Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(22)

If I’m honest with myself, she’s the last person I want to talk to right now.





Chapter 28



I THINK ABOUT not taking the call—I’m anxious to get to the police station—but I decide I should answer. I wouldn’t like it if she was blowing off my phone calls, and I want to treat her as I’d like to be treated.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, her voice full of excitement.

She tells me that Dierks Bentley added an extra date to the tour, making up for a show he canceled last fall when he had the flu.

“It’s in Albuquerque,” she says. “How far is that from you? Any chance you can come?”

“It’s a good five hours away,” I say. “Maybe six.”

“Boy, you really are in the middle of nowhere, aren’t you?”

I debate whether to tell her about what happened this morning. Part of me doesn’t want her to worry. But the other part of me knows that a healthy relationship is built on open, honest communication.

No secrets.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” I say, “but I had some excitement this morning.”

She can’t believe it. She says she thought this was supposed to be an easy assignment. I can hear the worry in her voice. I don’t mention my nightmare or the way I’m feeling. She’ll worry enough even if she thinks I’m clearheaded and capable of handling myself. If she knows I’m having a crisis of confidence, that will take her anxieties to a new level.

“Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me the latest with you. How’s the song doing?”

She seems thankful for the distraction. “Don’t Date a Texas Ranger” is getting all kinds of airplay, she says. Her producer has told her that when her album drops, listeners are going to snatch it up. Buzz about her success is already spreading. She played last night at the Bluebird Café, a famous Nashville music venue, and Kathy Mattea was in the audience and introduced herself afterward. The night before that she was invited to a dinner party at Jennifer Nettles’s house.

“Wow,” I say. “You’re really rubbing elbows with country music royalty, aren’t you?”

“Regardless of how the album does, Rory, I really think I could have a life here. Whether I’m the next big thing—like my label keeps saying—or I’m a songwriter for hire, I feel like I belong here in Nashville.”

With this statement, a moment of silence hangs in the air—a moment full of questions. If she belongs there, what does that mean for us? Even though a few days ago I’d all but made up my mind to apply for the detective job in Nashville, I never mentioned my decision to Willow, and now, with this case, I’m feeling some reluctance to make that commitment.

“Oh, Rory, what are we going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” I tell Willow. “Just let me get this case resolved and we can have a good long talk about our future.”

We end the conversation by saying we love each other. Then I drive over to the police station.

When I walk in the door, the chief says, “I’m still getting calls from that newspaper editor. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t camped out in the lobby.”

“Not now, Chief. I’ve got more important things on my mind today.”

“Like what?” he says, and when I brush past him into the station, I know he senses I’m on to something.

When I get to the conference room, Ariana holds up a piece of paper.

“This might be our first break in the case,” she says.

She got a copy of Susan Snyder’s phone records from her cellular provider.

“Right after Susan called me,” Ariana says, “she made one other call. It was a very brief conversation.”

“To who?” I say.

“Tom Aaron.”

The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why.

“He’s the newspaper editor,” Ariana says. “The one who’s been trying to talk to you ever since you came to town.”





Chapter 29



ARIANA AND I walk out to my truck to go find Tom Aaron.

I hear a group of cars coming down the road from the north. My ears, trained by years with the highway patrol, tell me these engines are going way past the speed limit. Three black vehicles come into view—one of McCormack’s pickup trucks, followed by a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, with another of McCormack’s trucks bringing up the rear.

“That’s Carson McCormack in the middle,” Ariana says, gesturing to the Escalade. “Heading out of town on business. He doesn’t usually bring his entourage into town.”

These vehicles are moving in the tight, protective formation the motorcade of a high-profile politician might utilize.

Who the hell does this Carson McCormack think he is?

“When he gets back into town,” I say, “I think it’s time to pay him a visit. At the very least, I’d like to take a look around his oil field and see if any of his employees have broken noses.”

We have no real idea if Carson McCormack or his son had anything to do with Susan Snyder’s death—or what happened to me this morning. Hopefully Ariana is right: this call to the editor might be our first lead.