The Last Harvest(16)

I stop in my tracks. I’m breathing so hard. I feel like a trapped animal.

“In my office,” he says calmly as he disappears into one of the main rooms off the foyer, turning on a lamp. No doubt Neely just wants to give me an “I told you so” lecture before Deputy Tilford hauls my ass off to jail.

As I trudge down the hall to his office, I feel ashamed. Not because I got caught, but because I was wrong. Sheriff tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen.

I step into the main office, a richly appointed room with taxidermy and football memorabilia glaring down at me from every direction.

He sits behind the desk, motioning for me to take a seat in one of the big uncomfortable leather chairs opposite his desk. I remember sitting in this exact spot right after my dad died. I can’t believe it’s only been a year. It feels like a lifetime.

“I’m curious.” He twists the state championship ring around his finger, making the ruby flash in the light of his desk lamp. “Why’d you break in?”

I keep my mouth shut. I’ve seen enough TV shows to know I’m not supposed to say anything until I have a lawyer. Where the hell am I going to find a lawyer?

“The reason I ask is because you’ve had the key to the kingdom all along.”

“The key?” I want to knock that smug look off his face. “Look, if you’re going to have me arrested, just do it. Save me the sanctimonious speech.”

His face softens as he holds out his hand. “Your car keys … it’s your dad’s old set, right?”

Tentatively, I dig the keys out of my pocket and place them in his hand.

“The brass one.” He singles it out and slides the set back to me. “That’s the key to the front door.”

I feel like even more of an idiot, if that’s possible. I grip my fingers around the key, hoping the sharp grooves cutting into my skin will take me out of this misery, but it only seems to make things worse … more real.

He picks up the phone and dials.

My pulse shoots through the roof. “Wait! I’ll pay for the glass. I’ll volunteer, I’ll do anything you want,” I sputter. “Just don’t—”

Mr. Neely holds up his hand, then says into the phone, “I think we’re all set. Clay and I are just going to have a little chat. Thanks for your assistance.”

I look toward the window but I can’t see a damn thing through the heavy curtains. I hear an engine start. Mr. Neely hangs up the phone and we both sit there listening as the car pulls away, the tires getting fainter by the second. I know I should be relieved, but there’s a glint in Mr. Neely’s eye, something that tells me I’m not out of the woods yet.

He leans back in his chair, knitting his arms across his chest. “What were you looking for?”

“Mr. Neely … sir…” I take off my cap and set it on my knee. “I’ve had a rough night … a rough year, really. I thought I saw something out at your ranch tonight. Something sick. I went to Sheriff Ely and he’d mentioned my dad was talking about some secret room right before he died. I know I’m probably losing it, just like he did, but I had to find out for myself. There’s nothing here. I know that now.”

“A secret room, huh?” The left corner of his mouth curls up. “Would you like to see it?”

My stomach drops.

Mr. Neely rises out of his chair, pressing on the dark wood panels behind his desk. A tall, slender door pops open. It blends into the grooves so well, you’d never even know it was there.

“No one’s been trying to keep you out, son. We’ve been trying to bring you in,” he says before stepping inside.

I push myself into a standing position, but it feels like my blood’s been replaced with concrete. I take a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for what I’m about to see.

Mr. Neely flicks on the overhead lights.

And it’s just a room. I step inside to find an old jukebox from the fifties, a couple of poker tables, some cowboy prints decorating the walls, and a sprawling bar.

Mr. Neely stands behind the solid piece of oak, pulling out two glasses. He pours bourbon, pushing one toward me. I look at it, wondering if it might be poisoned, but Mr. Neely sucks it back without a second thought. “Back in the dry years, this place came in handy. Now it’s just good for hiding from our wives.” He chuckles to himself. “Your dad and I had some good times in this room. You remind me of him.” He scratches his chin. “He was secretive, too … always holding everything inside. It’s hard to ever really know a man like that. He had a weakness for the ladies, though. Couldn’t hide that.” He taps the bottom of his glass on the bar. “Don’t worry, he cut all that out by the time you were born.”

I slam back the bourbon. A revolt goes off inside my body, but then a numbing warmth quickly follows.

He pours another round. “What happened with your dad was a lot more gradual than it appeared. We’d been covering for him for months. There was talk.”

“What kind of talk?”

“Well, he was spending an awful lot of time down by the junkyard, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you talking about the Wiggins trailer? Meth?”

“I’m not saying anything,” he says as he raises his hands in the air. “All I know is in the end, he thought God was talking to him.” He downs his drink. “And I think we both know it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse.”