The Silence (Columbia River #2)(41)

Veronica returned to shredding her tissue. “Differences. He’s older than me. We’ve never been close.”

“What about Shawn?” Mason asked. “You closer to him?”

A guarded gaze turned his way. “Not really. None of us really talk to each other. Well . . . both of my brothers talk a bit to me, but not to each other. They don’t get along. Haven’t in a long time.”

You don’t say . . .

“It’s hard when family members don’t get along,” Nora said. “What about when your parents died? Did that bring you all together?”

“No. I was the only one who went to their funerals.”

Caution emanated from Veronica. She sat stiffly, rarely holding their eye contact as she had at the beginning of the interview.

“Can you tell me what happened to your parents?” Mason asked.

“What does that have to do with Reuben’s death?”

Defensive. “Probably nothing. We’re trying to get a complete picture of his background.”

The tabby jumped on the couch beside Veronica and pushed against her arm. She scratched its head. “I’m sure you can find the police report on my parents’ deaths,” she said quietly.

Mason’s ears pricked up. “Police report?”

Veronica’s chin came up. “My father shot my mother and then himself,” she said bluntly.

Nora leaned closer to Veronica. “How awful for you.”

Veronica’s gaze was flat as she met Nora’s. “My father was a horrible man. All the way to the end. I swear he did that to my mother to guarantee his children’s lives would always be miserable.”

Mason held very still, studying Veronica, hearing truth in her tone. She was bitter—understandably—and her words implied a dreadful childhood. Had her brothers suffered the same? “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing how inadequate the words were for the tragedy in her life.

“Thank you.”

“What city did this happen in?” Nora asked, beating Mason to the question. He was greatly interested in the police report.

“Coeur d’Alene.”

“They died a day apart?” Mason asked.

“Yes. He held on for a day at the hospital.” Hate flashed in her eyes, and Mason felt scorched.

The anger clashed with the kind gaze he’d seen when they first met. She was raised around hate. She’s bound to have some deep inside. It’s inevitable.

His phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen. The call was from a Nevada area code. Shawn Braswell?

“I need to take this. Excuse me for a minute.” He moved outside and down the stairs of the porch before answering.

“Callahan.”

“Detective Callahan. Sergeant Davies. I took your request for a knock on Shawn Braswell.”

Disappointment filled him that the call wasn’t from Shawn. “Yep. Not home?”

“No. My officer questioned a few neighbors, and according to them, Braswell hasn’t been around for at least a week. His parking spot has been empty.”

Curiosity flared. “What’s he drive?”

“Hang on.”

Mason heard computer keys. “Silver Ford Mustang. Two years old.”

Bingo.

“I believe he’s been up here in Portland,” Mason said. “That car was recently seen at his brother’s house.”

“The deceased brother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, shit. Don’t know if that’s good news or bad for you.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “We all heard about the ambush yesterday. Didn’t realize that was in your area when I spoke to you before.”

Mason didn’t say anything.

“We’ll be sending officers for the funerals.”

“Thank you.” Mason meant it. It was what police did when tragedy struck. It was impossible to describe what the show of outside support meant to stricken departments.

“Found the asshole yet?”

“Working on it.”

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

Mason ended the call and stood silently in the perfect front yard. Reuben Braswell was dead, and according to his neighbor across the street, Shawn Braswell’s car had been seen in his driveway.

Unless it was someone else’s silver Mustang.

Mason doubted it. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

He’d just learned from Veronica that the brothers did not get along.

But was there enough bad blood for murder?

Did that mean that Shawn had also been the shooter yesterday?

It was a large leap in logic. A personal death by bludgeoning and a mass murder by rifle. Two very different scenarios.

It didn’t sit right with his gut. Something was wrong. Too many pieces of the puzzle were missing.

A muscular man in a tank top and shorts stepped out of Veronica’s front door. He approached Mason and held out his hand. “Alan Lloyd. I just heard about Reuben.”

Mason shook his hand, taking his measure. Alan’s gaze was direct and open, and he didn’t sound surprised.

Veronica had immediately asked if we were there about Reuben.

They’d expected Reuben to come to a bad end.

“What were your first thoughts when you found out, Mr. Lloyd?” Mason skipped the small talk.