Texas Outlaw(23)

When the receptionist at the paper tells us Tom Aaron isn’t in yet today, Ariana says we’ll go to his house. Back in my truck, Ariana gives me directions. In a town like this, not only does everyone know everyone but they also know where everyone lives.

As we’re driving through the north edge of town, Ariana points to a nice little ranch-style house with a well-kept yard. “That’s where I live,” she says.

There’s a Prius sitting in the driveway.

“So you do have another vehicle,” I say, “besides the Harley.”

“Sometimes it rains,” she says and flashes me a smile.

Tom Aaron’s large house is two blocks away, right at the edge of the development. From where we park, we can see the property borders the arroyo that limits the town’s expansion—and the rolling brown hills beyond it. The backyard contains not only an elaborate flower and vegetable garden but two additional outbuildings—a greenhouse and a two-story structure with a garage on the lower level.

A woman works in the garden. In the garage, the reporter type I saw walking out of the town council meeting is leaning under the hood of what looks to be a sixties-era Mustang. What appears to be a tarp-covered jeep is parked next to the classic car.

The woman looks up from a flower bed and sees us. There’s a radio playing in the garage, and as fate would have it, Willow’s song is on.

“Morning, Jessica,” Ariana says.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, beaming. “Rumor has it this song is about you.”

She hurries over to us, then pumps my hand and gives me the friendliest greeting I’ve had since arriving in town.

“I sure am happy to meet you,” she says. “I’m going to buy your girlfriend’s album as soon as it comes out.”

Jessica Aaron has the tan, muscular arms of a dedicated gardener. Her short hair is streaked with silver, which suits her.

Tom Aaron approaches, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says.

“Sorry, Tom,” Ariana says, “we’re not here to answer your questions. We’re here to ask you some questions.”

There’s a moment of tense silence. I brace for a confrontation, a citation of the First Amendment.

“I wasn’t calling to interview you,” he says to me. “I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” I say. “So tell me.”

He glances uncomfortably at Ariana.

“Not in front of her,” he says.





Chapter 30



I HAVE A feeling I know what Tom Aaron’s going to say, so I take a chance.

“Let me guess,” I say to Tom Aaron. “Susan Snyder called you the day before she died and said, ‘I’ve got something important to tell you. Don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t know who can be trusted.’”

He looks at me, surprised. “I was scheduled to interview her the next day,” he says. “But then I found out she died.”

“She made the same call to Ariana,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

Tom exhales loudly. “Susan said not to trust anyone, but you’re a Texas Ranger from out of town. If I couldn’t tell you, who could I tell? Sorry,” he says to Ariana, “I just didn’t know who I could trust.”

“I know the feeling,” she says.

Jessica invites us inside their beautifully decorated home. Joanna Gaines from Fixer Upper could have designed the interior (Willow likes to watch that show because Chip and Joanna Gaines are from Waco). The wood-textured walls are accented with vintage mirrors and oversized clocks. Open shelves display candleholders, old books, and framed photographs of Tom and Jessica with two good-looking kids, a boy and a girl.

A decorative list of life lessons—ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH, SAY YOUR PRAYERS, HAVE COURAGE, HELP OTHERS—hangs above the kitchen table, where Jessica serves prize-worthy pecan pie and sweet tea.

As we talk, I get to know Tom and Jessica a little. They’re good people. Jessica grew up in Rio Lobo and met Tom when she was studying for a pharmacy doctorate at the University of Houston. He was a rising crime reporter for the Chronicle, but after they got married, they decided to raise their kids in her small hometown.

“I’m sure Houston is no different from other big cities, but I saw the evil that people are capable of. I didn’t want my kids growing up there.”

“When we moved to Rio Lobo, he was a weekend stringer,” Jessica says. “Now he’s running the paper.”

“I am the paper,” Tom says. “I’ve been running the Rio Lobo Record—from selling ads to writing stories and headlines—for twenty years. I know this community better than anyone.”

“What about you, Jessica?” I ask. “Do you work at the pharmacy on Main Street?”

“We own it,” she says. “I started as a pharmacist, but Tom and I bought it when the previous owner decided to retire to South Padre Island.”

I ask her if Susan Snyder filled her EpiPen prescription at the pharmacy. She says yes, looking sad, as if she somehow failed Susan because the medicine she provided didn’t work.

“In about twenty or thirty percent of cases,” she says, “a second dose from an auto-injector is required. The second dose is almost always administered at a hospital. You’re supposed to call 911 as soon as you’ve injected the epinephrine. Susan knew that.”