Truman’s head.

“Pretty crazy situation. No phone service or vehicles present,” continued the deputy. “Her ten-year-old granddaughter flagged down a passing vehicle in the middle of the night.”

“Let me guess. An FBI agent was driving that vehicle.”

Surprise filled the deputy’s face. “You already heard?”

“Lucky guess.” Truman blew out a huge breath. “Is the agent still here?”

“Yeah, she is.”





FOUR

Mercy sat next to Morrigan on the bench, the child’s tiny hand clenching hers.

In the morning light, Mercy saw the girl was much thinner than her first impression. She didn’t look malnourished, she looked wiry. Childish energy radiated from her, and she frequently squirmed on the hard seat. Detective Bolton had suggested they conduct the interview indoors, but Mercy had argued for the fresh air. And distance from Morrigan’s grandmother’s body. Now they were outside, the detective sitting across from them on a low stool he’d found in the house. He introduced himself and explained who Mercy was.

Morrigan drew back slightly and studied Mercy from head to toe. “You’re a government agent?”

There was a touch of scorn in her voice, and Mercy wondered what antigovernment stories Morrigan had grown up with. They weren’t uncommon out here.

“I’m an investigator for the United States,” she simplified. “Just as Detective Bolton works for the people who live in Deschutes County, I work for all the people who live in the United States. Including your grandmother and you.” She smiled, hoping to set the girl’s suspicious mind at ease.

A small crease appeared between her brows, and after a moment her shoulders sank in acceptance. “I guess it’s okay if I talk to you. You tried to help my grandmother.” She blinked rapidly.

“I did. I wish I could have saved her.” Who told her not to talk to government agents?

“There was a lot of blood,” Morrigan said slowly. “I don’t think anyone could have helped her.”

“Morrigan,” said Bolton in a kind voice, “do you know what happened to your grandmother?”

“She got cut.”

“But how did she get cut?”

The girl leaned into Mercy’s side, turning her face away from the questioning detective.

“I don’t know,” she whispered into the sleeve of Mercy’s coat.

“Was there anyone else in the house last night?” Bolton asked.

Morrigan shook her head, her hair rustling against Mercy’s coat.

“Did you hear anything? Did your grandmother call out to you?