Keep Her Safe(21)

“Jackie sure didn’t. To one helluva cop.” George toasts the air. “And one of the hardest-working people I ever met. Not like this blister here, who don’t show up ’til the work’s done.” He nods toward Silas, flashing a smile to go along with the gentle ribbing.

Silas clanks glasses with him.

It finally dawns on me that this last-minute supper was Silas pulling his puppet strings. I can see what he’s trying to do—discredit my mother’s drunken rambling and give me something else to believe.

Manipulative, yes, but I appreciate it, because it’s given me the courage to face whatever sits folded in my back pocket. In fact, I’m now desperate to read what my mother had to say. I set my barely touched glass down on the desk.

“That’s good bourbon!” Silas scolds.

“I have to drive.”

“Right. Of course. So you’re going to pack up your things this weekend? Judy will have your room ready for you by Saturday.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Silas made a compelling case before George Canning and his wife arrived. I should move in with them rent-free—I’ll get home-cooked meals and can commute into work every day with Silas. I’ll borrow against the house’s equity and have the kitchen renovated. Give it a different feel, so my skin doesn’t crawl every time I walk in.

When the renos are done, I can either move back into the house and rent the two extra bedrooms out to my friends, or rent the entire house out for enough income to pay bills and a mortgage on a second property. Yup, Silas has made easy sense of my life for the next few years. I’m not sure if I’m sold on it—maybe I should start over fresh in Seattle, or somewhere completely new—but the thought of leaving behind everything I know isn’t appealing, either.

Plus, there’s no escaping what happened. My mother killed herself, no matter where I live.

“Chief Canning, it was great to meet you. Again.” I offer him my hand.

He stands and takes it, chuckling. “It’s just good ol’ George now. And if you ever need anything, give me a holler. Or better yet, come on out to my ranch for a visit. Anytime. The door’s always open. I’m out near McDade, the only Canning in the book.”

With a polite nod, I duck out.

The second my engine is running, I reach into my pocket for the envelope.

An odd mix of relief and disappointment hits when I see the single scrap of paper inside.

It’s not a suicide letter, after all.

It’s a diagram of the kitchen pantry, and what looks to be a removable panel in the floor beneath one of the shelving units, along with three words in her messy scrawl:

Open it alone.



* * *



My eyes roam over the long, narrow room, pausing on the thousand-pound green metallic Browning safe sitting in the corner, tucked away among the shelves of canned tomatoes and potatoes, bolted to the floor.

That safe is built to hold twenty-nine firearms, but Mom had only four personal guns registered to her: a Glock, a Colt Python, a Remington shotgun for the rare occasion that she had to play politics in the old boys’ club and go duck hunting, and my grandfather’s Hawken rifle—a family heirloom. They’re all present and accounted for, along with a healthy supply of ammo, and there’s plenty of room left in there.

So why the need for this hidden compartment under a shelf?

I set to shifting cans of food to the other shelves until the metal rack is empty, and I’m able to drag it away from the wall. It’s not heavy but the space is tight, making it difficult to maneuver.

I study her sketch, and then the floor. On first glance, there’s no obvious panel. Not until I crouch down and shine the flashlight on the worn wood do I see the seams.

It takes a few minutes with a butter knife before I manage to pry the covering off, revealing a compartment about two by one feet in size, and stuffed with a black nylon gym bag.

How long has this secret hiding place been here?

Pushing that question aside, I fish out the bag and yank open the zipper.

And my heart starts racing.

“Holy shit.”

I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much cash is in here, but it’s a lot more than I’ve ever seen, and it definitely wasn’t included in Mom’s list of assets that Hal reviewed earlier.

Pulling out one wad, I fan through it. A lot of twenties, but also everything from fives to hundreds. I must have a grand in my hand, and there’s plenty more. What the hell was Mom doing with this much money, and why would she hide it under the floorboards?

That’s not all there is.

Tucked in with all the cash is a tan leather gun holster. I frown as I fish it out, running my fingers over the black stitching along the seams. I’ve seen this holster before, but I can’t remember where or when.

Not until I flip it over do I see the letters embroidered on the other side.

A.W.

A sour taste fills my mouth.

Who else would this belong to, besides Abraham Wilkes?

Why does my mother have Abe’s gun holster hidden with a bunch of cash beneath the floorboards?

I notice a slip of paper mixed in with the bundles of money. I fish that out and unfold it, an ill feeling firmly settled in my gut.

Gracie needs this money. Make sure she gets it asap. Don’t ask questions, Noah. Trust me, you don’t want the answers.