Darkness at the Edge of Town (Iris Ballard #2)(56)

Judith Grey, his better half, held up well too. Like Mom, she was petite, only reaching her husband’s shoulder, and as thin as Olive Oyl. Everything about her was thin: her nose, her lips, her chin. She always reminded me of a wide-eyed blond bird. She married my father two years before I was born. She was the daughter of a banker in Philadelphia and his socialite wife. She had the pedigree, the connections, and I’d bet Elliot always had a massive line of credit at his father-in-law’s bank. I wondered if being the unofficial queen of a dying county was enough for her to put up with her husband’s constant philandering. I was shocked he hadn’t replaced her with a newer model. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe she knew where all the bodies were buried. If so, good for her.

My darling half-sister’s husband took a moment for me to place. He wore his light brown hair in the same fashion as our father, parted to the left. In fact, beyond Elliot Grey’s sharp nose and squarer jaw, they could be father and son. Creepy. He’d been part of Paul’s circle. Simon Summers. Paul’s best friend, the one whose girlfriend found the Planned Parenthood receipt. Wonderful.

Yeah. Cultists would be preferable. Any night of the damn week.

Still, I let Hancock lead me inside the ballroom. “See your opponent?” I asked.

“The one approaching your father.” He paused. “Are you okay? We can avoid—”



“I’m fine. We don’t have to avoid anyone. Come on, clock’s ticking. In one hour I turn into a pumpkin. Let’s get this over with.”

We sauntered over to two elderly men I didn’t know, all smiles. “Sam, Barry, hello,” Hancock said.

“Tim. Hello!” the bald man, Sam, said before eyeing me. “No Amanda tonight?”

“She had a headache. My old protégé Dr. Ballard agreed to keep me company tonight instead.”

Both men’s mouths opened. “Ballard? As in Iris Ballard?”

“The one and only,” I said.

“My goodness! You’re even prettier in person,” Barry, the bearded one, said. “What are you doing back here?”

“Visiting my family and old friends like my mentor here,” I said with reverence.

“Your mentor?” Sam asked.

“Oh, yes. The Sheriff never said? He’s so modest. Sheriff Hancock here was instrumental in getting me into the FBI. He taught me so much when I used to work for him a million years ago. I definitely never would have gotten as far as I did or accomplished as much if Sheriff Hancock hadn’t taken me under his wing when I was a teenager.”

“Really?” Barry asked.

“Absolutely. Grey Mills is so lucky to have him. I tried to convince him for years to come to the FBI, but he just wouldn’t abandon Grey County. Our loss, your gain.”

I was laying it on a thick, but they were eating it up with a fucking spoon. As did the next captains of local industry we mingled with. I answered all their invasive questions—including what it felt like to kill a man—with a smile on my face. They even asked for photos and autographs. It had been six weeks, and I still wasn’t used to the whole minor-celebrity thing. I never would be. Under the radar so people left me alone to do what I wanted without judgment was more my style.



Soon we had a whole group surrounding us, and the questions came fast and furious.

“When was the moment you knew Shepherd was the Woodsman?”

“Are you going back to the FBI?”

“Is Shelly Monroe as short as people think?”

“Could you write a letter of recommendation to our son’s college?”

It proved difficult to steer the conversation back to Hancock, but the many impressed smiles and nods in his direction were still a good sign. Obama was just a handsome senator before Oprah endorsed him. About twenty minutes into the Spanish Inquisition, Merrill’s husband and Hancock’s opponent, Captain Wilson, slipped into the circle. The captain was in his early forties, bald, and like my mentor dressed in his dark blue police uniform. Hancock’s smile tightened.

“We had to see it to believe it,” Wilson said. “Dr. Ballard, it is an honor. A true honor.” He held out his hand and I had no choice but to shake it. “I’m Frank Wilson, Captain Frank Wilson, Pittsburgh PD.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” I said with my smile intact.

Wilson’s mouth twitched a little before he looked at Hancock. “Timothy.”

“Frank.”



“I had no idea you had such an illustrious friend,” Wilson said.

“I wouldn’t say friend. The more accurate term is protégée,” I said with pride. “He taught me everything I know about law enforcement. I just went in and pestered him and pestered him for years with my questions, and he never turned me away. The patience of Job, this one,” I said, patting his forearm before scanning the crowd. “Which, let me tell you, is one of the key virtues in law enforcement. It takes time to build a case, and—”

“Is that why it’s taken so long to follow through on all the campaign promises you’ve made over the past eight years?” Simon asked Hancock. “As I understand it, you’ve been building cases against all the meth manufacturers and pill mules you swore you’d eradicate all that time. How many of these organizations have you dismantled?”