River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(77)

She raced through the trees, kicking up dirt in her wake, grief and regret like weights around her ankles, threatening to drag her down. Branches whipped by. Red and yellow and orange leaves swirled together in a flash. Her fists pumped at her sides. She was close to the barn. She smelled the fire pit where John burned leaves. Her steps faltered, and her pace slowed. She checked the gun was still secured in her waistband. Romy stopped and circled back, egging her on. She picked up her pace again and ran alongside the stream with a sense she was trying to outrun the last twenty years. But it was too late. Her father was gone. And she was left with the knowledge of what he’d done to protect her. She was left with the awful truth of what she’d seen.

She raced on, ignoring the woods around her. She should’ve been listening, looking for signs of danger. But the image of her father lying in bed, his eyes dull and empty, kept flashing across her mind, and all she could do was run.

“This way,” she called to Romy and veered away from the stream, heading to the small open field and the river. She had to be sure it was the same spot she’d seen John, and only then would she be certain of what she had to do next.

Romy darted across the field, a black-and-brown rocket cutting through the golden grass of autumn. Becca followed behind, using the path made by the dog, passing the tree where the yellow crime scene tape dangled in the breeze. A cramp pinched her side. She was winded, not used to sprinting for such a long distance. She approached the riverbank at a much faster pace than she’d anticipated, having to reach behind her, drag her hand along the ground to keep from falling as she skidded down. She came to a stop at the bottom near the water’s edge. She bent over, both hands on top of her thighs, trying to catch her breath. The rapids soared. The noise filled her ears. Romy was drinking from the river where the water had slowed and pooled between two large rocks.

Becca stayed bent over, raising her head slightly to gaze across the river, spying the path she used to run on the Jersey side. There was no way around it. This was the exact spot John had stood the morning before the body had turned up in the river. She remembered it clearly. He’d been wearing a glove, a purple nitrile glove. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Hunters wore gloves as a safety precaution against disease whenever they’d field dress an animal. And maybe he’d worn the gloves for that reason, but now she knew better. He’d worn the gloves so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints behind.

She had to tell Parker everything. She couldn’t live with what she knew. It was the right thing to do. I’m sorry, John. She wanted there to be another way, but there wasn’t.

After a few minutes, her breathing returned to normal and she stood upright, looking in Romy’s direction. The dog’s ears were alert, her fur in hackles along her spine. Far below the noise of the rapids came a primal sound deep within the dog’s throat. Her lips curled, exposing her sharp white canines as she stared at a spot directly over Becca’s shoulder.

Fear spread throughout Becca’s limbs. She reached for the Ruger, spun around. John was standing at the very top of the riverbank, the barrel of his rifle aimed at her chest. A part of her wasn’t surprised to see him. She’d expected him. She’d brought the gun for a reason. Another part, a bigger part, was scared as hell.

Romy took several steps toward the bank, her lips high over her gums, showcasing every inch of her teeth. A low, menacing growl erupted from her throat.

Becca’s first thought was for the safety of the animal. “Stay,” she hollered.

Romy stopped, although her body language was clear. She would attack on command.

John paid no attention to the dog. The barrel remained pointed at Becca’s chest, unwavering.

Becca gripped the gun with both hands. She pulled in a sharp breath. Her arms shook, and the gun jumped around unsteadily. She wanted to send Romy away. None of this was the dog’s fault. “Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt my dog.”

John didn’t move. His eye never left the scope.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood aiming the gun at him; long enough for her arms to ache and her legs to stiffen.

He continued pointing the rifle at her, unyielding. But he hadn’t pulled the trigger. And neither had she.

She didn’t know what made her tell him, but the words came out anyway. “My father is dead,” she shouted over the rapids. “He died this morning.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. Then he moved his head away from the scope, the butt of the rifle still against his shoulder, his finger still on the trigger.

Romy growled.

The Ruger was getting heavier, her wrists weaker from trying to hold it steady. She continued. “I know about the deal he made with Russell. I know about everything.” She tried to swallow, but she didn’t have any spit.

He didn’t reply. He only stared.

“I know why you’re doing this.” Her voice wavered.

He lowered the rifle enough for her to see him clearly. He was covered in sweat, his skin pasty and pale. His face and neck were covered in hair and what was the start of the beard he often grew for the winter months.

“I told Parker I saw you. But I have to tell him everything. Everything.” She was pleading, begging for him to understand why she had to turn him in, why she didn’t want to. “I can’t stay silent. I don’t want to keep any more secrets, not from myself and not from him.”